The handkerchief smelled of control. Someone had left a receipt for my fear—and I wasn't sure I wanted to see who had signed it. It was a scrap of silk, too fine for the grime of the alley, monogrammed with a stylized 'S' that could only mean Solvar. It was tucked into the cracked leather of my boot, a silent, mocking threat placed while I'd been distracted by a pretty face or a flash of gold. My heart didn't hammer; it iced over. They knew where I'd been. They knew what I'd taken. The hunt had already begun, and I was standing in the open, a prize tucked against my ribs that felt less like power and more like a death sentence with every passing second.
I melted back into the shadows of a dripping stone archway, the perpetual twilight of the Midnight Bazaar swallowing me whole. Around me, the market breathed—a living, seething entity of murmured deals and clinking scales, of shimmering silks that hid scaled skin and the coppery tang of magic that wasn't quite magic. It was the scent of old things, powerful things, things that should have stayed buried. Like the crown currently burning a hole through the inner pocket of my coat.
My gloves, worn black leather, were my only constant companions. I flexed my fingers, the familiar tightness a comfort. Without them, a handshake was a death sentence. A caress, a murder. The venom in my blood was a restless serpent, sleeping just beneath the skin, waiting for a moment of carelessness. It was the reason I worked alone. The reason I had to work alone.
"Dusk." The voice was a gravelly scrape, familiar and unwelcome. "You look like a man who's seen his own ghost."
Ronan Grell, Head of the City Guard, looked profoundly out of place amidst the Bazaar's chaotic splendor. His polished armor and severe posture were a stark contrast to the flowing robes and hunched, bartering figures. He didn't belong here, which meant he was here on business. My business.
I offered a lazy smile I didn't feel, leaning against the cold stone. "Grell. Slumming it? Or did you finally develop a taste for authentic fire-whiskey and bad decisions?"
He didn't smile. His eyes, the color of dull steel, scanned me with methodical precision. "We've had reports. A disturbance in the Vaults. Something valuable went missing."
"Something's always going missing. It's the nature of the place. Adds to the charm." I kept my voice light, casual, while every instinct screamed at me to run. The weight of the crown was an anchor. Don't look. Don't touch. Don't even think about it.
"This is different." He took a step closer, and the two guards flanking him subtly adjusted their stances. "This item… it has certain people very nervous. The kind of people who make my job difficult. The kind who pay your rent."
I barked a laugh, the sound too sharp. "I don't have rent, Grell. I have standards. And I assure you, I've been enjoying a distinctly disturbance-free evening." The lie was smooth, practiced. A necessary tool of the trade.
His gaze dropped to my boots, then back to my face. A cold dread trickled down my spine. The handkerchief. He knew about the handkerchief. It was a message, and he was the delivery boy. Marek Solvar was telling me he owned the guard, and he was telling Grell to make my life hell.
"Be seeing you, Dusk," Grell said softly, the promise a threat in the humid air. He turned and strode away, his guards a wall of clanking metal at his back.
I didn't move until the sound of their boots faded into the market's din. Only then did I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Solvar was playing games, and Ronan Grell was his favorite pawn. This was worse than I'd thought. I needed to get off the street. Now.
I moved through the crowds with a thief's grace, a ghost in the periphery. The Bazaar was a labyrinth of temptation and terror. One stall offered bottled memories that shimmered like captured starlight, the next, cursed daggers that whispered promises of easy kills. I kept my head down, my gloved hands tucked into my pockets, one curled around the cold, intricately woven metal of the crown.
It seemed to pulse, a faint, malevolent heartbeat against my palm. The Serpent Crown. Legend said it could bind beasts and men to the wearer's will. History said it drove them mad first. I'd stolen it because the payday was supposed to set me up for life, far away from this city of shadows and the poison in my veins. Now, it felt like I'd stolen a live coal.
My destination was the Gilded Cage, a drinking den tucked beneath a weeping willow whose branches were strung with stolen wedding bands. It was neutral territory, mostly, and the proprietor owed me a favor. A dark corner and a strong drink were what I needed to figure out my next move.
I pushed through the heavy beaded curtain, the clatter announcing my arrival. The air was thick with the smell of spilt ale, cheap perfume, and the ozone crackle of minor hexes. I'd taken two steps inside when I saw her.
She was like a splash of clean water on a dirty canvas. She sat alone at a small table, back straight, posture impossibly elegant despite the rough surroundings. She wore a simple, dark grey dress, but the fabric was too fine, the cut too perfect. She was pretending to read a small, leather-bound book, but her eyes weren't moving. She was waiting. Watching the door. Watching me.
Our eyes met across the hazy room. Hers were the color of a winter sky, clear and startlingly direct. There was no fear in them, only a deep, calculating intensity. She was beautiful, in a way that felt dangerous. The kind of beautiful that started wars and ended thieves.
I knew better. Oh, I knew better than to get involved with a stranger who looked like trouble incarnate. But the crown was a weight, Grell's threat a fresh wound, and something in her unwavering gaze was a challenge I was too rattled to refuse.
I slid into the chair opposite her without an invitation. The wood screeched against the stone floor. "You look lost, darling. The tour of respectable establishments is three blocks east."
A faint, almost imperceptible wince tightened the skin around her eyes. Her knuckles, resting on the table, went white for a second. Interesting. "I am exactly where I intend to be," she said, her voice low and melodic, each word enunciated with a crisp precision that screamed of an expensive education. "Kaelen Dusk."
She knew my name. Of course she did. The icy dread returned. "You have me at a disadvantage."
"Selene," she said, the name coming after a heartbeat's hesitation. Another tiny, painful flicker in her expression. A lie. It had to be. "I represent a party with a keen interest in an item recently come into your possession."
I leaned back, feigning a relaxation I didn't feel. "I possess many items. Some of them are even legal. You'll have to be more specific."
"The crown." No hesitation this time. No flowery language. Just two words, dropped between us like a gauntlet.
I kept my smile in place, a brittle shield. "Can't say I'm in the market for one. Bad for the posture, I'm told." I made to rise. "This has been charming, really, but—"
"I can offer you twice what Marek Solvar promised you." The words were rushed, a quiet, desperate torrent. "In gemstones. Untraceable. And passage out of the city, tonight, with no questions asked."
I froze halfway out of my chair. She knew about Solvar. She knew about the deal. How? The game was spiraling, and I was losing control of the board fast. This woman, this 'Selene,' was a new player, and she had better cards than I'd imagined.
I sat back down slowly. "That's a very generous offer. From a party who refuses to show their face."
"My employer values discretion above all else." She met my gaze, and that strange pain flickered in her eyes again. It was there and gone, a shadow behind a pane of glass. "As do you, I imagine. Given your… particular condition."
The air left my lungs. She knew. She knew about the venom. How could she possibly know that? It was my most closely guarded secret, the truth I'd killed to protect. My gloved hand clenched into a fist on the table. The carefully constructed wall of my cynicism cracked, revealing the raw, panicked anger beneath. "Who are you?" The question was a low growl.
She flinched again, a full-body shudder this time she couldn't suppress. Her hand flew to her temple, fingers pressing hard as if against a sudden, blinding headache. The reaction was too visceral, too real to be faked. "I am someone who needs that crown," she said, her voice strained. "Not for power. For survival. My… survival."
The pieces clicked into place with terrifying speed. The hesitation. The wincing pain when she spoke a half-truth. The elegant bearing. The desperate need for an artifact of royal power. I'd heard rumors. Whispers on the wind about a fallen house, a princess in exile.
"You're not Selene," I whispered, the truth dawning like a cold sunrise. "You're Seliora Veyra."
The color drained from her face. It was all the confirmation I needed. The exiled princess of the shattered kingdom of Veyr. The truth was a weapon, and I'd just aimed it straight at her heart.
She swayed in her seat, her breath catching in a sharp gasp of genuine agony. A fine tremor ran through her. The curse. The stories were true. She was cursed to feel physical pain whenever she lied. My accusation wasn't just a guess—it was a physical assault.
I should have felt triumphant. I'd unmasked her. I held all the power. But watching her struggle against the wave of pain, her regal composure shattered into something vulnerable and raw, I felt a strange, unwanted twist of sympathy. She was trapped, just like me. Caged by her own nature.
The moment shattered. The beaded curtain of the Gilded Cage erupted inwards, not with a customer, but with a squad of the City Guard. And they weren't here for a drink.
Ronan Grell stood at their head, his sword already drawn, its point leveled at my chest. His eyes were cold and triumphant. "Kaelen Dusk! By the order of the City Magistrate, you are under arrest for the theft of a sovereign relic! Do not resist."
The other patrons scrambled back, overturning tables and chairs. The air filled with the sound of shouting and scraping wood. We were surrounded. There was no back exit.
Seliora was on her feet, her pain forgotten, replaced by a fierce, startling fury. She looked from me to Grell, her mind working, calculating odds I knew were zero.
Grell's smug gaze slid from me to her. "And you. Consorting with a known criminal. You'll be coming with us for questioning." His smile was thin and cruel. He knew exactly who she was. This wasn't an arrest; it was a delivery. Solvar was cleaning house, and Grell was taking out the trash.
I had a choice. A terrible, split-second choice. I could go quietly, let them take us both. The crown would go to Solvar, and I'd rot in a cell, or worse. Seliora would disappear into one of Marek's private dungeons, her truth extracted one painful lie at a time.
Or I could do something monumentally stupid.
I looked at Seliora, at the defiant hope still burning in her pain-glazed eyes. She needed that crown to reclaim her life. I needed it to buy a new one. We were enemies. We had to be.
But Grell and Solvar were the bigger enemy.
My hand dipped into my coat, my fingers closing not around the crown, but around a small, glass orb I kept for emergencies. A sun-bomb. A little too much light for the Midnight Bazaar.
"I'd really rather not," I said to Grell.
I slammed the orb on the ground.
The world exploded into blinding, pure white light. The guards screamed, clawing at their eyes. Grell roared in fury, swinging his sword blindly.
In the chaos, I didn't think. I acted. My gloved hand shot out and closed around Seliora's bare wrist.
It was a mistake. A terrible, instinctive, fatal mistake.
The moment my leather-clad fingers made contact with her skin, I felt it—the venom, that sleeping serpent in my blood, surging awake with a vicious hunger. It leapt from me to her, a wave of corrosive, lethal power seeking to end the life I was trying to save. I felt the deadly transfer through the leather, a horrifying, familiar tingle I'd spent a lifetime avoiding.
I'd just killed her.
Her eyes flew wide, not with the shock of the light, but with the shock of the poison. A strangled gasp escaped her lips. This was it. This was how it ended. Not with a daring escape, but with my own cursed, accidental touch.
But the gasp wasn't one of pain. It was… surprise.
Her skin where I touched her didn't blacken and wither. It… glowed. A faint, silvery light shimmered just beneath the surface, fighting back against the invading darkness of my venom. The poison receded, neutralized, burned away by a power I didn't understand.
Our eyes locked. In the blinding white chaos, amidst the shouts of blinded guards, we held onto each other—me, the killer whose touch failed to kill, and her, the princess who shouldn't have been able to survive it.
The light began to fade. Grell was blinking, his sight returning. His furious gaze found us, connected by that impossible, life-saving touch.
I didn't wait. I pulled her, stumbling, toward a grimy kitchen hatch I knew was there. "Move!" I snarled, the command as much for me as for her.
We crashed through the hatch into a dark, reeking alley, the sounds of Grell's enraged orders echoing behind us. We ran, hand in ungloved hand, two enemies bound together by a relic of doom and a touch that should have meant death, but instead had forged something new, something terrifying, and something utterly, irrevocably unknown.