As Nocturna drifts back into the crowd, her eyes catch on something fluttering between two stalls. Her gaze snagging on the worn piece of cloth fluttering like a forgotten flag between two crooked stalls. A merchant had haphazardly hung it for shade or perhaps to dry—but its pattern seized her breath.Faded silver threads glimmered faintly under the light. Not just stars—constellations. Arranged in a precise, deliberate formation only a true member of her tribe would know. The world around her seemed to blur and still all at once.
The fire had crackled low that night. I'd been no more than 6, curled up beside mother near the edge of the clans clearing. This very blanket, whole, warm, and soft, was wrapped around my small shoulders. I remembered the chill in the wind, the way it bit at my skin until the cloth tucked in like a second embrace. Mother had crouched down, whispering names of the stars into my ear, painting each out. "Those ones there," she said tracing the thread with a gentle finger, "they watch over us when we journey. And those…" her voice trailed as her smile faded slightly, "those remind us of what we lost." The firelight danced across mothers beautiful face, the gold in her eyes shining.
Nocturna blinks, pulled back into the present. The scent if spices and smoke filled her nose once again, but if wasn't from the memory it was real. Her pulse picked up, as that feeling and cold in her chest. Someone is watching her. She turned her head slowly, eyes sweeping across the busy market. Vendors shouted prices, Veyrkin bartered and laughed, none of them giving her a second glance. But the feeling remained—like breath on her neck. Her steps shifted instinctively, moving her body into the flow of the crowd. But her eyes kept searching, sliding over faces and shapes until—
There. The tall lean fox Veyrkin-Rhen-leaned casually against a fruit cart, biting into a crisp apple like he had all the time in the world. His eyes are locked onto her through the crowd, glinting with amusement and something far to curious. He tilted his head ever so slightly when their gazes met, as if to say, Thought you were clever, little rabbit. Nocturna's heart kicked in her chest. Without a word, she turned sharply and slipped between two clustered stalls, tugging her hood lower. The noise of the market seemed to rise around her, loud and distant all at once. She didn't look back. Sticking to narrow alleys and sloped paths, she moved quickly, boots quiet against the stone and root-woven streets of Grimholt. Her fingers brushed against the wristbands she wore—an unconscious check of herself—before she finally reached the edge of the merchant quarter. She was nearly to Striga's building when the footsteps behind her shifted—quickened. Nocturna's stomach dropped just before a hand grabbed her arm.
She spun to jerk away, but he was already on her. Rhen's grip wasn't cruel, but it was firm—fueled by certainty, not hesitation. In one swift motion, he yanked her hood back before she could stop him. Her dark hair spilled out, and with it, the soft curve of her pointed ears. He stilled, eyes narrowing. And then a sneer twisted his mouth. "Well, now I understand," he spat, voice low and curling with disdain. "The way you acted so high and mighty back there. You filthy elf." His words hit like a slap—sharp and meant to sting. Confusion wrinkles in her eyebrows. Around them, a few passersby cast curious glances, but Rhen didn't care. His focus was solely on her. Nocturna's heart hammered as she tried to twist from his grip, but Rhen held fast. "You elves are all the same," he muttered darkly, yanking her closer. His other hand reached up, brushing aside her hair, exposing the full curve of her pointed ear.
Gasps rose from nearby. A pair of market-goers halted mid-step, their wide eyes flicking from her ear to Rhen's clenched jaw. A merchant across the street dropped something from his stall with a dull clatter. Even the wind seemed to still. Nocturna's throat tightened. The stares. The shift in energy. The heat of disgust disguised as fear. She hadn't felt this kind of attention in years—and never for something she wasn't. She kept her eyes low and mouth shut, every inch of her fighting the urge to run. She wasn't ready to cause a scene. Not now. Not here. But Rhen wasn't letting go. "You hide behind pretty faces and polished smiles, thinking you're better than the rest of us," he growled under his breath, loud enough for others to hear. "You think we wouldn't notice? Rhen's grip shifted from her arm to her wrist, fingers tightening like iron. He began dragging her down the street, the crowd parting as whispers spread. "I'm goanna show you what a Veyrkin can do to a pretty little elf like you," he snarled, low and cruel. "When I'm done with you, you'll never want anyone else to touch you." Nocturna's breath caught.
The world spun, blurring with the past.
A dark room. The weight of a man pressing down. Calloused hands pinning her wrists above her head. His breath hot against her neck. The way her voice caught in her throat when he whispered, "The first time is always the worst." The way she closed her eyes right before-
No.
Back in the present, her pulse thundering in her ears. She blinks hard, eyes flashing with something ancient and unforgiving. Panic flared-but so did rage. Without a word, she drove her heel down onto Rhen's foot with all her strength. He lets out a sharp yelp, his grip slipping. She didn't wait. Noctortna turned and ran, her cloak whipping behind her as the crowd erupted into confused shouts. She doesn't look back, boots slamming against the stone pathways as she wove through startled onlookers and market stalls, heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. The city blurred past- shouts, stares, the flicker of crystal lights in windows but all she can focuses on is putting as much space as possible between her and the fox Rhen. She ducked into an alley, then another, the route back to Striga's etched into her mind. By the time she reached the familiar winding stairs of Strigas building her lungs burned and her legs ached. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the door, nearly dropping the key twice before it finally clicked. Inside the quite hit her like a wave. She closed the door softly, locked it, bolted it then stood their chest heaving, staring into the dim apartment lit only by one single glowing crystal lamp she left near the couch. For a moment Nocturna didn't move. The slowly she sank to the floor back against the door, pulling her hood back up over her head even though she was safe now. Her skin still crawled where he'd touched her. Her wrist ached with phantom pressure.
The apartment is quiet in the soft silver glow of the moonlight streaming in through the window. Nuri slept curled up on the couch underneath it, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her breathing deep and uneven as dreams tugged at her mind. Fragments of hands, fur, and fire flashing behind her closed lids. A hand shakes her shoulder. "Nuri," Striga's voice is low and urgent. "Wake up. You need to go. Now." Nuri eyes snap open. The Owl Veyrkin stood over her, fully dressed in her feathered robe that off one shoulder revealing a thin strap connecting to her top. Her eyes sharp and jaw tense. "What?" Nuri rasps sitting up still groggy. "Words spread," Striga said grimly moving to grab a bag from the hook by the door. "Some drunk idiot at the club started ranting about an elf causing trouble. Now others are stirring things up-saying there's one hiding in Grimholt."
Nuri blood ran cold.
Striga grabs Nuris satchel on the floor tossing it to her. "II heard a group's already searching the eastern sector. It won't take them long to sweep this side of the city." Nuri stood quickly heart racing. "You-you're sure they think it's me?"
"I'm sure enough not to risk you staying here." Striga looks at her hard. "I told Eirik I'd keep you safe. So, you're going to take service tunnel through the cellar. There's an old back exit to the city wall-one the patrols don't monitor often." Nuri swallowed as she put the satchel over her shoulder then her cloak before slipping her boots on. "You're helping me?" Striga huffed, flickering her feathers back as she moves, "I may not like elves-but I really don't like mobs with torches and pitchforks chasing people based on gossip."