I'm dead now. Heidi Marlowe died in that alley, and whoever crawls away into the night is someone else entirely. Someone free.
The bounce and sway of the queue brings me back to the present. More xaphan have joined the line—a group of silver-winged merchants arguing over territory disputes, their voices rising above the music. One of them gestures wildly, nearly clipping his companion with his wing, and his purse swings loose from his belt.
Too easy.
But I don't move. Haven't moved. That was the old me, the desperate one who took every opportunity because missing one might mean starving. Seven years of freedom have taught me patience. Taught me to choose my marks carefully, to never take risks unless the reward justifies them.
The silver-wing's purse isn't worth the attention moving through this crowd would bring.
Instead, I sink deeper into shadow and let the noise of Vestige wash over me. Drums that sound like heartbeats, voicesraised in laughter and lust, the sharp crack of magical discharge from inside the club. It's chaos given form, and it drowns out the whispers that sometimes creep into quiet moments.
Worthless.
Damaged.
Used.
Here, surrounded by sin and shadow, those voices hold no power.
A commotion near the entrance draws my attention. Two xaphan in expensive suits are arguing with the bouncers, their wings spread in aggressive displays. One has feathers like polished copper, the other deep purple that shimmers with embedded magic. Money and power written in every line of their bodies, but apparently not enough to guarantee entry.
"I don't care who your father is," the bouncer growls, his own wings dark gray and massive. "No entry without an invitation."
"This is ridiculous." Copper-wing's voice carries the entitled whine of nobility unused to hearing 'no.' "We're regular patrons at Crimson's, at The Gilt Rose?—"
"Then go back there." The bouncer's tone suggests the conversation is over. "Vestige doesn't want you."
I watch the rejected xaphan storm away, their wounded pride practically visible in the set of their shoulders. Even here, in this den of acceptable depravity, there are hierarchies. Rules. Someone decides who belongs and who doesn't.
The thought should amuse me—watching the privileged get a taste of exclusion. Instead, it settles heavy in my chest like old stone.
You don't belong anywhere.
The voice isn't mine, but I recognize it. Cordelia's poison, still working its way through my system seven years later. I press my palms against the rough wall behind me, grounding myself in the present. In the heat radiating from Vestige's enchantedstones, in the scent of smoke and spice that drifts from its open doors, in the steady throb of music that makes my bones vibrate.
This is real. This noise, this chaos, this city that hides me in plain sight—this is the life I chose when I crawled out of that alley. Not perfect, not safe, but mine.
A young xaphan girl stumbles past, her pale pink wings drooping with exhaustion or drink. She can't be more than eighteen, her dress expensive but rumpled, her makeup smeared. For a moment, our eyes meet across the space between shadow and streetlight.
I see myself at that age. Not the confident thief I've become, but the broken thing that used to flinch at sudden movements, that measured safety in how quickly I could disappear.
The girl's companion—a male with silver-tipped feathers and predatory eyes—wraps his arm around her waist, his grip just tight enough to guide rather than support. She leans into him with the desperate trust of someone who's never learned that protection and possession often wear the same face.
I look away.
Not my business. Not my problem. I learned long ago that trying to save others only gets you caught, and being caught means becoming property again. The girl will figure it out eventually, or she won't. Either way, it's not my choice to make.
But the image lingers as I settle back against the wall, letting Vestige's chaos drown out the uncomfortable tightness in my chest. Just another night in New Solas, watching other people's lives unfold from the safety of shadow, taking only what I need and leaving everything else untouched.
The music swells, and I close my eyes, letting it fill the hollow spaces inside me where softer emotions used to live.
The familiar weight of performance settles over me like a second skin. Time to work.
I push off from the wall, letting my shoulders roll back and my chin lift. The shy girl hiding in shadows dissolves, replaced by someone confident, untouchable. Someone who belongs in a place like Vestige despite the human blood running through her veins.
The bronze cuffs around my wrists catch the light as I approach the entrance, the metal warm against my pulse points. I've practiced this walk for years—the subtle sway that suggests wings even when there are none, the way to hold my head so the shadows fall just right across my face. Confidence without arrogance. Allure without desperation.
The bouncer barely glances up as I near the rope barrier. His wings are massive, charcoal gray with silver threading through the primary feathers. Military background, probably. The kind of muscle that doesn't just look intimidating but knows exactly how much pressure it takes to snap bones.
