Rell stepped in close again, holding something out in his palm—a dagger, sleek and dark, sheathed in black leather worn smooth with use.
“This is for you,” he said. “To borrow.”
Her fingers brushed the hilt—it was cool, solid, the grip molded to fit a hand with purpose. It felt heavier than she expected. Not in weight, but in implication.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because I’d rather you not die,” Rell said bluntly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And becauseit’s enchanted. Mindstrike. Every hit buys you a moment—makes them hesitate, just for a second.” He raised an eyebrow. “That second could save your life.”
She tightened her grip on the dagger, feeling the subtle hum of the enchantment through her palm. It unnerved her. So much of her life had been learning how to avoid conflict, not survive it. But those days were gone.
The streets of Ravenpoint were as loud and chaotic as ever—alive with barked orders, shouted haggles, and the steady grind of cart wheels over cobblestone. The scent of frying fish and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of street torches that hadn’t been doused since dusk. Vendors hollered over each other from cramped stalls, while children ducked between legs and wheels, always one breath away from being trampled.
Elora kept her hood low and her head down, eyes fixed on the ground just ahead of her boots. Every footstep echoed in her chest like a warning drumbeat. Her satchel wasn’t on her shoulder—for the first time in what felt like forever—and the absence of its comforting weight gnawed at her nerves. Everything important was in there. Her notes, ingredients, spare tools. Her life.
She hadn’t wanted to leave it behind. But Rell had insisted.
“Someone from the Hive will grab our gear and meet us at the new safehouse,” he’d said with maddening confidence. “We don’t want our travel gear slowing us down against Fane.”
She hadn’t argued—much. But her hands had curled into fists the moment she handed the bag off, and they hadn’t quite relaxed since.
Now she moved through the Northern Quarter with him, the cobblestones giving way to broken dirt roads and scattered patchesof straw. The crowds here were thinner—noisy merchants replaced by the slow churn of wagons and workers lugging crates toward the gates.
Rell walked at her side with infuriating ease, every step casual, hands tucked against the hilts of his daggers like they were old friends. His dark coat billowed slightly with each step, drawing the occasional glance from passersby. He didn’t try to blend in. Didn’t even bother.
She resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.
“Relax,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re so tense you might as well be waving a flag that says ‘wanted fugitive here.’”
Elora scowled beneath her hood but said nothing. She wanted to argue, to snap something clever in return, but her pulse was already climbing again as they approached the city gates.
Two guards stood at attention, lazily scanning the travelers. A wagon rolled by, its wheels creaking under the weight of barrels and sacks, and the guards moved to let it pass. No one stopped them. No one looked twice.
Elora didn’t let herself breathe until they were through the gate.
The chaos of the city melted away behind them, replaced by the wide, quiet sprawl of countryside. Fields stretched toward the horizon in slow waves of gold and green, dotted by stooped farmers and wind-worn fences. For the first time since leaving the hideout, the air smelled clean.
Rell glanced at her sideways. “See? Easy.”
She didn’t reply. Her gaze had already shifted—past the fields, past the scattering of grazing animals and rows of crops—to thedistant blur of trees. The Whispering Woods loomed like a shadow at the edge of the world. She could feel the hum of its old, wild magic from here. Faint, but insistent.
But first, the barn.
It squatted near a field, gray and leaning slightly to one side, its roof sagging in the middle as if it were tired of holding itself up. The boards were weathered and warped, the door crooked on its hinges. Abandoned, by all appearances.
A perfect place to spring a trap.
Elora’s stomach twisted, her eyes lingering on the structure. Every instinct in her body screamed not to go near it. That no matter how much planning they’d done, how good the setup was, walking into that barn was still walking into danger. But there was no turning back now. Not with Fane closing in.
Chapter 18
Violette
The sewers were quieter than she expected. That was the first thing Violette noticed as she and Symond trudged through the damp tunnels. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, rot, and something far worse that she chose not to think about. Her mind was elsewhere—on Elora.
A shapeshifter. She had never seen anything like that before. Not in all her years of working with The Hive. Vye had spent her life cataloging threats, dissecting the strengths and weaknesses of others, but Elora? She was an anomaly.
She glanced down at her arm, the bandages wrapped tightly around the shallow cut she’d received during the mission. It ached, a dull pulse under the fabric, but she ignored it. Pain was familiar. A nuisance, nothing more. But whatwasn’tfamiliar was the way Elora had looked when she and Rell had found her. Fangs, claws, slitted pupils—Fane hadn’t just come for a runaway ward. He had come for something rare. Something valuable.
