Amiya's Perspective
The palace was a gilded prison, but tonight, it was nothing more than a corpse she was finally leaving behind.
Amiya moved like a phantom through the dimly lit corridors, heart hammering a steady rhythm of defiance. Every step had to be deliberate, every breath controlled. She had spent weeks mapping the guards' rotations, memorizing patrol times, even noting which ones dozed off in the late hours. It wasn't luck that would get her out tonight—it was preparation. Precision. Desperation.
Her cloak was rough and heavy, stolen from a forgotten storage chest near the servants' wing. It smelled faintly of smoke and rosemary—some long-abandoned kitchen garb, maybe—but it served its purpose. It hid the silk and jewels, buried the part of her the palace would recognize. She wasn't a princess tonight.
She was a shadow. And shadows didn't beg for freedom. They took it.
She paused at the archway near the northern gallery, pressing herself into the curve of stone as two guards passed. Their conversation was low and lazy, too focused on complaints about cold shifts and missed meals to notice the figure standing in silence just beyond the torchlight. She waited until the echoes of their boots vanished, then slipped into the servants' corridor like smoke.
The hidden passage behind the kitchens had once been a mystery, something she'd stumbled on in her youth during one of her aimless wanderings. Now, it was her exit. A narrow tunnel, long forgotten by anyone who still had something to lose. The tapestry concealed it well, thick with dust and time. Her fingers found the worn seam quickly, lifting the edge just enough to slip through.
The tunnel was pitch black. The air was close, damp. Each footstep echoed against the stone walls in muffled thuds. She moved quickly but carefully, one hand on the wall to guide her. It wasn't long, not really—maybe twenty steps, a turn, then the latch. But her heart counted every second like it might be the last.
At the end, she pressed her palm flat against the rough wood. The latch gave way with a groan, the door creaking open to reveal the abandoned courtyard beyond.
Cold air slapped her face.
She stepped out.
The sky stretched wide above her, unbroken by marble or gilded arches. No painted ceiling. No guards. Just stars. Just silence. Just the distant hum of a city that didn't know who she was, and didn't care.
For the first time in her life, Amiya felt small in a way that didn't hurt.
She moved quickly, cutting through shadows and weaving behind broken carts and piles of discarded crates. The palace loomed behind her, every step putting it further in the past. Every step was harder than it should've been—and freer than she had ever imagined.
The city sprawled out ahead like a beast, breathing in smoke and laughter and danger.
But it was hers now.
Sylas's Perspective
The city reeked of damp stone, spilled ale, and too many stories people tried to drink away. Sylas moved through the alleys with the ease of a man who knew which bricks to step over, which doors not to knock on, and which shadows would hide you best when the world turned ugly.
Tonight, it all felt louder than usual.
He leaned against the crumbling wall behind a shuttered tavern, tugging the edge of his cloak tighter against the wind. His fingers found the pendant in his pouch again, brushing the cool metal as if it might offer clarity.
He should've sold it already.
The thought had circled for days. The plan was always the same: slip in, lift the mark, fence the goods, and disappear. He'd done it dozens of times. No complications. No lingering.
But she'd changed that.
He hadn't expected anyone to be in that room, much less someone who didn't scream. Didn't flinch. She'd watched him like she was weighing her options—and not once had she shown fear.
That stuck with him more than he wanted to admit.
He let out a breath, ducking into one of his safehouses—an upstairs room above an old fishmonger's stall, long abandoned. Inside, it was musty and cramped, but familiar. A cot. A cracked window. A table covered in maps and wax-stained notes. Home, in the way only someone like him could define it.
He dropped the pendant onto the table. It landed with a dull clink, spinning once before settling, quiet and accusing.
He didn't know her name. Didn't know what title she bore, if any. But she wasn't ordinary nobility. That much was clear.
And that was a problem.
She was too sharp. Too composed. That kind of calm didn't come from privilege—it came from practice. From survival.
He picked up the pendant again, turning it over between his fingers. If he kept it, it would only draw heat. If he sold it, he could disappear. But part of him—the part that hadn't shut up since that night—kept whispering that there was more to this.
Something about her eyes. Not just the color, but the intent. Like she'd already made a choice before he ever stepped into that room.
He stared at the pendant.
The smart thing was to walk away.
But smart had never really been his specialty.
Outside, the wind shifted. He moved to the window, watching the city stir beneath the moonlight. Somewhere, she was out there now. He didn't know how he knew—but he did.
She was gone.
And Selune didn't take kindly to noble daughters vanishing into the night.
He should stay out of it.
He wouldn't.