It took about thirty minutes at a light jog to reach the edge of the city. Passing through the gates had been surprisingly easy—guards cared more about strangers entering than slipping away.

  Getting back in would be another matter, but I pushed the thought aside.

  Even with the twin moons at their zenith, Draan pulsed with life.

  People gathered on street corners, relaxing from a hard day's work and discussing the latest gossip.

  People clustered on street corners, laughing and trading gossip like coin. Wives called for their husbands; husbands ducked into taverns. Children shrieked with joy, chasing one another through the alleys, as if the night itself were something to be outrun.

  I moved through the temple district, head tilted back to take in the towering columns. Incense drifted in the air. Worshippers filled the steps, some deep in contemplative silence, others singing or chanting with infectious energy.

  Even the gods felt louder here.

  My eyes widened in mixed terror and wonder as a member of the Roth strode past. He wore black leather armour, a single ruby shaped like a teardrop gleaming at the centre of his chest.

  Strapped to his back was a xyroth—a double-bladed sword-staff said to cut through steel and minds alike.

  The Roth were myth and menace. Whispers said they could read thoughts, conjure nightmares, and hurl grown men like dolls with a flick of the wrist.

  His uniform was plain but augmented with wealth: golden clasps woven into dark braids, a ruby-set circlet pulling his hair from his face. His green eyes were sharp as knives. Gold bracers shone on his forearms and shins, framing the shadow of his steps like trophies.

  He turned. Just slightly. His gaze flicked to mine.

  My breath caught.

  Could he sense me? Read me?

  I turned away sharply, pulse pounding. If he saw through my disguise, he could drag me back to the palace—and worse.

  I slipped into the crowd, head low, but the weight of his gaze lingered. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was following me, trailing just behind. I almost thought I could feel him skimming my thoughts like fingers brushing across water.

  A shout broke the silence ahead.

  Two men stood in the temple district’s central plaza, robes fluttering like the wings of aggravated birds. Their voices clashed as fiercely as their ideologies—one cried for the mercy of the Ral and Turos, the other roared about the divine wrath of Tyrannichus.

  Others joined in—some jeering, others chanting. A crowd formed like a gathering storm.

  I risked a glance back. The Roth had stopped at the edge of the square, green eyes flicking between me and the swelling chaos.

  Then he turned, his cloak snapping behind him, swallowed by the crowd as he moved away.

  I exhaled slowly, unsure whether I’d escaped his attention—or if I’d merely been postponed.

  I lingered at the edge of the square, heart still pounding in my ears. The crowd closed behind me, as if the city itself had decided to protect me.

  For a moment, I stood still, trying to catch my breath. My hands trembled, and I shoved them into the folds of my cloak to hide it—from the people, from myself.

  That had been too close.

  I turned away, pulling the cloak tighter, trying to disappear into the rhythm of the streets.

  My nerves still thrummed from the Roth’s gaze, my body moving but my mind tangled in a haze of what-ifs. What if he’d followed? What if he was inside my thoughts even now?

  I drifted through the crowd like smoke, heart slowly easing from its frantic rhythm.

  Just as I felt my nerves begin to settle, I caught movement above—deliberate, and familiar.

  A shadow peeled away from the stone of a nearby rooftop, moving with practiced grace—but with a hitch in the step. A limp.

  Left?

  The figure vaulted to the next rooftop and vanished.

  I was running before I’d made the decision. My feet moved of their own accord, as if pulled by the thread of memory.

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  He was fast—too fast—but I knew his rhythm. I’d memorized the tempo of his strikes, the slack in his left leg, the arc of his leap.

  I scanned each alley gap, watching for the weight shift, the stutter in his landing.

  There!

  I surged forward—

  —and collided with something solid and unsteady.

  Boxes scattered. A girl toppled backward onto the street.

  "Sorry!" I yelped, frantically rushing to help. I reached out, gently gripping her elbow to steady her—my hand nearly encircled it completely. I lifted her with ease.

  She looked up.

  Honey-coloured hair framed her face, backlit by the soft glow of a bolt-bug lantern. Her eyes were deep brown-gold—wide, alert, but not angry. Just concerned, already scanning the street for her scattered cargo.

  As she bent to retrieve it, her hair shifted, revealing a small birthmark that curled from the corner of her right eye into her hairline.

  She’s beautiful, was my only thought as she slipped her arm from my grasp and knelt.

  I followed her down, scooping up a handful of spilled goods—grains, coffee beans, strips of salted meat—and held them out sheepishly.

  “Apologies, Vorus. I should’ve been watching where I was going,” she said quickly, offering a brief curtsy as her eyes flicked to the fine stitching beneath my cloak.

  Lowborn, clearly—but her golden skin marked her as someone who spent little time in the Dead God’s gaze.

  She motioned to take the box, yet I withheld it, leaping at the opportunity to spend more time in her presence.

  “Allow me,” I said, summoning my most courtly tone.

  It came out softer than I’d intended. Meeker.

  "It is the least I can do for bowling you over like a stampeding night mare at mealtime."

  She looked unsure, but after a moment’s hesitation, gave a small nod.

  “Thank you, Vorus,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

  I winced. “There’s no need for that,” I replied, gesturing for her to walk beside me.

  We walked in silence for a while—I shortened my long strides to allow her to keep pace at my side.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, eager to break the silence.

  “Tala,” she replied, curt but not unkind.

  Tala, the voice lingered in my mind like a sweet melody.

  "Do you have a name, or shall I just refer to you as my Nightmare?" she smirked.

  I blinked. “Oh.” Her boldness surprised me—and so did the fact that I liked it.

  She flushed, looking down, as if her words had outrun her control.

  I hesitated. I’d never had to introduce myself before. In the palace, everyone knew my name—and feared it.

  The thought of her stammering my title like a plea made my stomach turn. I wanted to keep the mischief in her voice, the spark in her eyes.

  “I think I prefer Nightmare over ‘Uh,’” she teased, casting a sideways glance to check if I’d caught the joke.

  I smiled. It felt strange on my face—but good.

  “Onyx,” I said at last. “My name is Onyx.”

  “Onyx,” she repeated, then nodded with a small grin. “Suits you better than Nightmare anyway.”

  I returned her smile, unsure how to respond.

  A flicker of movement on the rooftop drew my gaze—but by the time I focused, the shape had already melted into shadow.

  With a shrug, my search for Left was abandoned. Whatever ghosts I’d been chasing, they could wait.

  Tala was here, real, and radiant. I wanted to soak up every second.

  Below, hushed but urgent voices caught my attention. Two men lingered at the mouth of an alley, half-swallowed by darkness, their whispers sharp-edged and hurried. They glanced around with the paranoia of men up to no good.

  A hand waved before my face, jerking me back into the present.

  “Am I boring you?” Tala asked, moving on before I could answer.

  “No, I just—” I caught up quickly, not wanting to disappoint her. “I’ve never been to this part of the city. There’s so much to see.”

  The words felt truer than I expected.

  “The knifeheads—the guards,” she added at my perplexed look, “don’t patrol here as often as the other wards. People tend to be a bit more relaxed here. Sometimes too much.”

  She eyed a portly man down a side alley, drunkenly attempting to wrest his wayward breeches from around his ankles.

  Heat crept into my cheeks before I could stop it. Tala giggled.

  But she was right. This part of Draan felt different. Children darted between stalls, laughing freely. Adults walked with ease, eyes lifted, exchanging greetings instead of glances at the ground.

  My eyes caught on a nearby carving: a thorned motif of my father’s face, his stern visage etched in cold stone. A reminder of his constant gaze.

  But someone had defied it. A child, most likely, had scratched rough, multi-coloured flowers into the grooves. The small burst of colour served to soften the hardened message of an ever-watchful and merciless God-King; clumsy blossoms blooming over wrath.

  I smiled lightly, revelling in the warmth and life of the city; a stark contrast to the dark and winding corridors of my home.

  Here, people smiled and laughed, nodding in my direction as they passed. In the palace, they scurried like mice, heads down, flinching from shadows.

  Here… they simply lived.

  “This is me,” Tala said, coming to a stop before a raucous tavern.

  Inside, voices roared over a cacophony of upbeat music, a kind of joyful chaos spilling into the street. The building itself was rustic—rough-hewn stone stained with time and weather, patched and re-patched with stubborn care. A sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze, marked with flaking paint: The Beating Heart.

  “My father owns the place,” she explained. “I can’t stand the smell, and the patrons have manners that would be commonplace in a barn, but it keeps a roof over our heads.”

  I had nothing to say in way of reply.

  What could I say? I’d never wanted for anything. I’d never had to stomach foul smells or rowdy strangers just to keep a roof above me.

  Yet as I looked at the crooked door and the light spilling from within, I found myself envying her.

  “Sorry again for knocking you over,” I said, placing the box gently by the door.

  “It’s okay. Everyone has a nightmare sometimes,” she said with a knowing smirk.

  I matched it, trying to savor the moment before it slipped away.

  I knew I should’ve left. It was the natural end to our brief encounter. But the thought of walking away—of not knowing if I’d ever see her again—made my feet refuse to move.

  The silence between us thickened.

  “Uh, bye Tala,” I said, uncertainly thrusting my hand out to shake. Stupid!

  She chuckled and took it. Her hand was warm, but not soft; calloused by years of hard work and sacrifice.

  I barely had time to register the thought before a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  The grip tightened, spun me around.

  I turned to find a young man, roughly my height, with a shock of dark hair, shaved at the sides. Icy-blue eyes burned from beneath errant curls. A straight nose with a slight curve, denoting a previous break. Full lips pulled into a snarl.

  "Romulan, no!" Tala cried—

  —just as his fist crashed toward my face.