Hatha House was quiet when Marlow slipped through the front entrance. The common area was desolate, and the only person she passed on her way through was Ciaran, busy at his office desk.
Since he divided his time between Fallowmoor and Bedwyck, she never knew whether to expect him, but his presence was always a welcome surprise. As usual, his salt-and-pepper hair was parted neatly, his beard trimmed short and tidy, but his suits made him stand out. They were similar to what the nobility wore, but flashier, with shiny buttons and brightly coloured linings. She wondered if it was a common style over in Bedwyck, or if Ciaran just liked gaudy things.
He acknowledged her with a nod before going back to the ledger in front of him.
Marlow’s ma died during childbirth, and her da left when she was eight. Ciaran found her wandering the streets and took her in. He was her family, as were the other long-term residents who called Hatha House home.
Ciaran was a decent man. A nonwielder who saw her kind as people. He opened the shelter over a decade ago. A refuge for wielders (and a handful of nonwielders) with nowhere else to go. He made most of his fortune through illegal activity. Fencing dens, apothecaries that dispensed more than what the law allowed, and black-market sales of magically enhanced items. By all definitions of the word, he was a criminal. But Marlow figured she didn’t care how he funded the good he did, only that he cared enough to do it.
Hatha House was a narrow townhouse divided into small rooms. Just enough space for sixty wielders to live inalmostcomfortable quarters. Copperhill had rotted into an overcrowded slum, its population swelling like a bloated corpse as its buildings crumbled into disrepair, all while Crestwell and Conaeld thrived. But Hatha House stood at its heart, a bit orphanage, a bit homeless shelter. Restored, radiant, and defiant.
Hatha. Hope.
That was what Ciaran had given them. Hope in a world that seemed to have nothing but hatred for them.
Some wielders stayed for years, others lasted only a few months. Lately, though, the temporary ones were becoming more common, wielders staying mere days before vanishing without a word.
Ciaran insisted it was a good thing. If they were leaving, it meant they no longer needed sanctuary. They’d found work. A home. A better life.
But none ever said goodbye.
Marlow knew better than to doubt her instincts.
If they had found somewhere to go, wouldn’t they still be here in Fallowmoor somewhere? Shouldn’t she be able to find them? Instead, they were just . . . gone.
And in the past month, the disappearances had shifted. Not just newcomers anymore, but fighters in the resistance. Her friends, her allies. No, this wasn’t chance. It was deliberate. First, those no one would miss. Now, rebels, just as the movement was gaining ground.
Felix had promised to help her look into it. The trouble was, for all his good intentions, he was easily distracted. Pretty faces, social ladders, good food.
And his newest distraction, Lady Farrows, had managed to consume most of his free time.
Marlow rolled her eyes. She hated the nobility and everything they stood for. She had to admit, though, that she admired Felix’s determination. The thought of him in some important governing role felt fitting.
Felix had always been able to draw people in. He had a presence that made him a natural leader.
Marlow used to wish she could borrow some of that confidence. Growing up, she often felt as though she’d slipped into the wrong reality, like she existed in a realm parallel to the one she was meant for. She’d stare into the mirror, searching for herself behind the reflection that stared back.
She’d put on her loose-fitting trousers, part her cropped hair to the side, and act the way everyone expected, because when people looked at her, they saw a boy. But it was playacting. She knew what they saw wasn’t who she really was.
Her friends dragged her into the same idiotic games all the boys played. They fawned over girls in low-cut dresses. Marlow fawned, too, but for a different reason. She wasn’t drawn to them the way the others were. She envied how freely they got to be themselves.
It was never just about the hair or the clothes—even now she bounced between trousers and skirts, depending on her mood. It was about the quiet certainty the women carried, the way theyseemed so sure of who they were. She knew when those women looked in the mirror, they saw someone who belonged there. Someone who felt right in their own skin.
And she doubted Felix ever questioned himself. He’d always known exactly who he was, even if the world forced him to hide it.
Marlow was still searching, still shaping herself with each step, but she no longer felt lost. She was proud of her strength, proud of the identity she’d fought to claim.
And playing her part in the resistance gave her purpose, a way to channel that newfound strength into something big. Felix had his own way of fighting back, and she had hers. The problem was, their goals didn’t align. He wanted to be part of the thing she was fighting to tear down.
She hated keeping secrets from him. But she’d made a promise to keep him out of it, and she intended to honor that. For now.
He was helping already, without even knowing it. Gathering information, learning the layouts of places none of them had ever seen. With his knowledge and his magic, he’d make one hell of a resistance fighter.
Her fingers traced over the rough, worn wallpaper as she drifted down the stretch of hallway. The rest of Hatha House was quiet, most of the residents out working the night market. She pushed open the door to her shared sleeping quarters, a cramped space with rows of bunkbeds. Compact, yet cosy. Her gaze lingered on the newly-vacant ones, the freshly washed sheets folded and piled at the foot of each.
Focus, Marlow.Wielders were missing. Some of their best resistance fighters. Someone was targeting them, and she needed to find out who.
“Hey, Mar.”
