They didn't go back to the road.
Not after "asset retrieval."
Mireya pulled Stellan deeper into the pines and kept her Silence close—tight to skin, swallowing the worst sounds their bodies wanted to make. Breath. Branch snap. The small betrayals of fear.
Stellan followed without argument, but Mireya felt his tension anyway. Through the bond, his hearing sharpened on every stray noise she let through. His taste carried the copper edge of her throat wound whenever she swallowed.
Neither of them mentioned it.
They moved until the ground rose and the trees thinned into scrub. Ahead, the city's outer district sprawled like a bruise—low roofs, smoke, crooked alleys that didn't answer to palace bells.
Mireya cut left toward the river quarter.
Stellan's voice came low. "You have someone."
Mireya didn't look back. "I have a door."
Stellan's mouth tightened. "Doors can be traps."
Mireya glanced over her shoulder. "Try to keep up."
He made a sound under his breath—half annoyance, half agreement—and stayed close.
That closeness made the bond tug harder. Not helpful. Not romantic. Just… invasive.
Mireya kept moving anyway.
A theater poster flapped on a wall as they passed: a painted mask, bright colors peeling. Below it, chalk letters announced tonight's show.
THE WREN & THE WOLF
One Night Only
Mireya didn't slow. She didn't need the poster. She'd already smelled the greasepaint.
Stellan frowned. "A theatre?"
Mireya didn't answer.
She slipped into an alley behind the playhouse, where barrels sat stacked like a lazy barricade. The back door was half-hidden behind hanging curtains of stained canvas.
Mireya tapped twice on the wood. Then once. Then twice again.
Not cipher. Knock code.
From inside, a small knock answered back—three quick taps.
Mireya exhaled once.
The door opened a hand's width.
A face appeared in the gap. Not a face, really. A mask—white lacquer, painted smile, the eyes cut wide and mischievous.
The person behind it looked Mireya up and down with exaggerated slowness.
Then their gaze dropped to Mireya's throat.
The painted smile didn't change, but the body behind it stiffened.
The masked figure opened the door wider and stepped out.
Tess Wren was small and fast and always dressed like she'd stolen her clothes from three different people on purpose. A scarf tied her hair back. A satchel crossed her body. Gloves with missing fingertips. Boots scuffed from running.
She didn't speak.
Instead she lifted two fingers and tapped her own throat—you're bleeding—then she flicked her wrist toward the alley—move.
Mireya followed without argument.
Stellan hesitated one beat, then stepped in behind them.
Inside the playhouse, the air changed. Warmth. Dust. Old wood. The faint stink of ale soaked into floorboards. Somewhere overhead, someone was rehearsing a song badly.
Tess led them through a narrow corridor and into a cramped dressing room crowded with costume racks. Masks hung on the wall: laughing, crying, snarling, blank.
Tess shut the door. Hooked the latch.
Then she finally spoke—one word, low and sharp.
"Mireya."
Stellan's head lifted slightly at hearing his name's shape on someone else's tongue. Mireya felt it through the bond like a small tug.
"Don't," Mireya warned quietly.
Stellan frowned. "Don't what?"
Mireya didn't answer. She didn't want Tess noticing how the bond reacted to proximity, to names, to attention.
Tess pulled off the white smile mask and hung it on a peg.
Her real face was all sharp angles and bright eyes. She looked like someone who could laugh and bite in the same breath.
She crossed to a small table and poured water into a chipped cup. Pushed it toward Mireya.
Then, with two fingers, she made a walking motion—you came alone?—and pointed at Stellan—who's this?
Mireya lifted the cup but didn't drink yet. "Problem."
Tess's eyebrows rose.
Mireya added, "Stellan."
Stellan gave a small nod. "Tess."
Tess's gaze flicked between them like she was counting. She didn't ask why a Warden was standing in her dressing room.
She already had guesses. Tess always did.
Tess made a little circle with her fingers, then opened it like a flower—show me.
Mireya set the cup down.
She leaned forward and pulled her hair aside, exposing the garrote mark across her throat. Angry red. Half-scabbed. Still weeping at the edges.
Tess's mouth tightened.
Then she did something that almost looked like tenderness: she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small tin. Salve.
She didn't ask permission. She simply held it up, eyebrow raised—yes?
Mireya hesitated.
Touch wasn't rare because Mireya was shy. It was rare because touch was how people claimed things.
But Tess wasn't palace. Tess wasn't Ministry.
Tess was… complication.
Mireya nodded once.
Tess's fingers were quick and gentle as she dabbed salve onto Mireya's throat. The sting made Mireya's eyes water.
Stellan shifted. Mireya felt his attention latch on, felt the bond tighten like it wanted to drag his senses closer.
Mireya shot him a look.
Stellan raised his hands slightly, palms out. "I'm not—"
"Try," Mireya muttered.
Tess glanced at them mid-salve, amused. "You two sound married."
Mireya's head snapped up. "We're not."
Stellan spoke at the same time, blunt. "No."
Tess's smile sharpened. "Sure."
She capped the tin and stepped back. Then she pointed at the door, then to a rack of coats—I can hide you.
Mireya's shoulders loosened a fraction.
Then Tess's expression shifted—subtle, real. Business.
Tess held out her hand, palm up.
Not for payment in coin.
For leverage.
Mireya stared at the open palm. "No."
Tess's eyes narrowed. "You didn't even hear the price."
"I know the price," Mireya said.
Stellan's brow furrowed. "What price?"
Tess tapped her own wrist twice, then made a rolling motion like a scroll unspooling.
Treaty.
Mireya's stomach turned. "Absolutely not."
Tess folded her arms. "Then you can absolutely not use my door."
Mireya stepped closer. "Tess."
Tess stepped closer right back. "Mireya."
Their voices were soft, but the air between them went sharp.
Stellan cleared his throat.
Mireya didn't look at him. "Stay out of it."
Stellan ignored that like he ignored pain. "We need shelter. We need time. If the Treaty buys us that—"
Mireya's laugh came out bitter. "It won't buy us time. It'll buy us a knife in the back."
Tess pointed at Mireya's throat. "You already got the knife. You want another?"
Mireya's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend this is kindness."
Tess's smile vanished. "Don't pretend you're not desperate."
The bond flared.
Mireya felt Stellan's hearing sharpen—catching the tension in her breath. Stellan tasted the spike of fear she refused to name.
And Mireya saw it in Stellan's face, clear as daylight: he trusted this stranger more than he trusted her.
Not because she'd earned distrust.
Because he wanted to believe alliances worked.
Honor. Redemption. All that Warden nonsense.
Mireya hated it.
Stellan held Tess's gaze. "If you can keep her alive, we'll talk price."
Mireya snapped, "Don't bargain me."
Stellan's eyes flicked to her. "I'm not bargaining you. I'm bargaining time."
Mireya stepped in close enough that the bond made her dizzy. "You don't get to decide what's worth risking."
Stellan's voice stayed low. "And you don't get to decide we die alone."
Tess watched them like she was enjoying the show.
Then she lifted a hand, palm out—stop.
They both went quiet.
Tess reached into her satchel again.
Mireya's muscles tightened.
A weapon?
A message?
Tess pulled out a folded note.
Sealed.
Stamped with a mark Mireya knew the way she knew the weight of her own knives.
Quiet Ministry classification.
Mireya's throat went dry under the salve.
Tess didn't hand it over yet. She held it between two fingers and tilted it so the stamp caught the light.
Then she spoke, voice suddenly flat.
"This came to my stage door an hour ago."
Stellan's gaze sharpened. "From who?"
Tess ignored him. Her eyes stayed on Mireya.
"Mireya," she said softly, and it wasn't a tease now. "They're not asking."
Mireya reached out.
Tess pulled the note back just out of reach. "First—listen."
Mireya's jaw tightened. "I'm listening."
Tess unfolded the note and read it aloud, each word crisp.
"Vesper Sain—return."
Mireya's blood went cold.
Because no one used that name unless they owned it.
And someone had just spoken it like a leash.