The alleys grew narrower as Adrien trailed Evelyne, the bustle of the market fading behind him. Here the air was colder, tinged with damp stone and smoke from low chimneys. Evelyne moved quickly, her basket clutched close, her scarf pulled low over her brow. She did not glance behind her once.
Adrien's steps were silent, his hood shadowing his face. Where are you going, healer? What are you hiding?
She turned a corner, and Adrien caught sight of them before she did — three men slouched against the wall, their posture too sharp, too ready.
"Well, well," one drawled as she approached. His teeth were yellow, his grin wolfish. "What's this dove doing in our gutter?"
Evelyne's steps slowed, but she did not stop.
Another thug pushed off the wall, blocking her path. "What's in the basket, love? Bread? Coin? Or something prettier?" His hand twitched toward her arm.
Adrien's jaw tightened. His fingers closed around the dagger beneath his cloak. His fire surged hot, ready to cut them down. Idiots. They don't know whose shadow they've stepped into.
But Evelyne's voice stopped him in his tracks. Calm. Cold.
"Step aside."
The men laughed.
"You hear that?" the first sneered. "Little dove thinks she's a hawk." He lunged, hand outstretched.
Adrien shifted to move — and froze.
Evelyne caught the man's wrist, twisted it sharply, and slammed his arm against the wall. Before he could recover, her leg swept his out from under him, sending him sprawling in the dirt with a groan.
The second thug swore and charged. Evelyne ducked beneath his swing, driving her elbow into his ribs. The man staggered, gasping, clutching his side.
The third hesitated only a moment before yanking a knife free. Adrien's heart kicked hard — he stepped forward, ready to end it—
But Evelyne moved faster.
Her hand shot up, seizing the man's wrist. She twisted sharply, the knife clattering to the stones. In the same motion, she shoved him back against the wall, the blade now in her own grip.
Her scarf had slipped in the scuffle. Her face was clear, her eyes sharp, her breath steady. She held the knife like someone who had trained with steel before.
"Leave," Evelyne said evenly. Not a shout. Not a plea. A command.
The silence stretched. The three men exchanged a look, then scrambled to their feet, limping, clutching bruises. They disappeared into the night, curses trailing faintly behind them.
Evelyne stood still for a moment, lowering the blade. She bent to retrieve her scarf, wrapping it tight once more, before tucking the knife into her basket as though it were no more than a herb jar. Her movements were calm, controlled, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
Adrien stepped from the shadows at last, his hood falling back, his eyes locked on her.
"You," he said slowly, voice rough with disbelief, "fight like a knight."
Evelyne's head snapped toward him. Her hand stilled on her scarf. "And you follow like a thief."
For a long beat, they stared at each other. The torchlight flickered across the alley, painting his sharp features, her defiant calm.
Adrien took a step closer, his fire still thrumming. "Where did you learn that?"
Evelyne turned away, adjusting her basket. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me," Adrien pressed. "Healers do not fight like that. Court ladies do not disarm men with knives."
Her lips tightened. "Court ladies do what is required to survive. Sometimes that means mixing salves. Sometimes it means knowing how to defend yourself."
Adrien's eyes narrowed. "You've been trained. That wasn't survival. That was skill."
Evelyne's gaze flicked to him, steady and unyielding. "And what if it was?"
Adrien's chest rose sharply. "Then you are not who you pretend to be."
Her grip tightened on the basket, but her voice was even. "I pretend nothing, Adrien. I heal. I serve. I protect. That is all."
He let out a sharp laugh. "Protect? You nearly gutted a man in an alley."
"And yet I didn't," she shot back, her voice cutting. "Because I knew when to stop. Can you say the same?"
Adrien fell silent. His fire stilled, if only for a heartbeat.
Evelyne turned away, adjusting her scarf once more. "You should go back to your palace, Highness. The streets are not meant for you."
Adrien's jaw clenched. "And for you?"
Her eyes met his, steady. "They are exactly where I belong."
She walked past him then, her steps calm, unhurried, as though she hadn't just scattered three armed men into the night. Adrien stood frozen, staring after her, the fire in his chest burning hotter, wilder, twisted with something he did not want to name.
Not desire. Not rage.
Something far more dangerous.