The skiff rocked as the river dragged them into darkness. Black water slapped against the hull, foul with oil-sheen and rot. The undercity's glow dwindled behind them until only the stars—and that wrong one, the black star—watched from above.
Elian slumped against the side, vision swimming. His robes clung wet and heavy with blood. Every pull of the oars sent fire lancing through his ribs, until at last he dropped them, chest heaving.
Lyra cursed and seized the oars herself, arms moving with practiced rhythm. Her coat creaked with each stroke, the faint glow of her pistol holster bobbing at her side.
"Useless," she muttered. "Can barely keep yourself upright, let alone row."
Elian closed his eyes, shame burning hotter than his wound. "I didn't… ask you to drag me with you."
"No," she snapped, "but I did. And now I get to deal with the bleeding mess that comes with it."
The silence stretched, broken only by the scrape of wood and the gurgle of water.
At last, Lyra steered the skiff into the shadow of a crumbling archway. Moss and barnacles clung to the stone, the stench of stagnant water rising thick. She tied the rope fast, then knelt beside him.
"Take your robe off."
Elian blinked at her, dazed. "What?"
"You're leaking like a punctured wineskin. Unless you'd rather bleed out right here, strip the damn robe so I can see the wound."
His face burned, but he fumbled with the clasps, dragging the blood-soaked fabric from his body. Underneath, his tunic clung to his skin, torn and sticky with gore. The spear's gash across his ribs was deep, angry, still weeping crimson.
Lyra hissed through her teeth. "Sun curse it, that's nasty."
She dug into her coat, pulling free a small kit of vials, cloth strips, and a curved needle. The faint metallic scent of aetherium tincture wafted from one of the bottles.
"You've done this before," Elian murmured, half-dazed.
Lyra smirked without humor. "What, patching up bleeding idiots? More times than I can count."
She poured the tincture over the wound. The liquid hissed against his flesh, smoke curling as if his body itself resisted the healing. Elian bit down on a cry, the taste of copper flooding his mouth.
"Quiet," Lyra said sharply. "Sound carries on the river. Unless you want your knight friend to find us."
He swallowed the pain, gripping the wood until his knuckles whitened.
Lyra's hands moved quick, efficient. Needle flashed in the lantern light, thread pulling skin together. Her touch was steady, but not gentle—no wasted tenderness, only precision.
"You've got soft hands," she muttered after a while. "Scholar's hands. Not made for bleeding like this."
"I was… supposed to be an archivist," Elian rasped.
She snorted. "And now you're a walking calamity. Life's funny like that."
Her words cut, but there was no cruelty in them. Only fact.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels, wiping her hands clean on a rag. "That'll hold. Don't move too much, or you'll rip it open."
Elian let out a shaky breath, exhaustion dragging at him. The wound still burned, but the bleeding had slowed.
"Why help me?" he asked quietly. "You could've left me for Kaelen. You'd be richer, safer."
Lyra leaned against the side of the skiff, pistol resting across her knees. Her eyes glinted in the dim light.
"Because I don't trust knights. And because you… interest me."
Elian frowned. "Interest you?"
"You're not just some scared little scribe. I saw what you did back there." Her gaze sharpened. "The shadows. The way they ate. That wasn't starlight. That was something else. Something dangerous."
His stomach turned. "I don't want it."
Lyra's smile was sharp. "Doesn't matter what you want. Power doesn't care. You've got it, and people are going to kill you—or follow you—because of it."
Her words hung heavy.
Elian turned his gaze upward, toward the sky through the arch's broken stone. The stars shimmered faintly, eternal. All but one. The black star pulsed, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.
He shivered.
Silence settled again, broken only by the lap of water. Lyra leaned back, eyes half-lidded but watchful, like a predator never fully at rest.
Elian finally whispered, "I killed them."
Lyra's eyes flicked to him.
"The Guards," he said, voice raw. "They screamed. I felt them—felt their lives go out like candles. I did that."
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly:
"Good."
His head snapped toward her. "Good?!"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "Better them than you. Or me. Or anyone else who wants to live past tonight."
"They were people." His voice cracked. "They were… good men. Knights sworn to protect Aetheria."
"And where were they when I was branded a criminal for a debt I didn't owe?" Her voice sharpened, bitter. "Where were they when my family was stripped of title and thrown into the gutter? Protectors? Don't make me laugh."
Her words cut deeper than her needle had. There was venom there, yes, but also a wound older than her smirk, raw beneath the armor of her voice.
Elian fell silent, guilt gnawing him from both sides—at his own hands, and at the world's cruelty.
At length, Lyra stretched, rolling her shoulders. "Rest. Tomorrow we move before dawn. I know a place. Safe enough, for now."
Elian sagged against the skiff's side, exhaustion dragging him down. His eyelids fluttered shut despite the fear gnawing at him.
The last thing he saw was the black star pulsing above, and the faint glint in Lyra's eyes as she watched him—not pitying, not trusting, but calculating.
As though she were already weighing whether saving him had been worth it.