Aiden realized, distantly, that walking beside Seris had become habit.
Not routine—he was far too aware for that—but something his body expected now. He adjusted his pace without thinking, matching hers as they moved through a quieter stretch of the city. Lanternlight spilled across the stone in uneven pools, illuminating posters half-ripped from walls and chalk slogans hastily scrubbed away.
Seris read them anyway.
"People are getting bolder," she said. "Or angrier. Hard to tell which comes first."
Aiden nodded, eyes lingering on a slogan that had survived the scrubbing:
CONTROL MIRACLES OR THEY CONTROL US.
"I don't like how they talk about it," he admitted. "Like… people stopped being people."
Seris glanced at him. "Fear does that. It simplifies."
They walked a little longer in silence, passing a baker shuttering early, the man's hands shaking as he slammed the wood closed. A group of laborers argued nearby, voices sharp with blame, circling the same few words like they might cut deeper if repeated often enough.
Aiden felt the familiar pull in his chest—an ache that wasn't pain, exactly, but pressure. The instinct to step in. To help. To fix.
He slowed.
Seris noticed immediately.
"You're doing the thing," she said quietly.
Aiden winced. "I don't even know what 'the thing' is."
"The part where you start thinking it's your responsibility to make this better," she replied.
He didn't deny it. "If I can help—"
"And if you try to help everyone," Seris interrupted gently, "you'll burn out before the city even notices."
Aiden looked away. "I don't like who gets hurt when I don't try."
That stopped her.
She turned fully toward him, expression serious now, no trace of teasing left. "You think you're the only one who feels that?"
He hesitated.
"I've watched cities collapse," she said softly. "Not because no one cared—but because the wrong people decided they were the only ones who could."
She stepped a little closer—not touching, but close enough that the air between them felt intentional.
"Don't stop caring," she said. "Just don't disappear into it."
Aiden swallowed. "I don't want to lose myself."
"You won't," she replied. "Not if you let yourself be… here."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Aiden smiled, small and genuine. "Unofficial date nights help, I think."
Seris laughed quietly. "They do. Especially when they're deniable."
---
Elsewhere, the city's uglier instincts stretched.
A former church enforcer—no longer wearing official colors, but still carrying the weight of authority—cornered a street preacher who had refused to align himself with the "correct interpretation" of recent events. Words were exchanged. Threats implied but not spoken.
The preacher backed down.
Not because he believed them.
Because he recognized hunger when he saw it.
And hunger didn't need justification.
From a rooftop above, unseen eyes watched—not intervening, not judging. Simply observing the way pressure created fractures, and fractures invited exploitation.
---
In the upper city, Duchess Aureline stared at a letter she had no intention of answering.
Varros lounged opposite her, sprawled in a chair that had been selected for posture rather than comfort, which he ignored entirely. He swirled a glass of wine lazily, examining its color like a man bored by luxury.
"You know," he said conversationally, "ignoring me is inefficient."
Aureline didn't look up. "Then I recommend you become more useful."
Varros laughed, delighted. "Oh, that's unkind. I'm always useful. You simply don't like how."
She set the letter aside and met his gaze. "You mistake provocation for insight."
"And you mistake restraint for virtue," he countered smoothly. "We all have blind spots."
Aureline rose, moving to the window. Below them, the city pulsed with restless energy.
"They're moving already," Varros continued, unfazed by her dismissal. "Your enemies. Your allies. Those charming little opportunists who think chaos will elevate them."
"I'm aware," Aureline said coldly.
"Are you?" He tilted his head. "Because some of them are mine."
She turned back sharply. "If you're threatening—"
"Oh, heavens, no," Varros said lightly. "Threats are inelegant. I'm merely stating the obvious."
He stood, joining her by the window, close enough to be intrusive.
"You could end this," he said quietly. "With one alliance. One concession."
Aureline didn't flinch. "And what would you want in return?"
Varros smiled, slow and dangerous. "Everything you're pretending not to care about."
She faced him fully now, eyes hard. "You mistake me for someone who confuses power with purpose."
For a heartbeat, Varros' smile flickered.
Then it widened.
"Magnificent," he murmured. "You really do believe that."
She stepped back. "Leave."
Varros inclined his head, amused rather than offended. "For now."
As he turned away, his gaze lingered on the city below.
"So many pieces," he mused. "And none of them realize the game has already started."
---
That night, Aiden and Seris parted reluctantly at a quiet intersection, neither quite ready to say goodnight.
Enemies tested boundaries they didn't yet understand.
Varros smiled at the city like a puzzle he was eager to break.
And the Duchess prepared to weather a storm she refused to bow to.
For now, something delicate held.
Soft moments survived between sharp edges.
And in a city sharpening its knives, that might have been the most dangerous thing of all.
---