“No,” answered Felix. “I’d have to touch you and really focus. I can’t mess with your memories, either.”
But August assumed as much. Listeners with that ability were nearly nonexistent. The only one he’d ever heard of was during the last war; Vastrad’s latest in a long history of annexation attempts. They had sent the listener to clear information from behind enemy lines, leaving the soldiers useless. Unlike Atheran, Vastrad used their wielders like weapons, treated them like slaves. They benefited from their dangerous magic, and it had almost won them the war.
August stood in silence, wrestling with his thoughts as Felix sat patiently, allowing him the space he needed to do so.
He should leave. He knew that. But if he did, all of this would be over.
Though it was a foolish and reckless decision—the type that he was certainly not accustomed to making—August settled onto the bed, resigned to staying.
Still, Felix said nothing, waiting for him to speak first.
August’s gaze slid slowly over the room, taking in the little details. A pile of worn books sat precariously on the edge of an old dresser with titles that included words likehistoryandpoliticsand other subjects that would surely put August to sleep. A medal of some sort hung from a crooked nail, and trinkets lined a shelf, dust-covered but thoughtfully placed in a perfect line.
Everything about the room was an extension of Felix, like this place was so fullyhisthat he could meld into it and become an inseparable part of the décor. It even smelled like Felix—the faint scent of herbs and hearth smoke. He belonged to it as much as it belonged to him.
August had never had somewhere like that; a place that felt completely his. He felt like an intruder in his own room, hiding his trinkets out of sight.
This place was so full of love that it oozed from every crack in the wall. It was no wonder Felix radiated warmth. He was surrounded by it, soaked in it every day.
“A triple-wielder,” August said finally, mostly to himself. It was amazing, really, in an odd, terrifying way, what Felix was. What he could do. “As if you weren’t incredible enough.”
His mouth snapped shut, and heat rose in his cheeks. Had he really just said that out loud?
Felix looked up, a bright smile illuminating his face. “You think I’m incredible?”
“I-I didn’t…” August stammered, his thoughts tripping over each other on their way out. “You-I just…this place is nice. Paintings…I love the paintings.” Gods, he was hopeless. He forced a shrug that felt anything but casual as Felix watched him, unblinking. Scrambling for an escape, August asked, “What were you and Marlow talking about?”
Felix’s face sobered at the reminder. “Some wielders have gone missing. She thinks they were taken, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe she’s right.”
“Taken? To where?”
“We can’t figure that part out. It’s been happening for months, and now one of our closest friends left for work yesterday morning and never came home.”
“Have you gone to the Watch?”
Felix studied him for a moment before saying, “You’re serious.” When August frowned, unsure how to respond, he scoffed and said, “They’d probably track down whoever’s responsible just to thank them for getting rid of us. They’ve been plenty eager to do it themselves.”
But that couldn’t be right. The Watch were meant to uphold the laws. Foreverybody. If people were missing, they’d help.
“Anyway,” Felix said, pushing off the bed. “Now that all that’s out in the open, no more secrets?”
Guilt sliced through August. Everything he’d told Felix from the moment they met had been a lie. And that wouldn’t—couldn’t—change, even if he wanted it to.
“No more secrets,” August said, adding to the list of lies.
“Right, then. Let’s go find Marlow.”
Orange lamplight flooded the back room of The Gilded Mortar as the buzz of the night market crowd seeped in through the pipes. The shop had closed early, and the young employee, an irritatingly talkative man hired a few months prior, was sent on his way.
There were important matters to tend to. Strict deadlines to meet. And Ashcroft was already running behind.
The room was in a state of disarray—empty bottles placed haphazardly on cluttered countertops, blood-stained towels strewn across tables. An uncommon state for his businesses. But again, deadlines. Constraints. It would be unwise to anger this particular client.
A single wooden operating table sat in the centre of the room, surrounded by grimy sawdust to catch any runoff while he worked. Had the table been empty, the layers of blood would’ve been visible, the wood stained from months of use.
But it was not empty.
He grabbed his apron from a hook on the wall and folded it neatly across his arm like a server’s cloth, then swiftly crossedthe room. The movement stirred the flames inside the lamps, sending the elongated shadows dancing gently across the girl’s face.
