Amiya's Perspective
Amiya's breath hitched as she crept deeper into the shadows, her boots silent against the uneven stone. The flicker of torchlight painted distorted shapes across the crumbling walls, while voices ahead crackled with tension—sharp, clipped, and unmistakably hostile. She edged closer, drawn despite herself.
The scene was chaos waiting to happen.
A cart had been overturned in the middle of the square, its contents—crates, bottles, sacks of grain—spilled across the cobblestones. Around it, a gathering of angry civilians argued with a knot of soldiers, their armor glinting dully in the firelight. Raised voices. Jabbing fingers. The unmistakable stench of fear underlined with frustration.
What were soldiers doing here, this deep in the lower quarter? The uniformed kind didn't patrol places like this—not unless something serious was going on.
Amiya's grip tightened around the hilt of her dagger. Her hood was still up, but it wouldn't take much for someone to notice her. She shouldn't be here. Every instinct screamed it. But her legs didn't move.
Because she needed to know.
Tucked into the crowd, she kept her head down and ears open. Tension clung to the air like smoke. A woman near her hissed, "They're looking for someone. Dragged in a name from one of the taverns."
A name. Not a face. That should've comforted her. It didn't.
Another voice, angrier now: "You think we're gonna give up one of ours because some noble prick panicked?"
A bottle shattered.
A guard shoved a bystander.
The crowd responded—not with panic, but defiance. That was the difference. In the palace, chaos was always quiet. Controlled. But here? Here it burned.
And just beyond the soldiers, cloaked in shadow, was Sylas.
Amiya spotted him the way one instinctively notices a blade half-drawn. He hadn't moved yet. His posture was relaxed, casual—but she could tell he was reading the scene the same way she was. Calculating. Waiting.
Of course he was here. Of course.
She looked away before their eyes could meet, heart hammering. She hadn't decided yet if his presence made her feel safer—or more exposed.
Sylas's Perspective
The square was primed to blow.
Sylas had followed the rising shouts until they'd spilled into this mess—guards, civilians, a shattered cart, and a growing storm of fury. He stuck to the edges, hood low, eyes sharp.
He didn't know what the soldiers were after. And he didn't care—until he spotted Amiya.
She was weaving through the crowd, head down, moving like someone who had learned to blend in but hadn't practiced enough yet. She looked every inch the outsider trying not to be noticed. Too clean. Too careful. And for some reason, walking straight toward the fire.
His jaw clenched.
She didn't know what this was. She couldn't. People here didn't shout at soldiers unless they were ready to bleed.
He moved too, paralleling her from across the throng, slipping between arguments and curses. Something had tipped the guards off. He didn't know what, but they were circling like wolves.
And then—
"You there! Hood down!"
The voice cut through the square like a blade.
Sylas's head snapped toward the sound.
Amiya froze.
He didn't wait. He closed the gap between them in seconds, stepping into her space, his presence suddenly very deliberate.
"Stay still," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
Another guard barked something he couldn't make out. A few bystanders began to edge away.
Someone shouted, "You don't get to pull blades on our people!"
The crowd turned. Not in panic.
In rage.
The first bottle flew. A crate overturned. A soldier stumbled.
Amiya's hand hovered at her side.
"Don't," Sylas warned. "Not yet."
The square roared to life. Civilians surged, soldiers shoved back. Fists flew. Steel gleamed in the firelight.
And Sylas, eyes flicking to the path ahead, nodded once.
"There's your break."