Chapter One: The Third Night

  Marken thought he’d slipped out unseen. Stupid old bastard. She was made in his shadow — shaped by his hands, hardened by his rules, loyal to a fault.

  Third night in a row, same thing: door clicked shut, street swallowed him whole. Who in the hells did he think he was dealing with? Some sweet little girl asleep in her bed, dreaming of cupcakes and rainbows? She’d known the instant he closed the door the first time. The second time, she’d watched from the roof.

  Tonight, she was already lacing her boots when the lock turned.

  “Gods forbid I sleep like a normal person,” she muttered, slinging her cloak over bare shoulders and easing onto the rooftop. The moon bled silver across Brona’s rooftops, slicking the cobbles below with cold light. She knew this city like scar tissue—every shadow, every choke-point, every place a man might vanish if he wanted to stay gone.

  But Marken didn’t want to stay gone. He wanted to not be followed.

  Bryn’s lips curled. Fine. Let’s see how quiet the master thief still is.

  She tracked him through two alleys and a market lane, moving low and light. With anyone else, she wouldn’t bother—most men never looked up. Marken did. He knew her footfalls, her tells, her breath. If she got too close, he’d catch her. If she lagged, she’d lose him.

  She kept to the gutters and rooflines, heart steady, gaze smooth. Then he turned west—not toward the temple, not toward their usual haunt, The Dancing Duck. Somewhere else.

  The pleasure quarters. She paused, crouching atop a crumbling arch, and muttered, “Shit.”

  If she was stalking Daxon, she’d already be home gagging. But Marken didn’t pay for pleasure. He didn’t need to. Ring a bell, and half the priestesses would crawl to him, pious and wet-mouthed.

  Her fists clenched. Thrice damned priestesses. Smiles like blades. Silk sleeves hiding bruises and bruisers. They smiled when they threw her in the hole, laughing as she sobbed and picked a pocket with one wrist broken and blood on her teeth—

  “Snap out of it,” she hissed, rattling her skull. The temple was years behind her. This was now.

  And now… she’d lost him.

  She dropped to the street, swearing under her breath, and weighed her options. Stalk him through the city or head to the Duck? Marken wasn’t there. But Petra might know something.

  It was a risk. If he didn’t, she might lose the trail for good.

  “Vespera’s left tit,” she muttered at last, throwing up her hands in disgust. She’d botched a simple tail. The fact that it was Marken was small comfort. She took another quick look around, her senses sharp and keen in the still night, but didn’t catch any sign of him. With no other leads, she let herself into the bar.

  Petra was alone behind the counter, cleaning glasses. He looked up. “Bryn? What are you doing here? I’m closed — guards’ve been edgy, using magic to spy.”

  She pulled back her hood. “Seen Marken?”

  “Not since you three were in last week. Why?”

  The familiar tightness formed in her chest. Not rage. Not uncontrollable. Not yet. “He’s sneaking around the city like a damn ghost, and I want to know why.”

  Petra came around the bar, wooden leg thunking. He laid a hand on her shoulder — and she didn’t gut him. Must have liked the old man more than she realized. “Men have secrets,” he said, undoing half the goodwill with a single line. “Go home to bed. Ask him about it in the morning.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Ever tried asking Marken something he doesn’t want to tell?” She exhaled hard, glaring around like she could intimidate answers out of the furniture.

  “Sounds like he’s working a job.”

  “He’d gods damned better not be,” she growled. “Thanks, Petra.”

  “If I see him—”

  Her head whipped up, something like panic stuttering her heart. “Don’t you dare tell him I’m looking.”

  He grinned. She didn’t. “Save the jokes for Daxon.” The door slammed behind her.

  That was a waste. She ducked back into the shadows as a guard tramped past, her brain scrambling. The temple was east. Marken had gone west. That left one option – the docks. It made the most sense. And if he was pulling a job without her—

  She took off running.

  Her boots pounded the cobbles. Jaw locked. Head aching. Three nights he’d vanished, always when she slept. He was hiding something. She almost hoped it was a job — because the other options were worse.

  “Keep it together,” she muttered to herself. It was that old pressure in her chest again — tight, ugly, clawing at her ribs like it wanted out. She drew a few deep breaths, running her hands over the hilts of her daggers to steady herself.

  She was barely sneaking at this point. Twice she stepped into an alley to avoid guards, but they were clumsy, inept, staggering around like their mere presence would keep rabble like her quivering indoors. She wasn’t stalking Marken any longer. She was searching.

  The docks stretched out in front of her, the waves lapping against the pier, ships and barrels and crates all over the place. The docks never slept like the rest of the city. There was always something going on: sailors staggering home after a night carousing, smugglers quietly plying their wares, shady merchants scouting for potential business. She tucked her hood over her head, just in case someone recognized her, and strode more openly now, scanning faces in search of the one she most wanted to see.

  Half an hour later she gave up in frustration. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Bad sign. If Marken had been there, he’d have taken her arm, squeezed. That was all it took. Most of the time. At least, these days. But he wasn’t there – she didn’t know where in the hells he was – and as much as she hated to admit defeat, as much as it made the beast in her belly squirm, she knew when to call it a night. She’d just have to pour herself a glass of his best wine, spill the rest down the drain, and sit up to demand an explanation whenever he deigned to wander home.

  She ducked down another alley, not really expecting to find anything, and then another, weaving her way toward home.

  Something flickered at the edge of her vision. Wrong. Off. She spun, scanning.

  There — a shape slumped in shadow, too still to be sleeping.

  She started toward the figure. Then her feet broke into a run. Something was wrong. She knew it. Her heart screamed. The smell of wet stone hit her — and blood.

  “Marken?” she whispered, skidding to her knees beside him.

  Blood slicked his shirt, pooling black in the shadows. His eyes fluttered open, just long enough to find hers.

  “No,” she said — a whisper, a command. “No, you don’t get to do this.”

  His lips parted. No sound. Just a breath. His hand moved once, weakly — toward her. Then nothing.

  Her fingers found his neck. No pulse. The world shrank to that moment. Her breath hitched, pain squeezing her ribs until she thought her chest would snap. “Marken?” she tried again, softer.

  Empty eyes. Stillness.

  Caution disintegrated. “Marken!” she shouted. Punched his chest hard. “Wake up. You gods damned old man, wake up!”

  A last shuddering breath. The fight left him.

  The fight left her.

  ******

  Don’t get soft on me. He knew what this life was. Knew what it made of us.

  I’ll find who did it. I’ll carve the truth out of their bones.

  If you’re here for happy endings, walk. If you're here to see what a girl raised by shadows becomes when someone takes her light — stay.

  One chapter down. Many more to bleed.

  —Bryn

  (Thanks for reading. This chapter kicks off the present-day arc. Flashbacks will unravel Bryn’s bond with Marken. No romance here. Just trauma, loyalty, and the kind of father-daughter bond most people wouldn’t survive. Hit “Follow” if you want more. Biweekly updates. Bonus content coming soon.)

  Next: Bryn lashes out, and Marken breaks the moment before it breaks her. Rage. Discipline. A brutal reminder of who she is — and who she belongs to.

  Keep your blades close.

  QH