Amiya's Perspective
The air outside the palace was colder than she had imagined, cutting through the thin fabric of her cloak like a blade. Every breath she took was sharp and stung her lungs, but it wasn't the chill that made her blood run cold. It was the weight of the unknown pressing down on her, the gnawing, relentless awareness that there was no going back. The palace was behind her, but it felt like an anchor, dragging her back every time she considered turning around. But there was no turning back. Not now.
She wasn't just running away; she was trying to become someone else entirely. She had to.
The city sprawled out before her like a labyrinth of stone and shadows, its crooked streets winding like a spider's web, each corner a new threat, each step a new danger. It was nothing like the controlled perfection of the palace—this place was alive in ways that made her skin crawl. Here, people didn't bow to you when you walked by; they didn't even look twice. They were too busy shouting at each other, arguing over things she could barely hear.
The sound of a cart's wheels rolling over cobblestones echoed through the alleyways, sharp and unforgiving. She could smell it all—the stench of sweat, food, horses, the faint trace of something burning in the distance. And then there was the noise. The laughter. The drunken voices spilling from a nearby tavern, too loud for the time of night, too rowdy for her nerves to handle.
She pressed herself closer to the side of the building, the damp stone digging into her back as she held her breath, hoping the men stumbling out of the tavern wouldn't see her.
"You hear that? Some fucking girl, wandering around this late," one of them slurred.
"Shut up, you idiot," another one barked, and she could hear the heavy thud of his boots against the ground as they staggered away. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stayed frozen in the dark corner, only releasing a slow breath when their voices faded.
That was too close.
She hadn't planned on being out here this long, and she certainly hadn't expected the night to feel this fucking dangerous. This wasn't just the city's grime she had to avoid; it was the people. The city was filled with faces she didn't recognize, and every one of them could be a threat.
She had spent so many years locked inside that damn palace, sheltered and protected, too damn naive to see the kind of shit people really went through out here. She knew nothing about survival. Her whole life had been nothing more than watching the world from behind gilded windows, a princess playing at being a person.
The tunic she wore now was nothing like the silk gowns she used to wear. It smelled like dust and something that might've once been leather. Her boots—too fucking big—slapped against the ground as she took slow, cautious steps into the deeper parts of the city. She could feel the dagger strapped to her thigh, a cold, heavy reminder that she wasn't totally helpless. But was she ready to use it if she needed to? Could she?
She didn't know. And she hated not knowing.
She rounded another corner, the buildings leaning closer now, the streets narrow and constricting. Everything felt like it was closing in. Her heart hammered faster in her chest, the frantic thud of her pulse not helping the fucking panic gnawing at her insides. She needed to find a place to rest, to figure out what came next. But where? Where the fuck was she supposed to go?
As she moved forward, her eyes scanned the street ahead, and that's when she heard it—the low murmur of footsteps, deliberate and heavy. Not the clattering of drunk men or the rush of a cart. These were purposeful.
Her breath hitched as she pressed herself into the dark alcove between two buildings, her heart threatening to explode from her chest. Her fingers grazed the cold steel of the dagger, but she didn't move. Not yet.
The footsteps came closer, slow, steady, and fucking dangerous. She dared not breathe too loud, afraid they might hear her—whoever the hell they were.
They passed her without a word, but she didn't exhale until she couldn't hear them anymore. God, she was fucking losing it.
She wasn't free. Not yet.
She kept moving, but now, every step felt like a calculated risk, a whisper of danger riding the night air. Her mind kept racing: What if they came back? What if someone recognized her? She didn't even know where the hell she was going.
The streets were unfamiliar. The walls seemed to close in the longer she walked, as though the city itself were a trap closing around her. She had escaped the palace, but what the hell was she supposed to do next?
The fear that she might not make it much longer—that she might vanish in the night like so many others before her—kept her moving.
And she hated that. Hated the feeling of being lost in the world, with nothing but a dagger at her side and the cold, lonely street before her.
Sylas's Perspective
The shop felt as much of a shithole as it ever did. The walls were cluttered with old junk, some of it valuable, some of it nothing more than trash that had been thrown into the corner to rot. The smell of mildew hung in the air, thick and suffocating, the kind that reminded him of places you didn't want to think about, places that made you question your life choices. He'd been here enough times to know the drill: get in, get the info or the goods, and get the fuck out.
When Orin cracked open the door, his eyes barely open, Sylas didn't wait for an invitation. He shoved past the old bastard, ignoring the usual grumble of complaint.
"Not wasting time," Sylas muttered, slamming the door behind him. The rickety little shop was the same as ever—dark, cramped, the scent of rotting wood and damp air filling his lungs. He could feel the weight of the pendant in his pocket, digging into him like a fucking curse.
"You've got what I asked for, I assume?" Orin rasped from behind the counter, his voice thick with the remnants of whatever rotgut he'd been drinking earlier. The old bastard was drunker than usual, but that didn't mean he was any less dangerous.
Sylas didn't give a shit. "Cut the crap, Orin. You got something for me or not?"
Orin's eyes flicked up from where he was slumped in his chair, a knowing look flicking across his tired face. "Didn't think you'd come back so soon, kid. Figured you'd be sleeping off whatever mess you got into."
"Yeah, well, you're wrong," Sylas growled, reaching into his satchel. "I've got something for you. But don't expect it to come cheap."
He pulled the pendant from his bag, the weight of it heavy in his palm. The thing gleamed even in the low light of the shop, the intricate engravings shimmering as if the damn thing had a life of its own.
Orin's bloodshot eyes narrowed as they dropped to the pendant, and just like that, the room shifted. The air seemed to thicken with something dangerous, something more than the normal buzz of shady deals.
"Where the fuck did you get this?" Orin's voice dropped low, a rare edge of seriousness breaking through his usual cynicism.
Sylas clenched his jaw. "Doesn't matter."
Orin's laugh was short, brittle. "It matters when you've got something this fucking royal in your hands, kid. I'm not talking about noble house shit. This is the kind of thing that makes people take their knives out in the streets. This is worth more than your life."
The words hit Sylas like a punch in the gut, but he didn't let it show. He'd known there was something off about the damn pendant the moment he laid eyes on it, but hearing it laid out like that made his stomach twist.
"I'll still take it," Orin continued, leaning forward, his voice turning slick, like a snake in the grass. "But you gotta know, this isn't something you can just flip on the street. This is gonna take time, and I'm not doing this for pennies. This'll cost you."
Sylas didn't want to hear the details. "Just give me the fucking number, Orin. Don't make me ask again."
Orin smirked, a slow, sick smile that curled at the edge of his lips. "You've got it. But don't say I didn't warn you. You wanna cut now, you'll get a cut. But full price? You wait. And waiting, well…" He let the words hang in the air like a threat.
"I'm not waiting. Give me the cut now, and we'll finish this later," Sylas growled.
Orin shrugged, reaching beneath the counter to pull out a leather pouch. It landed with a soft thud in front of Sylas, and he grabbed it without hesitation. He weighed it in his hand, testing the contents before slipping it into his belt, a grimace tugging at his features.
He should've felt lighter. He should've felt relieved. But instead, all he could feel was the goddamn unease gnawing at his insides.
As he stepped back out into the night, the shadows pressing in on him, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just sealed his fate.
Something was coming.
And it wasn't going to be pretty.