“Lord Henrik.” I looked up, my eyes wide. “Please don’t tell him we were slow. He’s already so angry.”
The guard’s stare slithered down my body and back up again. The male beside him muttered something low, and both chuckled.
The guard stepped aside, smirking. “Give Lord Henrik my regards.”
I nodded, pulling Rheya through the archway. I didn’t breathe until we’d crossed into a quieter street, where stone walls loomed above us, dividing the merchant and cleric quarters. We ducked into an alley.
“Those guards are Rite fodder.” Rheya shook her head. “Sharing one brain between them.”
“Give me your wrist.”
She yanked her sleeve up. “About damn time.”
My thumb traced the groove of her bracelet’s rune, finding the lax thread all servant cuffs had—the fae’s arrogance, assuming we’d never learn to exploit it. I tugged.
Snap.
The bracelet tumbled into my hand.
She rubbed at her raw skin. “Finally.”
My cuff took seconds to unravel. Smoke wisped up as the metal fell away, and I grabbed both bracelets, hurling them over the wall into the cleric quarter. A faint clang echoed.
Rheya grinned. “They’ll waste hours searching for us.”
“That’s the plan.”
Let Henrik comb through manicured gardens. We'd disappear into the seedier corners of the merchant quarter, where guards rarely patrolled.
We jogged deeper into narrow streets. Oil lamps replaced magical lights, their glass panels so thick with grime you could barely see the flames inside. Everything here sagged—wooden frames bowing under the weight of too many years.
Signs creaked overhead. Taverns. Pawnshops. An apothecary with boards over half its windows. Humans bustled around in layers of patched wool, some still wearing silver cuffs. The brothel squatted at the end of the narrowest street.
Three stories of chipped crimson paint, dead ivy clinging to wrought-iron balconies, pink lanterns casting their provocative shade. I’d been here enough times that my fist found the door withoutthinking.
It opened.
Madam Cass stood in the doorway, wrapped in an embroidered robe. Golden curls spilled over one shoulder. Her skin was smooth, her cheekbones glowing with a layer of rouge.
“Good evening,” she drawled.
I stepped inside. “Nice to see you, too.”
Rheya slipped past me, making a beeline for the bar.
Madam Cass’s gaze swept over me, lingering on the rip in my skirt. “Rough night?”
I gave her a thin smile. “Something like that.”
She turned and led us deeper inside. Incense hung thick in the air, sweet enough to mask worse smells. Fae sprawled across velvet sofas, their glazed eyes tracking the dancers twirling between them.
Madam Cass settled behind the bar. “Sit. Have a drink.”
“We’re not here for that.” I stayed standing. “I need my money.”
Her perfectly painted brow arched. “Always straight to business.”
True. But then, our entire relationship was business—she fenced what we stole, took her cut, asked no questions. She’d moved jewelry from noble houses, banned books, weapons humming with illegal runes. If word spread about the broken runes at Arathi Manor, she’d be the first to connect it to us.
