I stared out the carriage window, tracking our route by landmarks and intersections, committing each turn to memory. This was a habit ingrained in childhood, one Selwyn had always teased me about. Now, that compulsive awareness of my surroundings revealed something troubling. We were heading deeper into the city, not toward the docks.

  The streets grew wider, the buildings more ornate with each passing minute. This wasn't the route to The Dusk Blush either. I frowned and rapped my knuckles against the front of the carriage, leaning out the window.

  "We're going the wrong way. We need to go to the docks!"

  The carriage maintained its pace, wheels rattling over cobblestones. The lilac-skinned woman's voice drifted back on the night breeze.

  "We're going to my home."

  I withdrew back into the carriage, meeting Selwyn's questioning gaze across Joy's hunched form. I could only shrug. We had few options at this point. Joy needed help, and quickly. The blood-soaked blanket around her shoulders testified to that fact more eloquently than words.

  Selwyn and I exchanged concerned glances as Joy curled against his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut against whatever pain consumed her. Part of me envied their closeness, a thought I immediately regretted. This wasn't about my feelings. This was about keeping Joy alive.

  The buildings outside the window grew increasingly grand. Marble columns flanked doorways. Ironwork gates protected manicured gardens. Gas lamps illuminated streets that were swept clean of the refuse that littered the districts we'd left behind. This was wealth beyond merchant classes, beyond what even the Velez name commanded back home.

  I tried to memorize as much of the city layout as I could, the same way I had carefully mapped our path to Dario's tavern. If we needed to escape, I wanted options. I noticed Selwyn was now watching the passing streets with similar intensity.

  Eventually, the carriage slowed as we approached an imposing set of gates. Beyond them stretched a long, curving driveway leading to a mansion perched atop a hill, its silhouette cutting a jagged line against the night sky. Moonlight glinted off what appeared to be a glass dome atop one wing, and through the trees, I could make out the outline of extensive gardens surrounding the property.

  I leaned forward, squinting through the darkness at the crest emblazoned on the gates. Recognition sparked instantly. This symbol belonged to a Senate member, one of the few who consistently advocated for Naerithi rights and protections. Senator Kyran Ross, if memory served—a controversial figure, rumored to employ only Naerithi staff and guards. A powerful ally, if that's what this woman was offering us, or a formidable enemy.

  The gates themselves were masterpieces of metalwork, fifteen feet tall with intricate patterns forged into the iron. Even in the darkness, the craftsmanship was apparent. This was old wealth, wealth that had been carefully cultivated for generations.

  Selwyn leaned across Joy, his lips close to my ear. "A house this size would certainly have medical assistance on hand."

  I nodded slightly, unable to argue with his logic. My eyes kept returning to Joy, to the raw wounds visible through gaps in the blanket, to the uncharacteristic vulnerability in her posture. Whatever risks lay ahead, they seemed worth taking if it meant proper care for her.

  The carriage halted before the gates. Guards emerged from posts on either side, approaching with measured steps. They spoke in hushed tones with our driver and the lilac-skinned woman, their words inaudible from inside the carriage.

  One guard approached our window, his face initially bright with a practiced welcome. "Evening folks!"

  His eyes caught sight of Joy, and his expression transformed instantly, professional cheer replaced by genuine concern. "Uh, best get up to the house, right quick."

  He rapped the edge of the carriage door and stepped back. The massive gates swung open with surprising silence, and the carriage resumed its journey up the winding drive.

  Joy winced with each bump and jostle of the carriage wheels over the gravel path. Selwyn touched her cheek, murmuring reassurances.

  "We're somewhere where we can get help, ok? And get you looked after."

  Joy nodded almost imperceptibly but showed no further reaction. Her detachment worried me. This wasn't the fighter I'd watched defeat opponents twice her size. This wasn't the woman who had defied Marcelo at my party with cold, calculated courage. This stranger with vacant eyes and trembling limbs had been created through days of torture, and my chest tightened with a guilt so powerful it was almost physical pain.

  When we reached the mansion's front entrance, the same guard who had inspected us at the gate appeared again, having ridden on the back of the carriage. He bounded up the steps to throw open the massive doors as our lilac-skinned guide descended from her perch and pulled open our carriage door.

  "Quickly now, please," she urged, holding the door wide.

  I exited first, turning back to help with Joy. Selwyn had to physically push her across the seat, as she made no effort to move herself. The sight sent another pang through me. Joy, who always moved with such purpose and control, now passive as a rag doll.

  The guard joined us, flipping up the front panel of his helmet for a better look. In the light spilling from the open doors, I could see he was Naerithi, though I couldn't spot horns beneath his helmet.

  "Let me help, I'm quite strong. I can lift her," he offered.

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  Selwyn and I exchanged glances, then nodded our agreement. The guard reached in with professional efficiency, easing Joy to the edge of the seat before lifting her into his arms with surprising gentleness. He adjusted his grip carefully to avoid disturbing her wounds, then carried her toward the entrance.

  Selwyn and I followed close behind the lilac-skinned woman as she led the way into the mansion.

  The foyer stretched vast and imposing, its marble floor polished to a mirror shine. The space was lit by crystalline fixtures that cast a soft, golden light across the room.

  Six white statues of Naerithi warriors stood positioned against the walls, their armor and weaponry matching our helpful guard's attire. The detail was extraordinary, down to the expressions of focused determination on their carved faces.

  The statues appeared to be carved from a single piece of white marble, so uniform and flawless that I marveled at the artistry. No seams, no visible joints where separate pieces might have been fitted together. They stood approximately seven feet tall, imposing in their silent vigil. Their armor bore the same crest we'd seen on the gates, marking them as house guards rather than generic Naerithi warriors.

  A grand staircase dominated the space directly ahead, its steps made of the same gleaming marble as the floor, each riser decorated with inlaid precious metals that formed continuous patterns from bottom to top. The banister curved gracefully upward, carved from dark wood and polished to a high sheen.

  Two massive doors spread beneath the staircase, leading to the mansion's eastern and western wings. These were made of a wood I didn't recognize, deep red with whorls of gold running through the grain. The handles were fashioned from what appeared to be pure silver, shaped into the likeness of rearing serpents.

  The layout reminded me of the Velez estate, but executed with far greater opulence. Every surface gleamed with wealth and power. This was old money, old influence, worn comfortably like a well-tailored suit.

  The guard carrying Joy stopped at the foot of the stairs. Now inside the well-lit foyer, I could see him more clearly—his skin a striking shade of cobalt blue that seemed to shimmer with an inner luminescence. He had severe features and eyes of such dark intensity they appeared almost black. White markings adorned his forehead in an intricate pattern that resembled a crown. His armor, though similar in design to the others, bore additional embellishments—silver filigree along the edges, gemstones embedded at strategic points. A commander, perhaps, or someone of higher rank than the rest.

  He turned, giving Selwyn and me a long, evaluating look. Something in his posture shifted, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze lingered on me particularly, as though taking my measure, judging me against some standard I couldn't comprehend. My hand instinctively moved closer to my concealed blade.

  "Men, to arms," he called out, his voice deep and resonant, echoing through the foyer with natural authority. It was a voice accustomed to command, to being obeyed without question.

  Movement caught my eye. The white statues against the walls weren't statues at all. Color flooded back into them as six Naerithi warriors stepped forward, dropping camouflage so perfect I hadn't detected it even with my trained eye. I'd heard tale of this ability among, but had dismissed them as exaggeration. Seeing it now left me momentarily stunned.

  The warriors' skin transformed from marble white to various shades—amber, burgundy, deep blue, forest green—their armor changing from stone to gleaming metal and leather. Even their eyes, which had appeared as vacant stone moments before, now shone with intelligence and purpose. The transformation was complete and instantaneous, as if someone had poured color into empty vessels.

  I mentally cursed myself for missing it. These weren't statues that had suddenly come alive—they had been living, breathing warriors the entire time, motionless in plain sight, their bodies and armor altered to mimic stone through some ability I didn't understand. The depth of patience and control required to maintain such perfect stillness, to regulate even their breathing to remain undetected, spoke to a level of training that exceeded anything I'd encountered before.

  They drew their weapons in perfect unison, the sound of metal scraping against scabbards unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. Six blades pointed at us, not attacking but creating an impenetrable barrier between us and the exit. Their movements were synchronized with machine-like precision, as if they shared a single mind.

  My assessment of our situation shifted dramatically. These weren't merely house guards; these were elite warriors with abilities I hadn't calculated into our odds of escape. I'd been outmaneuvered, and the realization stung my pride as much as it heightened my concern for our safety.

  The lilac-skinned woman darted past the guards and sprinted up the stairs, her footfalls fading into the upper reaches of the house. I noticed now what I'd missed before—the fluid grace of her movements, the careful awareness of her surroundings. Not a civilian then, despite her elegant appearance. She moved like someone with combat training, someone comfortable with danger and quick decisions.

  I tensed, calculating odds, identifying targets, planning a move that would let us reach Joy. But the blue-skinned guard was already ascending the stairs, taking her away from us. He moved with a fluid grace that belied his muscular frame, his footsteps nearly silent despite his armored boots. The way he carried Joy spoke of both strength and care—her weight seemed inconsequential to him, yet he adjusted his hold to avoid pressing against her wounds. There was something almost reverent in his manner, as though he carried something precious rather than a wounded stranger.

  If he meant her harm, there was nothing we could do with six swords between us and them. Yet something in his careful handling of her body made me wonder if perhaps, improbable as it seemed, we had stumbled into allies rather than enemies.

  This wasn't the help we'd sought. This was something else entirely.

  The warriors surrounding us maintained perfect stillness, their discipline evident in every line of their bodies. These were trained soldiers, moving with the synchronized precision that came from years fighting as a unit. Their eyes tracked our smallest movements, alert for any sign of aggression.

  The one closest to me watched me with particular intensity. His eyes were pure red without visible pupils, yet I could feel his gaze tracking mine, reading my intentions with uncanny accuracy. When I shifted my weight slightly, testing, his blade adjusted its position by exactly the same degree, maintaining perfect defensive position.

  My mind raced through possibilities. Had Marcelo arranged this? Was this connected to Joy's title—what had Ellah called her? Tesh'ilia? Or was this something else entirely, some Naerithi politics we'd stumbled into blindly?

  I looked to Selwyn, his face tense but controlled. His eyes tracked Joy's disappearing form with naked concern. For once, I didn't resent the emotion I saw there. We shared it now, this fear for her.

  The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of doors opening and closing somewhere above us. .

  I slowly raised my hands, showing empty palms. Selwyn followed suit, his movements deliberately unthreatening. We had come too far, fought too hard, to lose Joy now. Whatever game was being played here, I intended to stay alive long enough to understand the rules.

  My training had prepared me for many things, but nothing had prepared me for the sickening helplessness of watching Joy carried away, wounded and vulnerable, to an unknown fate. All I could do was wait, observe, and prepare to act when opportunity presented itself.