Tender eyes.
And I know I’ve seen them before.
“Tess?” I ask.
Her eyes blow wide. “Iskara?” she asks in return.
And the door sweeps open.
The Bowels breathe damp and hot, the air heavy with mildew and iron. Torches sputter instead of burning clean, and coughing smoke curls into the ceilings that drip like wounds. Rot clings to every surface, undercut with the acridtang of blood, and herbs set smouldering in braziers. This is no marketplace—it is a heart, a war chamber, steeped in mythic weight, where every whisper seems to reverberate against the bones of history. The rebels who gather here are not merchants or beggars but scarred, hardened survivors, eyes lit with purpose. Their sanctum is raw and makeshift: a throne hacked from the cavern wall, inverted triangles smeared in charcoal and blood across stone, rough tables laden with scraps of stolen maps, charred pages saved from burnings, and broken blades remade into tools. Desperation built this place, but it thrums with defiance, with the promise of war.
Piercing my thoughts, the young girl I saved from the Flesh Circuit steps through the haze, staring back at me. Body fuller, hair thicker with a sheen that only comes from enough food. Gellesk has looked after her.The old bastard came through.
But the moment doesn’t last. It gets drowned out by a crowd of voices and faces.
Men and women. Young and old.
People I’ve known in the slums.
People I’ve stolen from.
People who’ve stolen from me.
The rebellion.
This is who fights for us, Duskae.Kael whispers through the tether, his grounded presence standing behind me in support.
But before I can speak, Tess smiles, and gestures her hand through the crowd that begins to part at her instruction. “Make your way to The Shield,” she says, and the rebels’ murmurs fill the space.
They disperse with each step I take.
Kael and Therion flank me, and I take measured, practiced steps that contrast my trepidation.
I make my way forward, steadying my breath and inviting my magic to pool at my fingertips, ready to use. A safety measure.
No magic.Kael warns into my mind.
Shit. I forgot I can be detected here.I reply, and force my magic back into my chest.
The sconces that line the walls flicker, casting eerie shadows across the room. All murmurs stop, and silence falls instead, the only sound our boots on the stone floor.
The final rebels part, revealing a platform. A throne carved from the very bones of The Underbelly walls rises above the crowd, its presence heavy, mythic. For a moment, I almost believe I’m about to meet a legend.
I brace for a god, a myth, a monster forged in war—and instead.
“Fucking Gellesk?” I blurt, because sitting on that throne, looking smug as a cat in cream, is the same man who once tried to short me three silvers on a weapons run.The Shield of Kael’s rebellion is a swindling street merchant with greasy fingers and a penchant for tin trinkets.
My jaw drops. The room spins. This can’t be real.
“Princess Elyssara Dawnmere of Dravara,” he crows, pushing himself off the throne with a squeak of leather and bowing low like he’s some court-trained noble.
The rebels gasp, dropping to their knees in reverence. To me. To this.To him.
“You?” I sputter, incredulous. “You’reThe Shield?”
He winks.He actually winks.“And you’re the Princess of Dravara. Guess we both had secrets, love.”
Boots scrape behind me. I turn—Correk is striding forward, eyes locked on Gellesk. He doesn’t look shocked. He looks…relieved.
