That frightened him more than any informant ever could.
Nythir ignored her, gaze drifting to the memory of the previous night.
The way Essie’s sparks glowed in the moonlight, painting her skin in molten gold.
The soft hush of roses in the garden breeze.
The whisper of her laugh brushed his collarbone as she leaned closer. Her breath was warm on his neck.
He never had a favorite color before. Now he did.Gold.
And he cursed his companions and all their future descendants for taking him away from that color so early in the morning. He hated mornings. He especially hated this morning above all other mornings.
Sable finally arrived—boisterous and unbothered. She stretched languidly, like she’d woken from a peaceful nap instead of a brawl. At least she had enough delicacy to not slap a meat slab on her black eye. She wore it proudly, like a trophy.
His magic stirred again, subtle but insistent, coiling tighter instead of loosening as the sun climbed higher. He had learned to trust that feeling long before he learned to trust people. Magic didn’t lie. It reacted to pressure, to intent, to threats not yet visible.
Whatever was coming had already taken its first step.
“Good morning!” she bellowed.
Lyssara clutched her head and retched into a bush. Birds scattered from nearby branches at the sheer volume of her misery.
“You’re late,” Nythir said flatly. He wasn’t even angry anymore. He was just dead inside.
“Only by a few minutes.” Sable yawned, rubbing her non-swollen eye. Her short silver hair stood in every direction like a startled hedgehog. Her leather armor smelled faintly of ale, smoke, and poor decisions. “So what business do you have with me?”
“You mean a few hours,” Lyssara hissed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She kicked Vorrik’s boot. “Wake up. She’s here.”
“An attack?” Vorrik shot upright, then immediately wavered and collapsed in a heap of limbs and pain.
“You’re not under attack, you giant oaf,” Sable laughed.
“You’re the one with business,” Lyssara grumbled. “Not us.”
Sable blinked. “Luna said you had a job for me.”
Silence. A slow, dawning, shared one. An uneasy tingle crept down Nythir’s spine.
Lyssara’s face drained of color. “We got played?”
“It seems so,” Sable sighed. A crow called in the background, almost mockingly.
“Why?” Nythir asked, voice sharpening. Something cold and heavy settled in his stomach. “Where is Luna?”
“I think she said she was going to Moonpetal—”
Nythir’s breath hitched once—sharp and involuntary—before instinct took over. If Luna was moving openly, it meant she wasn’t worried about being seen. And that meant whatever game she was playing, she was already several moves ahead.
Nythir didn’t hear the rest.
He was already gone.
The sound of his boots blended into the bustling city. He narrowly dodged carts. He didn’t have time to think.
He only knew one thing:something was wrong.
15
