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A gust of wind sends the ship swaying, and I brace myself against the bulkhead, then turn my gaze toward the north.

Nightfall drapes over the glistening, frost-stained streets of Intana. The city clings to the bank of the Sarathros like barnacles left to fester, its uneven sprawl a patchwork of stone and salt-worn wood. Even without setting foot ashore, the air bites into my skin, and every exhaled breath rises in a ghostly plume before vanishing into the dark sky.

A thick cloak settles over my shoulders. I jolt, tension shooting down my spine before my mind even registers the touch. Weight. Warmth. Proximity. Hands I didn’t ask for.

My gaze snaps to Lyxander.

His hand hovers in the space between us like he’s resisting the urge to reach again. Either that, or he’s assessing my reaction, bracing for teeth or silence.

Breathe.

I drag air into my lungs and my eyes flutter shut—counting heartbeats, anchoring myself in the chill, the distant voices, the coarse fabric now pressed tight against my skin.

When I open them, he hasn’t moved.

“Thank you,” I murmur, curling the cloak tighter around me. I pull the hood up, drawing it low over my brows, and pull my hair—still the mahogany of my charmed earring—to cover my ears. A quick glance across the deck shows the crew are too busy to have noticed anything amiss. I steel myself and hold out my hands, wrists pressed together.

Lyxander dips his chin, his stare lingering longer than it should, before picking up a rope coil. He loosely binds my wrists and, although this is part of the plan to keep up our ruse, my shoulders tense.

“Straight down the dock, take the first street on the right—”

“Then the third laneway, and right again,” I say, my voice low so it doesn’t carry. “I’ve got it.”

He stifles a sound that could be a growl or a chuckle, then finishes the last knot, leaving a tether for him to hold on to. Without another word, he strides toward the ship’s ramp. I trudge behind him, and the mask of fury I don comes easily.

The crew avoids meeting my glare as we disembark, but I make a point to memorize their faces. In the days of the voyage, not one of them so much as asked if I was okay.

Cowards don’t need blades to wound; they only need silence when it matters most.

That is one of the cold, harsh truths the world has taught me.

We walk in silence, the ship shrinking behind us, and as we near the end of the dock, I glance over my shoulder.

I can sense the eyes of the crew on us, but none of them move to follow. Not that I thought they would—but privateers willing to smuggle people are just as likely to sell information for coin, or squeal when faced with the threat of personal harm.

When the Aviary catches up with them, they’ll only have one tune to sing. And it will be a false one.

The rope in Lyxander’s hand tightens, and I know he’s waiting for my signal.

I stop, letting it pull taut between us, and he turns, brow furrowed with feigned irritation. A smirk curls the corner of my mouth, and his eyes narrow as I drive my bound fists into his stomach with all the force I can muster.

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, and he doubles over, his grip on the rope slackening.

Wrenching away, I break into a sprint.

The wind catches the hood of my cloak, blowing it back, and I let my dark hair trail behind me like a banner in the night. Dockworkers shout in alarm as I pass, their voices blending into the rush of blood in my ears and the pounding of my feet against wood, then stone, as I clear the dock and sprint into the city.

After the first line of buildings, I veer right, my shoulder clipping the corner hard enough to make me stumble. Pain flares, but it’s the strange tug in my palm that makes me falter. I glance down at my hand, then shake it off. There’s no time to dwell on it.

There are a few people farther down this street, but none turn as I slow my pace to a casual stride, then flit down the third laneway as Lyxander directed, melting into the shadows between two slumbering buildings.

The next alley is dank and narrow, a sliver of moonlight revealing it’s little more than an out-of-sight dumping ground for merchants. Pulling the hood of my cloak back up, I crouch behind a stack of crates, untangle my wrists from the rope, and cast it aside.

Unsheathing my dagger, I settle in and wait.

The tugging sensation in my palm is still there, like an invisible thread trying to pull me back the way I came. It’s the first time I’ve felt it stir; the first time it’s done anything at all since the bargain was struck.

It fades slowly as I remain hidden, until I can no longer feel it.