Amiya's Perspective
The streets at night were a whole different world. Gone were the pristine hallways, the carefully maintained gardens, the endless watchful eyes of the palace. Out here, everything was louder, messier, more alive. The city wasn't asleep—it was breathing, pulsing, shifting like a living thing, filled with drunken laughter, hushed conversations, and the occasional shout of someone getting into trouble.
Amiya adjusted her stolen cloak, the rough fabric unfamiliar against her skin. It itched. It reeked of old smoke. But it helped her blend in, which was the only thing that mattered now. She moved quietly over the uneven cobblestone streets, her hood low, her eyes constantly scanning. A few hours outside the palace and she was already realizing how little she actually knew about the world her father ruled. The noble titles, the etiquette, the diplomacy—it was all fucking useless out here.
If she ever made it far enough to matter.
She ducked down a side street, narrowly avoiding a group of brawling men spilling out of a tavern, their laughter turning to shouting. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she kept moving, ducking behind crates, avoiding lamplight. Her mind spun with questions: Where could she sleep? Could she risk buying food with the coin she'd pickpocketed from a drunk? Would someone recognize her face? Her name?
She rounded a corner—and froze.
CRASH.
The sound was sudden, loud enough to make her jump and whirl toward the source. Her instincts screamed fight, and her hand went for her dagger before she even processed what she was seeing.
A man—tall, dark-haired, and currently buried in a chaotic mess of crates, ropes, and what appeared to be a burst sack of flour—was cursing under his breath.
She blinked. He was flat on his back, covered in debris, glaring at the sky like it had personally betrayed him. He tugged at a rope tangled around his leg. A crate slid and thumped against his shin.
"Gods-fucking-dammit—"
Amiya couldn't help it. A snort burst out of her.
The man froze.
Then, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. "The fuck was that?"
She clamped a hand over her mouth, already regretting the noise.
"You laughin' at me?" he asked, still tangled in the mess. "Because if you are, I—"
Another crate toppled, thumping against his ribs.
"—deserve it, honestly."
Amiya tried to school her face into neutrality, but it wasn't working. "Do you… need help?"
"What gave it away? The dramatic flair, or the elegant way I flopped into this pile of wood?"
She snorted again.
"I'm not flailing," he added quickly, seeing her smirk.
"You look like a fish in a net," she replied, arms crossed.
He groaned theatrically. "And here I thought this night couldn't get any worse."
Against her better judgment, she stepped forward and crouched down. "If you get stuck again, I'm leaving you here."
He cracked a grin. "Fair. I'd leave me too."
She worked at the knot around his leg. Up close, she saw he wasn't as scrappy as he first looked. His face was all sharp lines and clever edges, and his green eyes were alert, assessing. He watched her hands work, his expression flickering with something unreadable.
Finally, the last rope slipped free.
He sat up with a relieved grunt, dusting flour from his chest. "You have my eternal gratitude, mysterious alleyway stranger."
"Don't mention it."
"No, really." He stood, brushing off his clothes. "Thanks, uh… what's your name?"
She hesitated, then said, "Amiya."
He raised an eyebrow. "Amiya, huh? Sounds fancy."
"It's just a name."
"And I'm just an honest businessman."
She laughed. "You don't look like an honest anything."
"Harsh," he said, smirking. "But fair."
He studied her again. "You don't exactly look like you belong around here either."
"Maybe I don't."
"Well, pleasure to meet you, Amiya. I'm Sylas."
She nodded, filing it away. A name. A moment. Nothing more.
"Well, Sylas," she said, tugging up her hood again. "Try not to get into another tragic accident with a pile of crates."
"No promises. Disaster has a thing for me."
She offered a faint smile, then slipped back into the shadows.
She didn't look back.
Sylas's Perspective
Well, that had been something.
Sylas stood in the alley, surrounded by flour, rope, and broken dignity. He'd been in worse situations—held at swordpoint, caught halfway through a job, even chased by a very angry gnome with a crossbow—but this? This was up there in terms of sheer ridiculousness.
And that girl—Amiya—had seen all of it.
He should've been pissed. Embarrassed. Something. But instead, all he could think about was her laugh. That unfiltered, unexpected snort that had slipped out when she thought he couldn't hear it. It wasn't a court laugh, not a polite one. It was honest. Raw. The kind that stuck in your head.
And then there was her face. She was beautiful, sure, but not in the delicate, distant way so many noblewomen were. There was steel in her jaw, shadows behind those violet eyes. Her presence had weight, like someone used to being watched—and having to hide anyway.
Which begged the question: what the fuck was she doing in a place like this?
Sylas crouched to gather what little could be salvaged from the mess, though he barely registered the motions. His mind was stuck in rewind, running through every detail of their brief encounter. The way she moved—quick, but controlled. The way she'd handled him, despite having no reason to. The way she'd hesitated before giving her name.
She was on the run. He would've bet coin on it. And not just from debt collectors or pissed-off merchants—no, this was deeper. More dangerous. Whatever she was running from had teeth.
And yet, she'd helped him. For no reason other than—what? Pity? Curiosity? Some buried sense of decency?
Gods, that laugh. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.
He knew better than to get involved. He was already waist-deep in shit thanks to a job that had gone sideways. The pendant burned in his pouch, a weight he couldn't sell, couldn't drop, couldn't fucking forget. He didn't need another complication.
And yet...
He stood slowly, dusting off his coat. The city beyond the alley still murmured with life—voices, footsteps, the distant clatter of hooves and wheels. Somewhere out there, she was disappearing again. Slipping between cracks like smoke.
He didn't know why it mattered. But it did.
He adjusted his satchel, rolled his shoulders, and muttered, "Fuck it."
He didn't believe in fate. But he believed in patterns. And something told him this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.
And when they did, he wanted to be ready.