“The bitch was telling everyone. Like it’s the whole city's business.”

  I rode the open plains of Kaldris, heading from Jinaral toward Millford. Clouds drifted across a pale sky, throwing loose shadows over the grass. It was a cool day—perfect for travel.

  “Just to borrow her flute, Lillith’s charging me an extra stone. An extra soul stone for a gift I gave her! Can you believe it, Veldt?”

  My black mare flicked her ears but said nothing, trotting steadily through the tall grass. I kept talking anyway, like she might answer.

  “I know I’m not the best with music,” I muttered. “But I’ll get the soul stones. You’ll see.”

  I scratched absently at the bandages wrapped around my hand. The cloth was already stained, darker now where it pressed against the broken skin. The wound was continuing to bleed. I had to get the curse removed before things got too bad.

  Enjoying the breeze on his face I reminisced on my good luck running into the Lumisilk tribe on my way to Millford. They were traveling from the Duskwatch Wellspring towards the Free Cities. They meant to follow the Trident river, which even now I could see flowing down into the distance towards Millford.

  Lucky for me I had found them. One of the most wealthy of tribes, they carried plenty of items that were frequently only found either in the wellsprings or in the large market of Emberlyn. I had been able to purchase more than enough lumisilk thread, frostfire stem, wraith-vine extract, and oblivion sap. It was so hard to find some of these things in certain cities. The Mekhosh were always a better bet at finding more exotic items. With all of those out of the way, all that was left was to collect the hardest part of all. The soul stones, lucky indeed. Getting to the city a week in advance of the Wellspring appearing would be a huge help as I struggled to harvest them.

  It wasn’t until the sun began to sink in the west that the city of Millford finally came into view.

  I crested a low ridge, and there it was—sprawled like a wound against the horizon.

  Walls of worn stone, patched with rusted iron plates and jagged palisades, half-hearted scars against the beasts that sometimes spilled from the Wellspring beyond. Smoke from a hundred chimneys and campfires bled into the sky, turning the dying light into a swirling haze of ash and color. I could just make out the expansive estates and mansions of the EmberCrest district. Above the gates, old banners hung limp and ragged, their colors long bled dry by rain, dust, and time.

  A long line of weary travelers, miners, and mercenaries snaked along the road, all waiting for their turn at the gate. I nudged Veldt forward, sliding in behind a cart piled high with battered belongings. I leaned down, patting her damp neck.

  "Time to act normal," I murmured.

  Slowly, the line crawled forward.

  When my turn came, the guards barely spared me a glance—just a nod and a lazy wave of the hand—and I passed through the gates into the Barricade District.

  City life swirled beyond the walls. Many of the travelers from the road filtered with me into the Silken Quarter, where the city’s main market stretched beneath fading banners and dusty canvas awnings.

  Millford was a regular stop for me. Like most cities in Kaldris, it ran on soul stones—and lots of them. I knew most of the vendors by sight. I’d been here enough times to remember which stalls hawked half-spoiled wraith-vine and which ones actually sold clean frostfire stem.

  Normally, the market would’ve been packed—elbows jostling for space, shopkeepers shouting over each other like carnival barkers. But today?

  There was a hush now. Not true silence—but something missing.

  Fewer voices. Fewer carts. Too many shutters drawn, too many “Out for Business” signs nailed to crooked door frames. The Festival of Tithes had drawn Millford’s merchant class east to Jinaral, chasing pilgrims and profit alike. Even the guards had lost their edge—no city fights when the troublemakers were off chasing tithes.

  There were even whispers that Sir Gerald, the governor himself, had left to attend the festival with his wife.

  Perfect.

  If Lyssandra was in Jinaral with her husband, then I might have a chance to move without her damn spies watching every alley and bard’s hall. I had maybe a week before the Wellspring appeared. Another week after that to harvest seven soul stones—eight if I was lucky. And then I needed to disappear again.

  That should be no problem—if I didn’t sound like a dying cat every time I touched a flute.

  And even the comparison would probably be an insult the cat.

  The thought of going to Millford’s Bardic University passed through my mind again, just like it had since I left Jinaral. But no.

  All it would take was one warning. One fast horse could make the four-day ride back to Jinaral—and the governess would know where I was. That would definitely not end well.

  Not yet. Not until I was ready.

  I needed to find lodgings. Two weeks was a long time—time to wander, to gather supplies, to disappear. Time to get caught, too. Huh. I drifted through the streets without thinking, until I found myself near the city’s edge again.

  Inside the gates or out? That was the question. Inside, there was Gutterglass or the Sifter’s Rest—close to the market, close to my contacts. Quicker access to the things I needed. But closer to eyes, too. Closer to Lyssandra’s reach. Her spies had a way of blending in, just like I did. Probably better.

  No. Better to take my chances in the Warrens. Rune witches and monsters were a worry, sure. But I knew better than most. The true monsters don’t have claws. They wield words. Or steel.

  I turned toward the gates again but stopped, thinking. Veldt nickered as people passed by her, un-bothered.

  I’d need a Wellspring permit to harvest. Better to get that out of the way now, rather than later. The closer it got to the Wellspring’s arrival, the more eyes would be around the Tithe Hall of Records in the Silken Quarter. There’d likely be Church officials hanging around too.

  Yeah… definitely better not to go near there if I could help it.

  Down at the Luminary Docks, men shouted over boat repairs and cargo ropes. Boys ran back and forth, hauling loads or relaying orders. Near the edge, tucked beneath a crooked shack roof, I spotted a group of four boys watching the crowd like wolves in training—waiting for someone who looked like they needed help.

  I approached.

  Something about me—or maybe it was Veldt—spooked them. One of the boys bolted immediately.

  I raised an eyebrow at his fleeing back, then looked to the remaining trio.

  “You boys want to make five silver?”

  The largest stepped forward, bare feet and torn trousers doing nothing to dampen his confidence. He puffed out his chest like he ran the docks.

  “Make it ten, merc. Then you can tell me what you want.”

  I grinned. “I like you already. Two gold—and you tell the others to scram.”

  His eyes lit up. He was hooked, the little prick. His ego puffed up like a frog’s throat.

  “Shoo,” he snapped. “You heard him—I got work.”

  He shoved the other two away roughly. One of them stumbled and scraped his knee, crying out until the older boy yanked him up by the arm and shoved him again.

  “So what's the job, mista?”

  I held out a gold coin between two fingers. “This isn’t your payment. This is your package. You’re going to the Hall of Records and buying a harvesting permit. Name’s Archel Bayfield.”

  The boy snorted. “They won’t let someone like me in there. Churchy types don’t like mud on their precious carpets.”

  “Then wait outside,” I said. “You’ll ask for Brother Vessh Orin. He’ll make sure they sell it to you.”

  The kid looked at me sideways, eyes narrowing. I could see him weighing it. So I decided to tip the scales. I made as if to drop the coin into his hand—but paused, holding it back just short of his palm. He flinched.

  I stared at him.

  The shouting around the docks faded in my ears, like water draining from a basin. Then I pulled a bracelet from my pack and held it up. Twelve glass beads strung tight into a circle. Eleven were clear. One glowed faint blue.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  He hesitated. Shook his head.

  The soul stone might have been obvious to anyone from Millford, but the beads muddied it—made it hard to see the truth of what it was, or what it could do. So I helped him. With a breath and a push of will, the bracelet flared softly. The runes shimmered to life, pulsing faintly with blue light—cooler than the soul stone at its center.

  The boy gasped.

  But it wasn’t the bracelet he was looking at anymore. It was me. I knew what he saw: my eyes glowing violet in the dimming light, refracted back in the glass. Not blinding. Not dramatic. Just enough to let his mind fill in the blanks.

  It was a simple trinket, really. I’d bought it off the BlackGale tribe a few years back—a rune-light band, made to help see in darkness. The glow in the eyes was just a side effect. But to someone who didn’t know better?

  It was a curse on legs.

  I held the coin up again.

  “I can see this coin,” I said softly. “I can see it wherever it goes in this city. Through wall. Through stone. Through cloth. And once you touch it—”

  I leaned forward, voice flat.

  “—I’ll see you, too.”

  He nodded, terrified now.

  “You’ll go straight to the Hall of Records. Then straight to GrimMarket Row. You know it?”

  Another nod—faster this time.

  “You go nowhere else. I’ll know. And if you don’t come back? I’ll find you anyway.”

  I paused. Let the silence stretch. Let the fear settle.

  “You’ll get your two gold coins when it’s done. The permit costs one. Don’t be stupid. Understand?”

  The boy nodded like his neck was loose on its hinges. I let the light fade from the bracelet and pressed the coin into his trembling hand.

  “You can go now.”

  He ran—faster than the first boy had.

  “You got that lost look, sweetheart.”

  Her grin didn’t reach her eyes as she sauntered over, cheap perfume barely masking smoke and sweat.

  I set my empty mug down and waved to the server for another.

  The prostitute’s eyes flicked to the motion, but her grin didn’t slip. Mine did grow, though. She didn’t care how lost I looked—just how heavy my coin purse might be.

  “No response, big boy? I see that big knife you’re carrying. Got anything else big on you?”

  I raised an eyebrow. Not subtle, this one.

  “I don’t mind buying a pretty woman a drink,” I said, “but my coins are my own tonight. No one’s sharing my bed—not in this city again.”

  She scowled and turned away, ignoring the offer. I shrugged. Her loss. I knew for a fact I was delightful company.

  I studied the dim little common room of the GrimMarket Row Inn—one of the less reputable holes in Millford’s Warrens. But it was safer from prying eyes. Few would admit to spending time in the ruts with ward witches and the dredges of society.

  Even here, though, people made a living.

  Behind the bar, a hulking barmaid scowled as she wiped a cloudy glass with a filthy rag—probably making it worse. An old man slumped on a stool beside her, motionless except for the occasional wheeze.

  Next to him, a prostitute leaned close to a young noble, trying her luck. His fine silks seemed to repel the ever-present dust, like even the filth here knew better than to touch him.

  The rest of the room was near empty—just my table, and another where two priests sat hunched in quiet conversation.

  That was odd. The Church didn’t come down here. Not often.

  I kept my head low, sipping from my mug.

  Outside, through shafts of dirty light slashing the gloom, figures passed by—tall, grown, unremarkable.

  None of them were the one I waited for.

  This was most of my life. Sitting. Waiting. Alone. Trying not to be noticed—outside of society, while still trying to survive inside it. Some days, I thought the Mekhosh had it right. These city walls were stifling.

  The door creaked open.

  A head popped in—lower than expected. The boy spotted me, hurried in, and approached with a rolled parchment clenched in his shaking hand.

  “H-H-Here, sir. Just like I promised.”

  His voice cracked. The hand holding the paper trembled.

  I took it gingerly and unrolled it.

  To whom it may pertain, this permit grants the wielder permission to enter the Wellspring of Millford and retain any and all resources or items harvested during its duration. The wielder agrees to register all findings with the Hall of Records upon conclusion of the Wellspring, on pain of search and seizure of all assets.

  I nodded, rolled the paper, and slipped it into my jacket.

  The boy was still trembling.

  “Oh, calm down, kid,” I muttered, already rummaging through my purse. “We’re almost done here.”

  His eyes lit up the moment I pulled out the two gold coins. He hadn’t expected I’d actually pay him. Probably figured I’d cut his throat instead.

  I mean… it would save me two gold. That’s a night’s food and board, easy.

  I sighed and set the coins on the table.

  “There you go.”

  He snatched them up like they might vanish, then hesitated—confused, maybe, unsure how to leave without breaking some unspoken rule.

  I waved him off.

  “You can go.”

  He bolted before I finished the sentence, nearly knocking over a chair on his way out the door. I chuckled to myself and made to rise from the table, then paused. The door still hung open.

  Another group was stepping inside. Five… no, six men. They moved with intent, fanning out across the room without a word. At their head strode a man dressed in gleaming silk and gold-threaded trim over polished armor. His strong chin tilted high as he cast a disdainful look over the dirty occupants of the inn.

  Then his eyes landed on me. And lit up. Well, shit.

  “Well hello there,” he said, voice smooth. “And who might you be, traveler?”

  He approached with calm, deliberate confidence, his men moving with him. One posted at the kitchen door. Another blocked the staircase leading to the rooms upstairs.

  They weren’t guessing. They knew who they were here for.

  Had the kid set me up? No—I hadn’t given any real names. They must’ve followed him from the Hall of Records.

  I did my best to look unbothered, leaning back in my seat and gesturing lazily toward the nearest sword.

  “No one special,” I said. “Just a trader passing through. Waiting my turn to enter the Wellspring next week.”

  I held up the permit and gave it a casual wave.

  “Yesss…” the man drawled, drawing closer. “That does appear to be a permit for one Archel Bayfield—issued from our Hall of Records.”

  His eyes gleamed.

  “But we both know… you’re not Mr. Bayfield. Are you?”

  The air thickened. I didn’t answer. But I didn’t need to.

  I kicked the table into the man’s shins. He stumbled, and I was already moving—stuffing the permit into my coat and drawing my soul knife. A guard to his right lashed out with a short sword. I caught the blade with mine, sparks dancing between us, then rammed my shoulder into his chest and knocked him to the floor.

  I didn’t wait. The kitchen exit was my best shot. My gear could wait—I’d come back for it. And Veldt? No one else would dare try saddling her but me.

  I lunged for the guard blocking the kitchen. He was ready.

  His blade cut a wide arc as I closed in, but I feinted, ducking just under it. His armor slowed him—mine didn’t exist. I slipped past his swing, grabbed his arm, and twisted hard, dragging him over my shoulder in one smooth motion.

  He crashed into two others rushing up behind him, a heap of limbs and swearing steel.

  I left them writhing on the floor as I burst into the kitchen. Two women shrieked and ducked behind barrels. Someone yelled at me to get out.

  Fine by me.

  I hit the back door, yanked the latch, and shoved it open. The alley outside greeted me with a wall of black.

  Which is why the fist was such a surprise.

  It came out of the dark like a hammer, and just before everything went out—I had the brief, bitter thought:

  Damn. Who’s pissed off at me today?