Jesarin smelled like it always did—salt, sweat, and the distant hint of something fried in too much oil.

  Vess adjusted the high collar of her coat—no, not a coat, a dress. The unfamiliar fabric of it clung to her frame, moving too smoothly against her skin, light as air but heavy with meaning. It wasn’t stiff, wasn’t tight, wasn’t wrong in any tangible way, but it felt off all the same. Ores had commissioned these clothes long before they agreed to work for her, and knowing that made Vess’ skin crawl.

  The dress was fine Sacyrian make—deep burgundy with gold embroidery at the cuffs, slit at the legs to allow movement, its bodice laced with an intricate design that she suspected was more for show than function. It was meant to blend in among Jesarin’s lower nobility, where power was wielded with the careful sharpness of a dagger beneath silk. It was practical. It was expensive. It was a leash wrapped in gold thread.

  She hated it.

  And yet, the moment Gael had seen her in it, his usual smirk had faltered. It had been brief—so quick she might have missed it if she weren’t watching—but the way his eyes had lingered, the way his teasing remark had died on his tongue before he forced himself to say something flippant…

  It bothered her.

  Vess crossed her arms, trying not to shift too much in the fabric, though it was impossible not to feel it—the silks and embroidered lace, the weight of strangers’ eyes when they passed, how no one looked at her like a street rat anymore. The attention was different. Not the wary, assessing looks she was used to, but something else. Something worse.

  She didn’t belong in this. Ores knew it. Gael knew it.

  And she knew that woman had chosen this just to embarrass her.

  Gael, walking beside her, didn’t seem to share her discomfort. He was fiddling with the buttons of his own coat—deep navy, high-collared, and somehow managing to look both effortless and infuriatingly natural in it.

  “You clean up too well,” Vess muttered, crossing her arms tighter.

  Gael smirked, tapping his fingers against the fabric. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t.” she growled

  Gael chuckled, stuffing his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. “Relax, Vess. You’re walking around like you’re carrying a blade between your ribs.”

  I’d rather be stabbed than be wearing this, she thought sourly, but bit her tongue. No need to give Gael more ammunition to prod at her with.

  The streets of Jesarin bustled around them, as loud and chaotic as ever, yet they moved through it differently now. No longer the thieves skirting in and out of alleyways, no longer the ones avoiding the watchful eyes of enforcers.

  People stepped aside for them. Not out of fear, but out of respect.

  That was the strangest part.

  It wasn’t that anyone knew who they were. They weren’t notorious—not yet. But the fine tailoring, the subtle embroidery of status, the illusion of wealth—it worked.

  It grated against Vess’ instincts.

  Gael, on the other hand, carried himself like he’d been born into it, like the streets themselves were his home, whether paved in gold or in blood. He slipped through the crowds with easy confidence, throwing a quick grin at a passing merchant who nodded in return, as if Gael were some noble’s son instead of a wanted thief.

  Vess rolled her eyes, adjusting the hem of her dress as they rounded a corner. “I hate this.”

  Gael shot her a knowing look. “You hate a lot of things.”

  “I especially hate this.”

  But as much as she hated it, she knew Gael was right. The disguise was working. And as much as she despised feeling like a doll wrapped up in silk, it was keeping them unseen in plain sight.

  As long as they looked like they belonged, no one would ask where they came from.

  They walked in silence for a few moments before Gael suddenly veered toward a wall, his fingers brushing over something posted there.

  Vess frowned, stepping closer. “What are you—”

  Gael plucked a paper free, holding it up with an amused smirk.

  A wanted poster.

  Lukas’ face was sketched in rough ink, but they had exaggerated everything—his jawline sharper, his glare twice as menacing, his entire expression one of barely restrained fury. If Vess hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought they were hunting a bloodthirsty criminal, not the idiot who grumbled about rich food being too seasoned the night before.

  Gael barked a laugh, rolling up the parchment and tucking it into his coat. “This is going up on the hideout wall.”

  Vess sighed. “You know he’s going to hate that.”

  Gael grinned, turning the paper over in his hands. “That’s why it’s funny.” His gaze flicked to the jagged lines of Lukas’ scowling face, and he scoffed. “Even I could’ve drawn something better than this.”

  Vess arched a brow. Since when did he draw?

  The thought barely had time to settle before Gael crumpled the poster in his palm and shoved it into his coat, already moving ahead through the crowd. If Vess wanted to press, she could—but there were more pressing matters. Like the fact that they still had to navigate the lower markets without drawing attention, and Gael was walking like he belonged here, when in reality, he stood out like a sore thumb in his nobleman’s attire.

  She hurried after him, stepping over a pile of discarded rinds as they wove deeper into the market district. The air smelled thick with spice—roasted meat sizzling on iron grates, fresh bread slathered in garlic butter, the sharp tang of citrus peels discarded into the gutter.

  Gael stopped suddenly in front of a stall draped in faded silk, where a vendor was ladling dark amber liquid into clay mugs. Vess caught up just in time to see Gael flash his signature grin—the same one that had gotten them out of (and into) far too many situations before.

  “Two, please.” He tapped his fingers idly on the wooden counter, his tone easy, familiar.

  The vendor barely glanced at him. “Three silvers.”

  Gael hummed, digging into his coat, pulling free a few mismatched coppers and setting them on the counter with an expectant look.

  The vendor snorted. “You must be joking.”

  “Not at all,” Gael said smoothly. “You see, we could pay full price, but then you’d be charging two refined Sacyrian nobles for a commoner’s drink, and that’s hardly good business.” He gestured vaguely at their outfits, his coat catching the lantern glow, the shimmer of gold embroidery along the cuffs betraying the craftsmanship.

  The vendor hesitated, eyes flicking between them, suddenly second-guessing.

  Gael pressed on, voice dipping into something more conspiratorial. “And between you and me, do you really think the enforcers would look kindly on overcharging important customers?”

  Vess scoffed, rolling her eyes. But Gael wasn’t done.

  “Would you truly want the only daughter of Lord Jericho to go with a parched mouth?” He sighed, shaking his head. “She’s terribly delicate, you see. Faints if she doesn’t have a proper drink every hour.”

  Vess turned to him, slow and deliberate, her expression flat.

  Gael just smiled.

  The vendor blinked between them, his brow furrowing. “Lord… Jericho?”

  Vess let out a long, suffering sigh. Then, to Gael’s delight, she pressed a hand to her forehead, exhaling with all the grace of a wilting noblewoman.

  “Oh, Gael,” she murmured dramatically, “I feel positively faint.”

  The vendor’s face paled, his entire demeanor shifting. “Ah—my apologies, milady, I—” He fumbled for the mugs, shoving them toward Gael. “No charge, of course.”

  Gael barely held in his laughter as he took them, nodding with mock gratitude. “A generous man. Truly, we shall sing of your kindness for generations.”

  Vess watched him, arms folded, an amused brow raised.

  The way Gael shifted his tone, adjusted his posture—it wasn’t just confidence, it was practiced. He was too good at fitting in, no matter where he was. Street rat, noble, thief—he could wear any mask and make it look natural.

  That should have been unsettling. But instead, it made her wonder how many masks he had left to wear.

  The moment they turned the corner, Vess elbowed him hard in the ribs. “You’re the worst,” she muttered.

  “And yet,” Gael said, passing her a mug, “you played along.”

  Vess huffed, but accepted the drink anyway. She eyed it warily before finally bringing it to her lips. The scent was pleasant—warm spices, hints of orange and cinnamon. But the moment the liquid touched her tongue, she nearly choked.

  It burned. Not like fire, but in a way that crawled down her throat and settled too hot in her stomach. “Ugh.” She grimaced, shoving it into Gael’s hands. “How do you drink this?”

  Gael, to his credit, didn’t even blink as he accepted her mug and promptly downed it in a single breath.

  Vess shook her head, watching him wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, looking far too pleased with himself.

  “Noble or not,” she muttered, “you’re still an idiot.”

  Gael only grinned, tossing an arm around her shoulder as they started back toward the hideout. “And yet, here you are, stuck with me milady.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t push him away.

  They still had a job to do. But for now, just for a little longer, they could pretend things were simple.

  Gael leaned against the wall, tossing his now-empty mug into a passing crate. "Come on, let's see if Lander's managed to keep the place from caving in."

  Vess groaned, rubbing her temples. “If we find a rat infestation, I’m blaming you.”

  They turned down a narrow alley, the glow of Jesarin’s streets fading behind them.

  Everything here was soft. The sheets, the chairs, the food—it was all designed for comfort, for people who lived their lives in silk-lined cages. Lukas had spent two days drowning in luxury, and all he wanted was to breathe. To move. To fight.

  But Ores had made it clear. Step outside, and he wouldn’t just be running from enforcers—he’d be risking the whole crew.

  And yet, his fingers still twitched at the thought.

  The food was rich—too rich. Lukas had grown up on street vendor skewers, stale bread, and whatever scraps he could afford. He would’ve killed for something simple, something real. But here? Everything was delicate, spiced, made for people who picked at their meals instead of eating like they meant it. Even the damn beds were too soft. He wasn’t sure how Gael and Vess handled it, but every morning, he woke up disoriented, like his body wasn’t sure where the ground was anymore.

  And then there were the clothes. Ores, ever the meddler, had tried to dress him up to match Gael and Vess—black and gold velvet, embroidered to make him look every bit the noble son he wasn’t.

  “I’d rather die,” he had said flatly.

  Ores had only offered that same damn smirk.

  Gael had actually laughed before pulling on his own ensemble like it was some grand joke. And Vess—Lukas had never seen her in a dress before. She had looked deeply uncomfortable. Gael, of course, had noticed. He’d gone quiet for half a second when he saw her, then grinned like he was enjoying something he wouldn’t say out loud. That had been funny, at least.

  Lurras, mercifully, had offered Lukas something else—a deep navy sparring set, loose and well-worn, its silver-threaded cuffs catching the candlelight when he moved. He could still feel the fine stitching at his wrists, the way the cloth barely rustled when he walked. That part unsettled him. Clothing was supposed to have weight, supposed to remind you where you stood in the world.

  But here? Everything just felt off.

  Lukas paced the length of the room for what had to be the twentieth time, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers, trying to ignore the itch crawling under his skin. The same itch that told him to run every time he felt caged in, no matter how gilded the bars.

  Even the servants here moved too quietly. Too carefully. Always there when needed, never in sight when unwanted. Like ghosts, slipping in and out of rooms without sound, without presence.

  Lukas had seen their type before—people trained to go unnoticed.

  And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.

  The manor halls were too well-patrolled, the main doors watched. If he wanted out without catching a lecture from Ores or a disappointed sigh from Gael, he had to be smart about it.

  And if there was one thing Lukas had learned from the streets, it was how to slip away unseen.

  He moved carefully through his room, every step placed with intent. His sparring clothes were dark enough to blend, but he grabbed a heavy travel cloak from the wardrobe—one of Lurras’ old ones. Thick, lined, and most importantly, hooded.

  Didn’t matter if his wanted posters weren’t as widespread as they could be. The enforcers knew what they were looking for, and one glance from the wrong person could sink them all.

  His gaze flicked toward Soren’s empty bed, a twinge of guilt settling in his chest. He wasn’t the kind of person to leave his people behind. But after Ores’ fancy doctor had come the day before, Soren looked a hell of a lot better. Still weak, still too pale, but he wasn’t dying anymore.

  And Lukas needed to get out of here before the walls swallowed him whole.

  The window was his best bet.

  Lukas pressed a hand against the cool glass, peering down at the estate’s outer gardens. Torches lined the stone pathways, casting uneven pools of light against the high walls. The drop wasn’t impossible—two stories, easy landing. The trick wasn’t the fall. It was the sound.

  Lukas had never been a magi. Never wanted to be. But everyone picked up scraps of magic growing up in Jesarin. And if there was one trick he had learned from watching shadow magi move, it was how to steal some of their silence.

  He let out a slow breath, forcing his Essence into the soles of his feet. It wasn’t much—nothing compared to what real shadow casters could do. But it was just enough to dull the impact, to make his steps lighter, his descent quieter.

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  The air shifted as he swung himself over the ledge.

  The fall was instinct. A twist of his shoulders, a bend at the knees—he hit the ground in a crouch, a shadow among shadows. The air still held the scent of rain, thick and humid, muffling the soft scuff of his boots against stone.

  No alarms. No voices. No flickers of torchlight turning in his direction.

  He exhaled through his nose, adjusting his cloak.

  Jesarin’s streets stretched ahead of him, the sky burning deep orange and red as the last of the sun dipped beyond the rooftops. Thirty minutes, maybe less, before full dark. The perfect time to disappear.

  Finally.

  Finally, he could move.

  Lukas moved like a shadow slipping through the veins of Jesarin.

  The city's heartbeat was alive beneath his feet—the uneven clatter of carts rolling over stone, the distant hum of taverns waking up for the night, the flickering glow of lanterns reflecting off the slick alleys. Every breath of cool air filled his lungs like a relief he hadn't known he needed.

  He ran, not out of necessity, but because he could.

  The soft-soled boots Lurras had given him barely made a sound as he vaulted over a low wall, landing in a crouch before pushing forward, slipping between narrow alleyways, dodging the grasp of hanging laundry and discarded crates. His muscles burned, his heart pounded, but it felt good. It felt real.

  The silk-draped prison of Ores' estate had dulled his edges. Jesarin sharpened them again.

  Lukas slowed when he hit a wider street, sucking in a deep breath. His body hummed with energy, his mind sharper, clearer. Then—

  The scent hit him hard.

  His stomach twisted in on itself, the pull instant.

  Meat. Proper meat, roasting over an open spit, juices dripping down into the hot coals, filling the air with the rich, greasy warmth of real food. Not the delicate, spiced dishes of Ores’ kitchens—but food made for people who worked with their hands.

  His feet moved before he could think.

  Lukas turned the corner, already reaching for the small pouch at his belt—what little coin he still had—when his gaze snagged on something nailed to the wall beside the food cart.

  A wanted poster.

  His wanted poster.

  Lukas stopped cold.

  It was crude, ink bleeding into the parchment, but unmistakably him—square jaw, sharp nose, a scowl so deep he looked like he’d murdered someone just by looking at them.

  Someone had graffitied it.

  Messy red X’s had been scratched over his eyes, a crude set of fangs drawn over his mouth. A few words had been scrawled beneath it in a shaky, slanted hand.

  DEAD MEN DON’T RUN FOREVER.

  Lukas snorted. Charming. He almost wished he had the time to find out which bastard thought themselves a poet.

  It should have been funny. Should have felt like some grand achievement.

  But all he saw was a price on his head—and the familiar ache of being hunted.

  Still, he stepped forward and tore the poster down.

  He knew Gael would get a kick out of it, and it just felt right to take it. If nothing else, it would make good kindling for the hideout fireplace.

  He folded the parchment, stuffing it into his cloak.

  Then he turned back toward the cart, stepping closer—

  And that’s when he heard it.

  A dull thud. A grunt. The unmistakable crack of knuckles against ribs.

  And then—a voice. Small, pained. A boy.

  Lukas went still.

  A second later, the voice pleaded—and the decision was already made.

  The alley was narrow, damp, and smelled like piss. Lukas had spent enough time in places like this to know exactly what was happening before he even turned the corner.

  Three older boys, all rough around the edges—dirty clothes, lean faces, the kind that lived on scraps and desperation—had cornered a smaller kid against a stack of crates. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten, scrawny even for that age, clutching a threadbare satchel like his life depended on it.

  “Not my problem,” Lukas muttered under his breath.

  And yet, his feet kept moving.

  One of the older boys—tall, ugly, and built like a slab of bad meat—grabbed the kid by the collar, hoisting him up like he was no more than a stray cat.

  “Wrong street, runt,” the thug sneered. “Didn’t your ma ever tell you? Harrow boys don’t like sharing.”

  The kid squirmed, but he was too small to put up much of a fight. “I don’t got nothing!”

  Lukas sighed. He really should’ve just gotten his food and gone back to the manor.

  Instead, he rolled his shoulders, stepping into the alley like he owned it.

  Two were too scrawny to be real threats. The third? Big. Slow. The kind of fighter who relied on size alone to win. Lukas had fought plenty like him before.

  "Oi," he called lazily. "That the best threat you got? Gotta say, for a big bastard, you talk real small."

  The three thugs turned. The leader—Meat Slab, as Lukas had just dubbed him—squinted. "Who the fuck are you?"

  Lukas smiled. It wasn’t a friendly one.

  "Just a guy looking for a decent fight." His gaze flicked to the kid still dangling in the thug’s grip. "But if you’re all busy shaking down toddlers, I can come back later."

  Meat Slab scowled, dropping the boy unceremoniously. The kid hit the ground with a grunt and scrambled away on all fours, but he was smart enough not to run just yet.

  Lukas cracked his knuckles. “Tell you what—I’ll make it easy. You hit me first, and I won’t laugh.”

  That did it.

  Meat Slab’s expression twisted, fist cocking back like a loaded spring. Lukas let him come, let him wind up like an idiot—then moved first.

  One sharp step in. A clean, essence-laced punch straight to the jaw.

  CRACK.

  Meat Slab went stiff, his eyes rolling back—then crumpled like a sack of grain.

  The alley was dead silent.

  Lukas shook out his hand. Martyr, that felt good.

  He glanced at the other two thugs, grinning. "So. Who’s next?"

  Lukas had already read the fight before it even started.

  The moment Meat Slab hit the ground, the other two were dead men walking—and they knew it.

  They weren’t built for real fights. Skinny, wiry types, all bark and no bite, the kind that relied on numbers and intimidation. In their world, size meant power. And right now, Lukas had just shattered that belief in a single punch.

  So when he took a slow step forward, shoulders loose, expression unreadable—they ran.

  Didn’t even think about it. Just turned and bolted, their boots slapping against the damp stone, disappearing into the deeper alleys of the Harrows.

  Lukas huffed. Good call honestly.

  He turned back to Meat Slab, who was still sprawled unconscious on the ground, his jaw already starting to swell. Lukas crouched down, digging into the guy’s pockets like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  A handful of silvers and a few coppers—not much, but more than the kid would’ve had if these bastards had finished what they started.

  Lukas held the coins out to the boy.

  “For your troubles.”

  The kid hesitated, staring between the money and Lukas like he couldn’t decide if this was some kind of trick.

  Lukas rolled his eyes. “Take it, or I’ll wake up your buddy and let him have another round.”

  That did it.

  The boy snatched the coins, clutching them tight in his small, dirty hands, his fingers trembling slightly.

  “Thanks, mister,” he muttered, ducking his head.

  Lukas shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

  But just as he stood, stretching out his shoulders, his hood slipped back.

  The kid looked up.

  And froze.

  Lukas saw it in real time—the widening eyes, the flicker of recognition, the sharp inhale as everything clicked into place.

  He had seen the posters.

  And worse—Lukas had just handed him a damn good reason to use them.

  The kid hesitated.

  Lukas could see it—the warring thoughts behind his wide, hungry eyes.

  He wasn’t a bad kid. Just a desperate one.

  Ragged clothes, bare feet, the kind of thinness that came from too many skipped meals. He clutched the coins like they were life itself, his fingers tight, knuckles pale. But even as he held them, his gaze kept flicking toward something past Lukas.

  Lukas followed the glance.

  Two enforcers, draped in the steel-blue colors of Jesarin’s law.

  They had just approached the food stand down the street, one of them leaning lazily against the cart, exchanging a few casual words with the vendor. They weren’t looking this way—not yet.

  But the kid knew what they’d do if he pointed.

  Lukas saw the decision settle in his posture before he made it. Saw the way his grip tightened, his breath hitched.

  The Harrows didn’t breed loyalty. It bred survivors.

  Lukas sighed, rolling his shoulders as if he were shaking off an ache. Then, before the kid could bolt—he ruffled his hair.

  “Go ahead, kid.” His grin wild. “I don’t mind a chase.”

  The boy jerked under the touch, his breath catching—and then he ran.

  Lukas didn’t wait to watch.

  He was already moving, legs kicking off the cobblestone as the kid’s shout rang through the streets, the unmistakable bark of “He’s here!” sending a jolt of energy through the air.

  The enforcers turned.

  Lukas was already gone.

  ______________________________________________________________

  His breath burned in his lungs, but he was grinning.

  It really had been too long since he’d truly run.

  Not for training, not some escape—but for the sheer, wild thrill of it.

  The city blurred past him as he twisted through the alleys, leaping over crates, ducking under awnings, turning sharp corners without losing momentum. The enforcers were behind him, close, but not close enough. Their shouts bounced off the Harrows’ narrow streets, echoing between the stone walls, but Lukas had always been faster.

  And they didn’t know these streets like he did.

  By the time he finally slowed, his pulse was thrumming, his body alight with adrenaline.

  He leaned against the brick wall of a nondescript building, exhaling hard, dragging a hand through his hair. He had outrun them a few blocks back, but he’d kept moving just in case, winding his way through the deeper alleys until the sounds of pursuit had fully faded.

  Only then did he glance up, taking in his surroundings.

  He frowned.

  The hideout was much closer than Ores’ manor now.

  He smirked to himself, still catching his breath, before rolling his shoulders and heading for the hideout.

  The others were going to love this one.

  Lander was already talking by the time Gael settled into his usual seat in the hideout, his boots propped against the crate that had long since become an impromptu table. The space was dimly lit, warm with the scent of old parchment and burning candle wax, the hum of Jesarin’s distant night sounds filtering in through the loose wooden slats of the walls.

  Gael exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. This was familiar. The soft flicker of lantern light, the quiet murmur of conversation, the comfort of a space that belonged to them and no one else. No Ores, no manor, no watchful eyes. Just the crew.

  And yet, something felt different.

  Lander was rambling, half-listening to himself as he organized the small alchemy kit he had brought out. "—so, if we can get our hands on an actual blueprint of the auction house, it’ll make mapping out entry points a hell of a lot easier. Not to mention exits."

  Vess, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, scoffed. "I doubt they just leave those lying around, Lander."

  "Which is why I said if," Lander muttered, frowning as he adjusted a small glass vial. "A little patience wouldn’t kill you."

  Vess rolled her eyes, but before she could retort, the door swung open.

  Lukas strode in, still catching his breath, his usual sharp gait softened by exhaustion. His hair was mussed from the wind, the hood of his cloak hanging loose around his shoulders. He pulled it off with a quick jerk and let out a slow exhale, like he was shaking off the last of the chase.

  Gael arched a brow, already grinning. "You look like you had fun."

  Lukas shot him a look. "Depends on your definition."

  Vess straightened, eyes narrowing. "What did you do?"

  Lukas shrugged, stepping deeper into the room. "Got some fresh air. Picked up something for the wall." He reached into his coat and unfolded the wanted poster, flipping it onto the table for all to see.

  Vess groaned. "You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?"

  Gael grinned. "Oh, come on, this is history." He leaned forward, tapping the exaggerated scowl on the sketch. "You should be flattered, Lukas. They made you look ten years older and twice as angry."

  Lander squinted at the poster, shaking his head. "That’s… really bad art."

  Lukas huffed, dropping into a chair. "Tell me about it."

  The room eventually fell quiet, but it wasn’t the comfortable quiet Gael had grown accustomed too.

  Gael leaned back against the familiar green cushions as he spun the silver ring on his thumb. The hideout had always been their place—a sanctuary of sorts—but tonight, it felt different.

  Vess wasn’t pacing, but the way she stood—rigid, arms crossed, jaw tight—made it clear she was barely keeping herself from doing so.

  Lander, ever the neutral party, had taken to his small alchemy kit, carefully measuring out powders like this was just another conversation instead of what it really was. Lukas, still catching his breath from his chase, sat with his arms draped over the back of his chair, eyes flicking between them. He wasn’t intervening. Yet.

  Vess exhaled sharply. “Alright. Enough stalling. We need to talk about Ores.”

  And there it is.

  Gael hummed, stretching out his legs. “Was wondering when we’d get to that.”

  Vess shot him a glare, then turned her attention to the others. “We’re closer than ever,” she said, her voice low, serious. “She trusts us. Even more than I thought she would.”

  Lander nodded, adjusting his spectacles. “We’ve been in her house, seen how she operates. If we push a little further, we’ll know every pattern. How she moves. When she’s alone.”

  “She’s always alone,” Lukas muttered.

  Gael tapped his fingers against the table. “Not entirely. There’s Lurras.”

  Vess scoffed. “He’s barely a factor. You’ve seen him—he’s a glorified errand boy.”

  Gael didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but Vess had already made up her mind.

  Lander sighed, pushing his kit aside. “So what’s the move, then? The job goes off without a hitch, we get our coin—then what?”

  Vess didn’t hesitate. “Then we strike.”

  Lukas arched a brow. “Just like that?”

  “She’ll be at her weakest after the job,” Vess pressed. “Distracted. Off-guard. And now, we know exactly how she moves.”

  Gael rubbed at his jaw. “You really want to rush it?”

  Vess turned on him fully. “Yes.”

  A pause.

  Her eyes burned, her hands clenched at her sides.

  Gael sighed. He knew this fight was inevitable.

  Just not here. Not in front of the others.

  So instead, he exhaled slowly and met her gaze. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Vess didn’t look happy, but she didn’t push further.

  The room sat in uneasy silence.

  Jesarin hummed outside, the faint sounds of the lower districts pressing in—the chatter of merchants closing their stalls, the distant laughter from a tavern across the street, the echo of footsteps against stone.

  Lukas was the first to break the silence, letting out a dry chuckle. “Martyr, I missed this place.”

  Gael huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

  But even as he said it, his fingers curled slightly around the Catalyst hidden in his coat.

  ________________________________________________________

  The air was cooler up here.

  Gael exhaled slowly, rolling the Catalyst between his fingers, feeling the smooth weight of it in his palm.

  The rooftops had always been his favorite part of Jesarin. Up here, the world felt different—like it didn’t belong to anyone. Not the nobles with their gold-lined streets, not the enforcers marching their patrols, not the merchants barking their last deals before shutting their stalls. Up here, it was just him and the sky, just the wind threading through his hair, just the hum of the city existing below.

  Tonight, though, he wasn’t alone.

  The hatch creaked open behind him. He didn’t have to look.

  Vess slipped onto the ledge beside him, dropping down with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. The silk dress glimmered in the moonlight as he watched her.

  She stretched out her legs, letting out a quiet breath. “Better.”

  Gael smirked. “What, you didn’t like playing noble?”

  Vess scoffed, tugging the hem of her dress. “I’d rather walk barefoot through the Harrows.”

  Gael hummed, twirling the Catalyst between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me. You sure look the part.”

  She turned, arching a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Gael shrugged, still watching the stone in his palm. “Nothing. Just… I’ve never seen you in a dress before.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  Gael finally looked at her, lips quirking. “You look good.”

  Vess stared at him for a beat. Then she scoffed, shaking her head. “Alright. Who are you and what have you done with Gael?”

  “I’m serious,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “It weirdly suits you.”

  Vess made a dramatic gagging noise, shoving him back lightly. “You ever say something like that again, I’m throwing you off this roof.”

  Gael laughed, rolling his shoulder as he steadied himself. “Fair enough.”

  For a moment, it was easy.

  Just banter, jokes, familiar rhythms. The way it used to be before things got complicated.

  But then, Vess’ gaze flicked down.

  To his hand. To the Catalyst.

  The shift was immediate.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had it?”

  Gael sighed, rubbing a thumb over the stone. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

  “Didn’t think it—” Vess cut herself off, inhaling sharply. “Of course it matters, Gael."

  Gael didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rolled the stone in his palm, watching how it caught the moonlight.

  Vess’ jaw tensed. “She gave it to you, didn’t she?”

  He hesitated. Then, quietly— “Yeah.”

  Vess exhaled through her nose, looking away.

  Gael glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You mad?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I just—” Her fingers curled into a fist. “She keeps playing this game. Gifting you things. Giving you trust. And I—” She exhaled sharply, flexing her hands.

  Gael knew that look.

  “You’re getting too close,” she said, turning back to him. “I can see it. You actually like that monster.”

  Gael didn’t answer right away.

  Because what was he supposed to say? That she was wrong? That he didn’t respect Ores, the woman who had outmaneuvered them at every turn, who had tested him, challenged him, given him the means to become more than just another street rat in Jesarin?

  Vess turned toward him fully, expression unreadable.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  “I don’t even blame Lukas,” she muttered. “For attacking Ambrose there at the end.”

  Gael blinked, caught off guard by the shift.

  Vess leaned back on her palms, staring out at the rooftops. “I thought I would. Thought I’d be pissed he nearly got us caught. But if it had been me in that room, I would’ve done the exact same thing.”

  Gael studied her.

  She wasn’t angry—not like before. This was something else. Something tired.

  She exhaled, running a hand over her face. “Every time I see her, I think—how easy it would be. How simple.” She looked down at her hands. “Just one moment. One strike.”

  Gael stayed quiet.

  He knew what she was waiting for.

  For him to agree.

  For him to promise her.

  Instead, he sighed, leaning back against the rooftop’s ledge.

  “Let’s just finish the job first,” he said.

  Vess scoffed, shaking her head. “You always do this.”

  Gael quirked a brow. “Do what?”

  “Deflect. Joke. Push it off.”

  His usual grin flickered, just for a second. No hesitation. Something else. Like he was trying not to look at the truth too closely.

  Gael exhaled through his nose, spinning the Catalyst once more before tucking it into his coat.

  “You want me to promise something I can’t yet,” he said simply.

  Vess held his gaze.

  Then, finally—

  Vess scoffed, looking away. “You didn’t hesitate when you killed Alister.”

  Gael’s fingers tightened around the Catalyst.

  He swallowed. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not tonight. Not now.

  He could tell that she wanted to ask if he regretted it. If the weight of that night ever caught up to him.

  But then he spoke, voice quieter than before, the wind catching his words before they could settle.

  “Maybe I should have.”