The beast eyes didn't leave when Mireya blinked.
They weren't in the world.
They were in her.
She stepped back from the river like it might reach up and bite her. Her hand went to her throat, to the cut line, as if she could wipe the wrongness off with blood and salve.
Stellan watched her, jaw tight. He didn't crowd her. He didn't ask questions that made her feel like a specimen.
He just said, low, "You saw something."
Mireya's voice came out flat. "Later."
Stellan didn't argue. He just nodded once. "Yeah."
They moved along the riverbank until the buildings thinned and the air turned sweet with damp soil and fruit rot. Past the last row of houses, an orchard spread out like a quiet spill—old trees, crooked branches, windfalls bruising the grass.
Mireya slowed.
Not because she liked orchards.
Because she recognized the ward-thread.
It wasn't a wall. It was a lace. Fine magic woven through the trunks and roots—soft enough to miss if you didn't know to look.
Stellan's Pulse-sight flickered up. He stared at the trees like he could hear them lying.
"Magic," he murmured.
Mireya kept her Silence tight, close. "And appetite."
Stellan glanced at her. "What does that mean?"
Mireya didn't answer. She stepped off the path and into the orchard.
The air changed immediately. Warmer. Thicker. Like walking into someone's kitchen.
A voice drifted from deeper between the trees—light, amused.
"You brought a hungry man."
Mireya stopped.
Stellan stopped with her.
Between two apple trees sat a woman on a low stool as if she'd been waiting all day. Her dress was layered and stained with juice. Her hair was pinned up with forks—actual forks, the kind you ate with. Around her neck hung small glass vials that caught the light like jewelry.
Her eyes scanned Mireya, then Stellan, then lingered on Mireya's throat.
She smiled. "And a bleeding girl."
Mireya's fingers tightened on her knife. "Talla."
The witch's smile widened. "Vesper's little shadow. I was wondering when you'd come crawling out."
Stellan's head turned sharp at the name.
Mireya didn't flinch. She hated that the bond made her feel his interest anyway—like a hook behind her ribs.
She kept her voice steady. "We need information."
Talla spread her hands, palms up. "Everyone needs something. Sit."
Stellan's gaze stayed on the witch. "Who are you?"
Talla's eyes twinkled. "A gourmand."
Stellan frowned. "That's not—"
"It is," Talla cut in, cheerful. "I don't eat people. I eat what people remember."
Mireya didn't move.
Stellan's jaw tightened. "We don't have time for games."
Talla's eyes slid to him, amused. "You're the patient one, aren't you? You smell like pine and guilt."
Stellan's mouth went flat. "We need to know who's hunting us."
Talla tapped one vial at her throat, making it clink softly. "And I need a taste."
Mireya's eyes narrowed. "Coin?"
Talla laughed. "Coin tastes like hands. I can do better."
She pointed at Mireya. "You pay."
Stellan stepped forward. "No."
Mireya lifted a hand. "Stellan."
He looked at her. "Don't."
Mireya didn't like being protected. Not by him. Not by anyone.
But she liked dying even less.
She asked, "What taste?"
Talla's grin sharpened. "A memory. A real one. Not a staged court pastry."
Stellan's gaze flicked to Mireya.
Mireya tasted his suspicion through the bond like ash.
Talla leaned forward on her stool, eyes bright. "Childhood, preferably. First sweet. First comfort. The kind you can't fake."
Mireya's throat tightened.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Something older. Something that didn't like being touched.
Stellan's voice went low. "Mireya, don't—"
She cut him off. "We need answers."
Talla clapped her hands once, delighted. "Good. Sit."
Mireya sat on the grass because she wouldn't sit where she was told to sit. Stellan stayed standing, arms crossed, watching the trees like something might drop out of them.
Talla pulled a small bowl from beside her stool. It was carved from dark wood and filled with clear syrup.
"Finger," Talla said.
Mireya held out her hand.
Talla took Mireya's index finger and dipped it into the syrup. The syrup was cool, thick. It smelled like apples and smoke.
Then Talla pressed Mireya's sticky finger to the inside of her own wrist.
A small ward mark there shimmered.
The orchard air hummed.
Mireya's stomach rolled.
Talla's voice went soft. "Now. Think of the taste."
Mireya clenched her jaw.
Stellan's gaze sharpened. "What are you doing?"
Talla didn't look up. "Taking payment."
Mireya closed her eyes.
She didn't want to. That was the point.
She reached for a memory she kept locked behind teeth.
Not court. Not Ministry.
Before.
A cracked ceramic bowl. Hands too small to hold it steady. A woman's laugh—warm, real—before laughter became something Mireya learned to distrust.
The taste came with it.
Hot broth.
Not fancy. Not spiced.
Just salt, onion, and fat. Something simmered until it had nothing left to hide.
A crust of bread soaked into it until it turned soft.
Mireya's mouth watered.
Her chest tightened.
Talla inhaled like she could smell it. Her eyes fluttered closed. Pleasure rolled over her face, slow and greedy.
"Ah," Talla murmured. "There you are."
The syrup in the bowl darkened, as if it had absorbed color.
Mireya's stomach lurched. She felt the memory leaving—thinning, like a thread being pulled out of cloth.
She opened her eyes.
The orchard swayed. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Talla sighed like she'd just finished a good meal.
"Rich," she said happily. "Simple. Loved."
Mireya's fingers curled into the grass. "Info."
Talla licked syrup off her wrist like it was wine. "Straight to business. Fine."
She pointed a syrup-sticky finger toward the city behind them. "Ministry tongues are loose tonight. Your retrieval order doubled."
Stellan's shoulders went rigid. "Retrieval."
Talla smiled. "They don't want you dead, Vesper. They want you home."
Stellan's head snapped toward Mireya. "Vesper?"
Mireya's voice went sharp. "Not now."
Talla continued, unbothered. "Warden zealots are sniffing around too. Someone told them you're contaminated."
Stellan's jaw clenched. "Bram."
Talla's eyes brightened. "Yes. Bram Kydan. He's very pretty when he's angry."
Stellan ignored the comment. "Who's giving him altered beasts?"
Talla lifted a vial and shook it gently. Something inside shimmered. "Not just him. Hunters are being fed toys. Collared. Trained. Twisted."
Mireya's throat went tight. "By who."
Talla tilted her head. "By someone who signed the immunity paper."
Stellan's eyes narrowed. "The Treaty."
Talla smiled like a cat. "There it is."
She leaned forward. "You stole the wrong thing, Mireya. That Treaty doesn't just promise land and peace. It promises permission."
Mireya kept her face blank. She refused to show the relief that came from having a clean reason.
Permission. Immunity. Field trials.
A machine built to keep people from touching the crown's hands.
Stellan's voice came rough. "So we expose the signatories."
Talla's smile softened into something almost kind. "Expose them. Kill them. Kiss them. I don't care. I already ate."
Mireya stood too fast. Vertigo clipped her. She steadied herself on a tree trunk.
Stellan reached out—stopped an inch short again.
Mireya didn't look at him. "We're done."
Talla hummed. "Not quite."
Mireya's eyes narrowed. "What now."
Talla tapped her vials. "Payment carries."
Stellan frowned. "What does that mean?"
Talla's gaze slid to him. "It means you'll taste it too."
Stellan's brow furrowed—then his mouth went still.
Something hit his tongue.
Warm broth. Salt. Onion. Soft bread.
A comfort he hadn't earned.
His throat tightened.
He looked at Mireya with new eyes—eyes that had just eaten her childhood like it was real.
Mireya stiffened. "Stop."
Stellan swallowed hard. "That wasn't court."
Mireya's jaw tightened. "No."
Stellan's voice went quiet. "You weren't raised there."
Mireya didn't answer.
Stellan's Pulse-sight flickered, not outward— inward, like he was trying to hold back anger.
He tasted the last note of that memory, the part that made it hurt.
Loved.
Then taken.
Stellan's voice came rough. "They took you."
Mireya's eyes flashed. "Don't."
Stellan held her gaze. "Mireya—"
She stepped closer, dizzy with bond pull, and hissed, "Don't make me into your redemption project."
Stellan's mouth tightened. "I'm not."
The orchard air shifted.
A sound threaded through it—faint, distant, carried on the edge of wind.
A voice.
Not Talla's.
Not Stellan's.
Too controlled. Too familiar.
It slid into Mireya's ears like a knife finding a seam.
And Stellan heard it too.
Because he was hearing through her.
The voice was calm. Patient. Owned.
"Bring the treaty home, Vesper."
Mireya went still.
The beast eyes in the river had felt like a nightmare.
This voice felt like a leash snapping tight.
Stellan's gaze snapped to her, alarm flaring.
Mireya didn't blink.
Because she knew that voice.
And she knew what came after it.