Escaping a military compound should have been difficult, but the Ember had fundamentally rewritten what my body could do.
I stood by the open window of my bedroom on the second floor of Miklas’s mansion. I had swapped my noble silk for a coarse, oversized wool cloak I had stolen from the laundry room, tying my dark hair back and rubbing a handful of cold ash from the fireplace onto my cheeks.
I took a breath, climbed onto the windowsill, and dropped.
Before the Ember, a fall from this height would have shattered my ankles. Now, my muscles absorbed the impact effortlessly as I landed in the garden without making a single sound. Moving through the shadows, I scaled the wrought-iron perimeter gates with the agility of a seasoned thief and slipped into the cool night air of Shepfold.
My destination was the lower rings.
As I walked down the massive stone ramps connecting the districts, the pristine silence of the noble estates gave way to the low, mechanical hum of the city. I kept my hood pulled low, observing the Empire’s working class.
It was a completely different world from the muddy, starving refugee camps of Oakhaven, but it wasn’t a happy one either. The streets here were paved with cobblestones, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifted from closed bakery shutters. The people didn’t look like walking skeletons. Yet, the atmosphere was suffocating.
I watched a group of men stumble out of a late-night iron foundry. Their skin was permanently stained grey with soot, their shoulders slumped from fourteen-hour shifts. Women sat by the dim light of oil lanterns outside their homes, tirelessly mending leather straps and chainmail links. They had food on their tables, yes, but their eyes were dead. They weren’t citizens; they were just fuel to keep the gears of the Imperial war machine turning.
A comfortable cage is still a cage, I thought, pulling my cloak tighter.
I ventured deeper into the fourth ring, navigating a maze of narrow streets until I found what I was looking for: a ramshackle tavern with heavy wooden doors and no sign, from which the smell of cheap ale and stale pipe weed bled into the street. The faint sound of dice rattling and muffled arguments told me it was an illegal gambling den. Perfect.
I slipped inside. The air was so thick with smoke it stung my eyes. Mercenaries, smugglers, and off-duty guards were crammed around splintered tables, throwing bronze Fairs onto piles of dirty cards.
I didn’t order a drink. I simply melted into the darkest corner of the room, leaning against a damp wooden pillar, and let my newly amplified senses go to work. I tuned out the loud laughter and focused on the quiet, hushed conversations.
Intelligence gathering 101. Let the enemy talk.
"...lost three bronze Fairs on the dog fights..."
"...I’m telling you, the patrol routes changed near the eastern gate..."
I stood there for an hour, my legs starting to ache, sifting through useless gossip. I was about to give up when a raspy voice from a table near the back caught my attention. Two smugglers were counting silver coins.
"Did you see the gold on those two brats?" one of them whispered, taking a swig of ale. "Wrapped in expensive cloaks, shivering like rats. Paid me triple to unlock the grate to the old drainage tunnels beneath the Spiced Market."
"Noble kids?" the other asked.
"Must be. Arrogant as hell. Said they needed a quiet place where the city watch wouldn’t smell their ’offerings’. I don’t care what they do down there as long as the gold is real."
The drainage tunnels beneath the market. It was the exact area where we had found the bloodless corpse this morning. My pulse quickened. It was the confirmation I needed. Valerius and Livia were hiding underground, performing their heresy out of sight.
I had what I came for. Now I just needed to leave quietly.
I slipped out of the tavern, the cold night air hitting my face like a wet towel. Feeling confident in my stealth, I took a shortcut through a pitch-black alleyway to loop back toward the elevating stones.
I was so lost in my planning that I broke the first rule of survival: I let my guard down.
"Looking for rare goods, little bird?"
I froze. The voice came from the shadows right behind my left shoulder. It was so close I could feel the heat of his breath.
My hand shot to the dagger strapped to my thigh, and I spun around, my heart hammering in my chest.
A man stepped out of the gloom, raising both hands in a mock gesture of surrender. I hadn’t heard him approaching. I hadn’t smelled him either, because he smelled exactly like the alley itself—stale wine, wet garbage, and unwashed clothes.
He was incredibly thin, wrapped in a patchwork coat, with a face like a weasel and a greasy smile that revealed several missing teeth. He wasn’t a highly trained assassin; he was a street scavenger. And he had managed to sneak up on me completely.
"Easy now, no need for sharp things," the man chuckled, rubbing his dirty hands together with the frantic, greedy energy of a street merchant. His eyes darted to my face, seeing right through the ash I had rubbed on my cheeks. "You’ve been asking a lot of silent questions tonight, noble girl. Eavesdropping in places where little girls shouldn’t be."
I tightened my grip on the dagger. "Who are you?"
"Just a humble merchant of whispers," he hissed smoothly, taking a half-step closer. His eyes gleamed with opportunistic greed. "You’re looking for the two arrogant runaways playing with blood in the dark, aren’t you? I know exactly where they are. And I know what they’re doing. The real question is... how much gold is that information worth to you?"