Chapter 9

  Ugly Truths and Lunas Pov

  My eyes flick back to the rooftop, to where Luna had been a heartbeat ago—but she’s gone. No shift of shadow, no sound of movement. Just empty tiles glistening faintly under the moonlight.

  It hits you then—she didn’t need to say a word. She’d brought me here for one reason: to see this. To bear witness to this."

  . To make sure I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.

  My gaze returns to the prisoners. A young demi-human boy with ragged rabbit ears stares blankly at the road. An older woman clutches her shawl around her like armor. One man’s head hangs low, a faint tremor in his shoulders betraying silent sobs.

  My hand goes instinctively to my pocket, fingers brushing the smooth, familiar surface of my watch… then to the small weight of the old, otherworldly pocket knife. I let out a slow, bitter breath.

  "What… what can I do?" I think, the words heavy in your mind.

  "I’ve got no weapon. No allies. Just an old knife and a name no one here knows."

  The wagon keeps moving, vanishing into the winding streets ahead. Its wheels grind against the cobblestones until the sound fades into the night, leaving only the emptiness of the road behind.

  I turn away from the empty street, my boots whispering against the cobblestones as i retrace my steps toward

  The Lantern’s Rest. The moonlight feels colder now, the quiet heavier. Every shadow I pass seems deeper, every distant sound sharper.

  I know what they’re doing is wrong. I know those people—those prisoners—aren’t just “merchandise” like Jack called them. I saw the fear in their eyes, the way they clung to each other. It churns in my chest, a heavy, sour knot.

  But… what can i do?

  I have no sword, no armor, no allies to watch my back. Just a few coins, a strange watch from another world, and a small pocket knife that wouldn’t scare off a drunk, let alone an armed guard.

  By the time the inn comes into view, the thought is a steady drumbeat in my mind: it’s wrong… but I can’t stop it. Not yet.

  I slip inside without a word to anyone, climb the stairs to my room, and shut the door behind me. The sounds of the city fade, but the images refuse to leave.

  The images I pieced together since arriving—spins through my mind like restless gears.

  I could teach people, build things, fix things. I could make clocks that would never lose a second, tools that might outlast their owners. But none of it matters against iron bars and chains. None of it frees the people in that wagon.

  The thought gnaws at me, over and over, until it’s not just thought anymore—it’s a pressure in my chest, a bitter taste in my mouth. I roll over, shut my eyes, but the images keep coming: Luna’s amber stare, the crying prisoners, the cold creak of wagon wheels.

  At some point, exhaustion forces my body to give in, but sleep brings no peace. My dreams twist into scenes where im the one behind those iron bars, the cold air cutting through the tatters of my clothes. Guards jeer as im shoved into a wagon, the chains around my wrists biting into my skin. Somewhere in the crowd, i think i see Luna watching… but she doesn’t move, doesn’t help.

  I wake with a start in the early gray light, my heart pounding, the taste of fear still in my throat.

  I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, elbows on your knees, trying to steady your breathing. The nightmares you’ll push it down, focus on something ill push through and refuse to linger like smoke, refusing to fade. I splash water from the jug onto my face, telling myself normal—maybe even find work to keep my mind busy.

  But as i step into the hallway, the low murmur of conversation from the common room below catches my attention. Not just idle chatter—there’s an edge to it, a tension i recognize instantly after last night.

  “…came in before dawn,” a man’s voice says, just loud enough for me to hear. “Same wagon, I swear to the gods. But there was shouting in the yard—someone put up a fight.”

  *Another voice, a woman’s, replies, “And? What happened to them?”

  *A pause. Then the man says, quieter, “Didn’t see. Guards had them surrounded. Wasn’t about to get closer.”

  My hands tighten into fists without thinking. Im not just overhearing anymore—im listening. Actively. Looking for pieces of the pattern Luna’s was trying to show me.

  I sit at a table near the far wall of the inn, hands clasped loosely, eyes lowered as though im lost in my own business. In truth, my thoughts are turning, weaving through every moment since i first woke in Evermore… my ordered food comes but im foucused on listening

  Luna's pov-

  The first time she saw him, the forest was quiet—too quiet. Her ears caught the faint crunch of grass under unfamiliar boots, her tail curling low as she crouched behind the shelter of a tree.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A human. Alone. No scent of the city on him yet, no air of the hunters who sometimes came for her kind. Still, she’d learned long ago that “human” rarely meant “safe.” Her hands gripped the edges of her ragged tunic, ready to slip back into the brush and vanish.

  But then…

  He looked at her. Not like the others did—not with suspicion, hunger, or disdain. His eyes were… searching. Curious, maybe. And in that glance, something small but undeniable sparked in her chest.

  It was stupid, maybe even dangerous, but instead of disappearing, she followed. At a distance. Careful, always careful. Each step shadowing his until the city’s walls rose ahead. And even when she left him there, she found herself circling back, wondering where he’d gone.

  That spark hadn’t gone out.

  She’d told herself it was just curiosity that made her follow him all the way to the edge of the village—close enough to see him disappear into the warm glow of a building she knew was an inn. The stone wall nearby offered the perfect view of the alley that ran along one side, and she scaled it easily, muscles remembering the motions of a hundred other climbs.

  From her perch, she spotted the window—low, ground-floor, facing the alley. His room. The glass glinted faintly in the moonlight, and behind it she could see him, still, quiet, unaware.

  Her tail flicked once. She should have left. Humans brought trouble, and she didn’t even know why she was still here. But the spark—that small, irritating spark—hadn’t gone out since the forest.

  She dropped lightly from the wall into the alley, padded up to the window, and raised her hand.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  When he looked up, his eyes found hers through the pane—amber meeting something she couldn’t quite name.

  "Luna," she said softly, a word meant to be her name to him and him alone.

  Before he could speak or open the window, she was already melting back into the shadows of the alley, her pulse quick and her ears twitching at every sound. Too close already… and yet, not close enough.

  The next night-

  Following him was never hard—humans rarely noticed the quiet padding of bare feet or the flick of a tail in their periphery. What was hard was keeping the spark from growing into something she couldn’t control.

  So she played her little game. A tail vanishing just as he turned a corner. A quick peek around a stack of crates before ducking back. A single footstep in an empty street, close enough for him to hear but far enough he couldn’t see.

  Each time, she watched him react—his eyes searching, his head turning—and felt that small thrill of knowing she had his attention. He could have gone back to the safety of his inn, but he didn’t. He followed.

  And she led him.

  The deeper they went, the quieter the streets became, until the air itself seemed to hold its breath. She darted ahead one last time, climbing a narrow drainpipe to the rooftops. From there, she crouched in the moonlight, her shadow stretching long across the tiles.

  When he finally spotted her, she didn’t move—just raised an arm and pointed.

  Down the road, the wagon came into view. Heavy wooden frame, iron bars, guards flanking it. Inside, huddled figures—more than last time. Some with eyes red from crying, others too numb to react.

  She didn’t watch the wagon. She watched him. She wanted to see if the spark she felt in the forest was still there for him, if seeing this again would kindle it into something more.

  Before he could look back at her, she slipped away into the night, leaving only the sight of the suffering behind.

  From her perch, the moonlight catching the edges of her ears and tail, she kept her gaze locked on him—not the wagon, not the guards, not the prisoners.

  When his eyes found the wagon and stayed there, she saw it—the shift in his expression. The way his face tightened, his mouth set, the faint widening of his eyes. Not the disinterest she’d seen in most passersby. Not the greedy appraisal of slavers. Not even the forced neutrality of guards trained to look away.

  It was horror. Genuine, unguarded horror.

  A slow breath eased from her chest, ears flicking forward.

  He’s… different, she thought. Not like the others. Not like the humans, the elves, or the dwarves who pretend not to see.

  The spark she’d felt in the forest warmed into something steadier now—small, but real. Enough to make her linger a moment longer than she should have before vanishing into the night, certain he would keep thinking about what he’d seen.

  Lux's pov--

  The common room of The Lantern’s Rest is already half-full when I sit down, a plate of bread, eggs, and cheese in front of me.

  The morning light filters through the front windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. I take slow, measured bites, the warmth of the food grounding me even as my mind keeps circling back to last night.

  From the counter, the low murmur of conversation drifts over. Two merchants are hunched close, speaking just loud enough to be overheard if someone was listening—like me.

  "Came in before dawn," one says, his voice edged with unease. "Same kind of wagon as the others."

  "From the east road?" the other asks.

  "Aye. Fewer guards this time, but still—more people inside. Poor souls didn’t even lift their heads."

  My fork pauses halfway to your mouth. I set it down slowly, eyes fixed on your plate though my thoughts are already on the streets outside. Another wagon. More captives. The words press on me like a weight, mixing with the image from last night—the bars, the faces, the quiet crying.

  My fork lingers above the plate for a moment before I set it down, the soft clink against the ceramic louder than it should be. The merchants keep talking in hushed tones, but their words blur into a dull hum as your thoughts turn inward.

  I want to fix this," you think, jaw tightening.

  "I need to fix this…"

  But the truth presses in like cold iron.

  “…I have no way.”

  No weapon worth wielding. No allies to stand beside you. No plan beyond the sick twist in your stomach every time I picture those prisoners behind bars. I can’t storm a guarded wagon with a pocket knife and good intentions—not here, not yet.

  The food in front of you cools, untouched, as the frustration sits heavy in your chest. I know it’s wrong. I want to stop it. But right now… all I can do is sit here while the world outside keeps turning.

  The bell over the inn’s door jingles sharply, pulling you out of my thoughts. Heavy, hurried footsteps cross the floor, and before I even look up, a familiar voice cuts through the low morning murmur.

  "Mister Mister!"

  I blink, startled, as Gerrick—the clockmaker—comes bustling toward your table, his leather apron still dusted with filings and his hair sticking out at angles like he ran here. His expression is a strange mix of urgency and barely-contained panic.

  "I know I gave you two days,"he says, leaning on your table, "but I could really use your help right now. The Baron—Baron Blackwood himself—commissioned a clock from me."

  He lowers his voice slightly, glancing around the room. "And if I don’t get it right… well, let’s just say the man isn’t known for his patience."

  I let out a short chuckle, leaning back in my chair.

  "I’m no mister, Gerrick," I say, shaking my head. "But I can help. And for the record—" you offer him a faint, wry smile "—the name’s lux."

  Gerrick blinks, as if only now realizing he’d never actually asked. "Lux, right… well, names aside, this is serious. The Baron’s expecting the clock by tomorrow evening, and I’ve hit a snag I can’t fix on my own."

  He glances around the inn again, his voice dropping even lower. "Blackwood doesn’t commission things often. When he does, he expects perfection. If we botch this, it won’t just be my workshop that suffers."