Amiya's Perspective
The air outside the palace was colder than she'd imagined. It sliced through her cloak with every gust, sharp and unforgiving, like it wanted to strip away whatever fragments of safety she still clung to. Each breath burned in her lungs, each step forward tightening the weight of the unknown around her shoulders. She'd done it—escaped. The gilded cage was behind her. But the world beyond its walls? That was no comfort.
This wasn't just running away.
It was shedding the skin she'd worn all her life.
Selune sprawled out like a twisted beast before her, its alleys dark and narrow, its scent a foul mixture of smoke, sweat, and something vaguely metallic. Laughter echoed down one street, drunken and slurred. Anger hissed through another, a harsh whisper of threats exchanged between unseen faces. Everything pulsed with life. Raw, messy, brutal life. So unlike the careful rituals of the palace.
She stuck to the shadows, every movement deliberate, silent. The hood of her cloak was low, her dagger strapped tight beneath her tunic. It wasn't comfort. It was survival.
And even that felt paper-thin.
She had no coin, no allies. Just a vague plan to disappear in a city that fed on weakness. The boots she wore were too big. The tunic chafed at her arms. She looked like she didn't belong—because she didn't. Not yet.
A burst of laughter spilled from a nearby tavern, followed by a heavy crash. Amiya pressed herself to the wall of the alley, breath caught in her throat. Drunken voices wove through the street like a net she was trying not to trip.
"You hear that?" one man slurred. "Thought I saw something move."
"Probably a rat," another scoffed. "Keep walking."
She didn't move until their voices faded into nothing. Even then, her legs were stiff, her heart a drumbeat of panic beneath her ribs. This was the cost of freedom. Every shadow could hold a blade. Every street corner might lead to nowhere. She hadn't expected it to feel like this. Like drowning.
And yet, she kept walking.
It wasn't courage—it was the lack of a better option.
By the time the streets narrowed again, curling like ribs around the city's dark heart, she was shivering. Her thoughts spun in circles. Where would she sleep? What would she eat? She hadn't thought far enough ahead. Maybe she hadn't let herself. Planning too much would've meant admitting how impossible it all was.
She turned down another street—and froze. Footsteps. Not the loose, aimless shuffle of drunkards. These were heavy. Measured.
Deliberate.
Her hand found her dagger.
She pressed into the dark alcove between two buildings, the stone slick with old rain. The footsteps drew closer. Closer. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Whoever it was passed without pause—but she didn't relax until they were gone, and even then, the chill didn't leave her bones.
This wasn't freedom.
It was just a new kind of prison.
But still—she'd take it over the one with velvet curtains and silken chains.
Sylas's Perspective
"Fuck," Sylas muttered under his breath as he stepped into Orin's shop, the door creaking shut behind him.
The place smelled like mold and regret. Dust clung to the shelves like it had been bred there, and every corner was filled with clutter—some of it valuable, most of it worthless. Orin didn't care. He dealt in opportunity, not aesthetics.
The old fence sat slumped behind his counter, pipe clamped between his teeth and eyes half-lidded with either sleep or rotgut. He didn't look up when Sylas approached. "Back so soon?"
Sylas tossed the pendant onto the counter. It landed with a soft clink that seemed far too loud in the quiet of the room.
Orin blinked. Then sat up.
"Where the fuck did you get this?"
Sylas crossed his arms. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah," Orin said flatly, all pretense of sluggishness gone. "Because I'm not touching that."
Sylas's brow furrowed. "What?"
Orin pushed the pendant back toward him with a single knotted finger. "That thing's not just noble. It's royal. You want to paint a target on your back the size of the palace gate? Fine. But I'm not getting involved."
"It's just a trinket."
"Maybe to you," Orin snapped, "but to the right eyes? That's the kind of thing that gets fences gutted in their own beds. I don't deal in shit that brings the Crown sniffing around. Take it somewhere else."
Sylas stared at him, jaw tight.
He'd expected resistance. A haggled price. Maybe a lecture.
Not this.
Orin's gaze didn't waver. "I've got kids now, Sylas. You think I'm putting them in the ground over a pendant?"
A muscle jumped in Sylas's jaw. He shoved the pendant back into his pouch and turned away without another word. The door slammed behind him.
Out on the street, the city's cold night air hit him like a slap.
He should've walked away from this job before it ever started. But now? Now the damn thing was tied to him like a curse. And that girl—the one with the violet eyes and the sharp mouth—was tied to it too.
He moved through the streets with no real destination, letting his boots carry him past shuttered windows and flickering lanterns. His thoughts raced.
He'd been careful. Quiet. There was no reason anyone should connect him to the break-in. But Orin was right—this wasn't just another theft. This was the kind of job that got you hunted.
And worse?
He was starting to think it hadn't even been about the pendant.
The girl had been in that room for a reason. She'd moved like someone who knew what a blade felt like in her hand. She wasn't some pampered court doll.
And yet, she hadn't called for help.
She'd watched him.
Measured him.
And for some godsdamn reason, she was still in his head.
He cursed again, dragging a hand through his hair. He needed to lay low. Figure out what the pendant really was—and what the hell he'd stepped into.
Because whatever this was, it wasn't over.
Not even close.