I let myself drift, following the pull of smells through the streets. Warm bread. Spiced meat. The city laid it all out without restraint, as if tempting me to forget why I was here.

  But this was no city tour… The reason for coming stayed lodged in the back of my mind, a dull splinter I couldn’t dislodge. Rushing would only draw eyes, and I couldn’t afford that. The tailor had given me an hour. Maybe two. Time enough to wander. Time enough to feel the hunger gnawing at me.

  The smell of food was welcoming.

  People were not.

  Stalls fell quiet when I slowed too much. Vendors’ eyes flicked over my clothes, measuring, dismissing. One hand waved me away before I could open my mouth. Even when I showed coin, the looks stayed hard, sharp with something close to suspicion.

  “Where’d you snag that from?” someone muttered as I passed eyeing the sword at my hip.

  Another voice followed. “They’re getting bold these days.”

  I felt it then. The shift. The way suspicion crept in once someone decided what I was.

  I stopped at a baker’s stall, eyeing a loaf thick with crust and sugar. The man behind the counter barely looked at me.

  “Not for sale,” he said.

  I took a few steps away, then caught their voices behind me.

  “Thought they cleared them out.”

  “They did. Mostly. Just drove them underground.”

  “Little urchins, the lot of them.”

  My stomach clenched.

  A glance burned into my back. I felt it before I saw it. One of the guards had turned, his eyes tracking me a second too long, weighing what stood in front of him against whatever story he carried in his head. I met his gaze and understood at once that he wasn’t like the chums outside. This one had authority. Runed armour caught the light along his shoulders, power sitting easy on him.

  The look he gave me said enough. Move, or lose it.

  I dipped my head and kept moving. My boots struck stone at the same steady pace, each step measured, unhurried, while my pulse thudded hard enough to rattle my ribs. I focused on the feel of the ground beneath me, the scrape of leather, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, anything to keep the tension from spilling onto my face.

  Someone loomed in my path, close enough that I could smell stale ale and sweat. Their shoulder clipped mine as I slid past.

  “Bloody little thieves…”

  The words followed like a shove between the shoulders. I angled away, let the crowd swallow the space between us, and kept my eyes forward. The heat in my chest burned to look back.

  I didn’t.

  So, Nick wasn’t as untouchable here as I’d thought. Without his fancy clothes, he was just a nobody. The thought made me chuckle. But that didn’t help me right now… If I wanted to move through this part of the city without friction, I’d need more than the right face. I’d need to look like I belonged. Clean lines. Confident posture. The kind of polish that told people you had a place waiting for you.

  Soon… For now, I had time to kill.

  I drifted with the crowd and let it carry me. A handful of youths ahead moved with the same uncertainty I felt, eyes roaming, steps unsure, hands never quite settling. Clean armour glinted at their shoulders and wrists, barely scuffed. Blades hung at their hips, new and eager, bought for the promise of use rather than the memory of it.

  Aspirants, most likely. New blood loose in the city, tasting freedom and coin for the first time. I kept them in sight and followed their lead.

  Bodies pressed close. Shoulders brushed. Boots struck stone in a steady rhythm, and I slipped into it without thought, neither rushing nor lagging. Just another figure moving with purpose.

  The street narrowed, funnelling us toward a single path.

  A stone bridge cut straight across the way, spanning a man-made channel between the buildings. Dark water crept beneath it, heavy with dye and runoff, scraps of cloth and ash drifting along the surface. No curves. No ornament. Just a hard line dividing the traders’ quarter.

  I crossed with the flow.

  On the far side, the air changed.

  Smoke hung thicker here, rising from cookfires and neglected chimneys. Buildings leaned into one another, patched and repatched, roofs a jumble of mismatched tiles. Nothing lined up, yet nothing was falling. The place held together by habit and stubbornness rather than design.

  The street was crowded. Some moved in loose clusters, stopping often, heads turning as they took it all in. Their faces held open wonder, eyes bright and distracted, like children dropped into a fairground.

  Others cut through the crowd with purpose. Eyes forward. Shoulders tight. Academy colours showed, clean but worn thin, while others wore practical gear, belts heavy with tools and half-kept weapons. Runes flashed on metal and vanished again. Conversations sparked and died. Prices were argued down. Warnings muttered when someone lingered too long.

  The street demanded attention. Cobbles dipped and shifted underfoot, worn smooth in places, cracked in others. You learned quickly where to place your weight if you wanted to keep moving.

  I liked it.

  Whatever polish the city kept on the other side of the channel had been stripped away here. What remained felt awake. Useful. Alive.

  The shops reflected that truth. Silk gave way to leather and scarred steel. Armour hung in doorways with dents still pressed into the metal. Blades rested on racks without ceremony, edges nicked, grips dark with sweat. Bundles of herbs dangled overhead, sharp enough to sting the nose. Runes showed everywhere, etched into buckles, stitched into lining, cut shallow into wood, metal, and stone.

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  Nothing here was meant to be admired.

  Everything was meant to work.

  Buildings leaned into the street, upper floors crowding close. Open windows faced each other across the gap, voices drifting down in broken fragments. Deals were struck mid-sentence. Coin counted twice. Laughter cut short. No ledgers. No house seals. Payment rang loud and honest, metal passed hand to hand.

  Smoke rolled through the street, then the air shifted.

  Is that… barbeque?

  My stomach tightened, and I followed the scent.

  Halfway there, something else caught my eye. A flash of pale hair. A familiar tilt of the head. My pulse spiked. One of Nick’s coneys…

  Shit.

  The sword hummed at my side. Low. Certain.

  A warning.

  I slowed and scanned the street. Bodies packed the way ahead, movement thick enough to disappear into if I chose the right moment. My pulse thudded as a familiar shape drifted closer. Too close.

  I veered aside, slipped into a narrow alley, and ducked behind a stack of wooden crates. The air cooled at once, damp with old stone and spilled drink, the noise of the street dulling to a distant murmur.

  “Alright,” I murmured. “Let’s change.”

  “You are certain?” the sword asked.

  I glanced back toward the street, the crowd still flowing past the mouth of the alley. “If one of Nick’s friends gets too close, they’ll know I’m a fake,” I said. “I’m not a good enough actor.”

  The hum steadied.

  “Agreed.”

  My hand found the hilt. I braced.

  Cold light swept over my skin. The hard lines of Nick’s face softened and faded. Pale hair darkened, colour returning like fire. Freckles bloomed across my cheeks. The reflection in the blade shifted until it showed the face Brent liked to call Red.

  I stepped out of the alley.

  The street didn’t pause. No heads turned. No eyes lingered. People flowed past like water around a stone. Jerald had warned me about the city, about keeping my head down and my hands close.

  “It wasn’t safe,” he’d said.

  But it wasn’t cruel either.

  It was watchful.

  I followed the scent of grilled meat, keeping track of what surrounded me. Shops worth remembering. Faces that smiled without calculation. No one flinched at my clothes here. No one measured me for coin. Whatever traded hands in this part of the city, it wasn’t noble credit.

  That alone told me enough.

  When I finally found the source of the smell, I stopped and stared.

  ‘The Bent Blade’.

  It dominated the street, wide and solid, its whitewashed walls braced with dark wooden beams scorched by age rather than fire. The roof tiles were uneven, settled deep into their place, and the windows were thick with wire and glass that glowed warm gold from within. Old. Not crumbling. Enduring.

  I smiled and stepped inside.

  The noise hit first. Voices and laughter tangled into a single living sound, smoke heavy with meat fat and woodfire curling up into the rafters and clinging to clothes. The room was packed tight, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, tankards rising and falling in practiced rhythm.

  At the far end, a fire roared hot enough to roast a boar, flames licking blackened iron while benches and battered chairs crowded close. Most of the seats were already taken. The floor was covered in saw dust, probably to mask the stench of fallen ale.

  I pushed through the crush and made for the bar.

  A blonde woman stood behind it, sleeves rolled, arms moving with practiced ease as she scrubbed tankards in a wide stone basin. Rune-stones lay at the bottom, etched deep and worn smooth, the same kind Doyle had tossed into my bath. Behind her, massive kegs lined the wall, each tap marked with a simple rune. Cooling, efficient, quiet magic at work.

  I rested my hands on the bar and breathed.

  I smiled. She barely noticed. Sweat clung to her temples, loose strands of hair stuck to her face as she worked.

  “Alright, kid,” she said, already reaching for a mug. “What’ll it be? Milk?”

  A few men chuckled.

  I glanced at the wall of kegs behind her. Most of them probably weren’t meant for youngsters. “I, uh—”

  She sighed and didn’t wait.

  A smaller tap was yanked open and a mug slammed onto the bar, foam spilling over the rim. The smell hit first. Honey, thick and warm.

  “That’s eight coppers.”

  I dug the coins out and slid them across.

  “Food?” she asked, already turning away.

  “Yeah,” I managed, and she was gone.

  I took a sip while I waited. Cool against my lips. Sweet, almost floral, with a sharp fizz that popped across my tongue. Not ale. Something lighter. Something meant to keep you moving. It went down far too easily.

  I was still looking for a seat when she returned and dropped a plate in front of me. A steak sandwich, juices soaking into thick bread, steam curling up into my face.

  “Fifteen,” she said.

  I paid, and she was already on to the next customer.

  Balancing my mug and plate, I edged through the crowd, careful not to knock shoulders. The room was packed tight. I finally spotted an open space at a long table crowded with rough-looking men.

  “Mind if I—”

  No one answered. One of them grunted and shifted just enough to make room.

  Good enough.

  I slid onto the bench. Every man there had food in front of him and a drink close at hand. Whatever hour this was, it mattered to them. I took a bite.

  The bread was soft and soaked through with meat juices. Cheese melted into something creamy and sharp. My stomach unclenched for the first time all day.

  I ate slowly, listening.

  Voices blurred together at first. Laughter. Complaints. Bits of argument that went nowhere. Then fragments started to stick.

  “…not just nobles pushing it…”

  “…monsters aren’t moving right…”

  “…patching walls while something’s brewing…”

  A man across the table spat into the sawdust. “We should be out there,” he muttered. “Not stuck fixing stone and hauling timber while things crawl closer.”

  A few heads nodded.

  I kept my eyes on my food and listened harder.

  “What, you want to head back out there?” someone scoffed. “Stand between a noble’s brat and a beast? You’d be dead before the monster even noticed you.”

  “At least it beats breaking our backs for this,” another voice shot back. “We ain’t labourers.”

  “Better than dying.”

  I kept my head down and my hands close, eating slowly, shrinking myself into the bench as much as I could. This was exactly the kind of place rumours lived. You just had to stay quiet long enough to hear them.

  Then a bell rang.

  Sharp. Final.

  The sound cut clean through the room. Conversation died mid-sentence. Boots scraped. Mugs were set down. Plates pushed aside. Every man, woman, and child stood.

  I froze for half a heartbeat, then followed, standing as quickly as I could.

  A second bell chimed.

  As one, everyone around me brought their right fist to their chest. Knuckles thudded. I mirrored the motion, unsure, careful, heart hammering loud in my ears.

  The silence was absolute.

  No coughing. No shifting. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

  A third bell rang.

  A single voice carried through the stillness, rough and steady. “To those who fell…”

  Fists struck chests once.

  “Steel remembers,” the room answered.

  Every voice together.

  A second later, the noise rushed back in like it had been waiting behind a door. Chairs scraped. Mugs were lifted. Conversation filled the room again, loud and careless, as if the silence had never existed.

  I stayed where I was, finishing the last of my food and the sweet drink. The men at the table didn’t look at me. I didn’t give them a reason to. When I was done, I carried my plate and mug back to the counter and set them down beside the growing stack the barmaid was working through. She nodded without looking up.

  I was halfway to the door when a voice cut across my path.

  “Ricky?”

  A tall woman stood there, staring at me like she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes searched my face, wide and hopeful all at once.

  “Oh gods,” she breathed. “Ricky. What the hell?”

  My steps faltered. “Sorry?” The word came out flat.

  She moved closer, relief already breaking across her face. “Barnes has been losing his mind. Thought you were dead. Where have you been?”

  Her hand lifted, almost touched my shoulder, then stopped. She leaned in and looked into my eyes. Her expression shifted. The colour drained from her face.

  “…You’re not him,” she said quietly.

  The space between us stretched.

  “I’m sorry,” she added quickly, shaken now. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “That’s alright,” I said, though my pulse hadn’t slowed.

  She waved it off, forcing a smile that didn’t quite settle. I stepped around her and pushed through the door into the street.

  The air outside felt cold.

  I walked on, telling myself it was nothing. Just a common mistake.

  Still, the certainty in her voice stuck with me all the way back to the tailor.