Blades were honest things. They did not pretend to be anything other than what they were. Essie moved through the world like a candle in a draft—bright, earnest, and blissfully unaware of how many hands wanted to cup her flame. Stonehaven would notice her eventually. Cities always saw things that didn’t belong.
“I told you not to drink,” Nythir grumbled, pulling his cloak tighter. “I leave you alone for one minute and you both drown yourselves in beer.”
“It was more than a minute,” Vorrik groaned. He pressed a cold slab of raw steak to his swollen black eye. The meat dripped onto his tunic, adding a bloody, metallic tang to the morning air.
“You’re being too loud…” Lyssara moaned, her voice thick with misery. She was still in her nightgown and slippers, a satin bonnet hiding the hair disaster beneath. She moved like a wounded animal, each shuffle punctuated by another pitiful groan.
Birds sang in the background—their happy chirps aggravating Nythir further. He should’ve still been in bed, under a blanket, where he could hear Essie breathing in the adjoining room.
Essie remained at The Moonpetal Inn—soft, warm, unmoving. An innocent boulder suffering the consequences of her first night of freedom. Technically second, but she was knocked out by a book her first night, so she needed a redo.
A vendor called in the background, announcing a newly released coffee flavor.
“Orchard-spice nut caramel brew! Perfect to take the chill from these brisk mornings!”
Essie would have laughed at the name. She would have asked if “orchard-spice nut caramel brew” was three drinks pretending to be one. He could already hear it—gentle teasing, eyes bright despite the headache, warmth bleeding into a place that had felt hollow longer than he cared to admit.
He hated how easily she occupied his thoughts now. Hated even more that he didn’t want her to leave them.
Nythir made a mental note to deliver her breakfast: eggs, oranges, maybe honey water. Something gentle. He wished he could give it to her as soon as she awoke, but he couldn’t be so lucky.
He cursed the brightly colored men from the previous night. They quickly rose to the top of his enemies list for being the catalyst of his miserable morning. He was the number one enemy on the top of that list for offering help to Luna in the first place. But he needed to stay in the informant's good graces to get the top jobs.
Informants were not friends. They were not allies. They were forces of nature that demanded respect. You did not threaten them, and you did not cross them unless you were prepared to vanish—or be made an example of.
Luna was worse than most. She didn’t collect information to sell—it collectedher. People came to her willingly, smiling, grateful for the privilege of being useful. And when she smiled back, it was never clear whether you’d just been helped or marked.
Nythir had seen what happened to people who realized too late which one they were. Luna, especially, operated on favors like currency. One good turn bought you silence. Two bought you protection. Three bought you survival.
Nythir had intended to cash in exactly one favor. He had not planned on owing her anything.
They waited at the outskirts of town for Sable, shivering in the bite of early morning.
The world around them slowly awoke. Chimneys puffed. Carts rumbled over cobblestone streets. Children ran around while mothers called after them. The frost on the leaves dripped, drinking in the warmth of the rising sun.
The road hummed beneath his boots, a low vibration he felt more than heard. Restless trade routes. Messages delayed. Coin changing hands too fast or not at all. When systems that relied on routine began to stutter, it meant someone somewhere was pulling threads they didn’t fully understand—or didn’t care what unraveled.
Empires didn’t collapse all at once. They frayed first.
Travelers whispered of stalled caravans and missing couriers. Of guild contracts being pulled without explanation. Of borders tightening where they had once been loose.
Something was shifting. Slowly. Quietly.
And Stonehaven, ever the listener, was already adjusting its grip.
It all contrasted horribly with the two hungover disasters standing in the dirt.
“Where is she?” Lyssara complained, flopping dramatically to the cold ground. “I’m dying. Can you please heal me?”
“No.” Nythir didn’t even look at her. “I told you not to drink. I am not using my magic for a hangover.”
“I bet you’ll do it for Essie,” she muttered.
“Of course,” he said instantly.
Lyssara groaned louder in a mixture of pain, amusement, and accusation. “Favoritism. Obvious favoritism.”
Favoritism implied choice. This didn’t feel like one. It felt like gravity—inevitable, inconvenient, and impossible to negotiate with. He hadn’t decided to care. He had simply woken up one morning and realized the world was sharper whenever Essie wasn’t within reach.
