Amiya's Perspective
The streets at night were a whole different world. Gone were the pristine hallways, the carefully maintained gardens, the endless watchful eyes of the palace. Out here, everything was louder, messier, more alive. The city wasn't asleep—it was breathing, pulsing, shifting like a living thing, filled with drunken laughter, hushed conversations, and the occasional shout of someone getting into trouble.
Amiya adjusted her stolen cloak, the rough fabric unfamiliar against her skin. She was still getting used to moving without being noticed, stepping lightly over the uneven cobblestone streets, keeping her hood low. A few hours outside the palace, and she was already realizing how little she actually knew about the city she was supposed to one day rule.
If she ever made it that far.
She needed to find shelter. Somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself—
CRASH.
The sound was so sudden, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her pulse lurched, every instinct screaming danger, but when she turned toward the source of the noise, she was met with something completely unexpected.
A man—tall, dressed in dark, worn clothing—was struggling in a tangled mess of crates, ropes, and what looked like a busted sack of flour. He was flat on his back, half-covered in debris, cursing under his breath as he tried to untangle himself.
Amiya just… stared.
He yanked at a piece of rope, only to have another crate slide and whack him straight in the face. He let out a frustrated groan, shoving it off.
And before she could stop herself, a sharp, undignified snort of laughter escaped her lips.
The man froze.
Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head in her direction. "The fuck was that?"
Amiya clamped a hand over her mouth. Shit.
"You laughin' at me?" he asked, still tangled in the mess, his voice full of irritation. "Because if you are, I—"
Another crate shifted, sending a pile of cloth tumbling onto his legs. He groaned dramatically. "—deserve it, honestly."
Amiya bit the inside of her cheek, trying to smother her amusement. She should walk away. She really, really should. But the way this man was sprawled out like he'd just lost a fight with gravity was too ridiculous to ignore.
"Well?" he prompted, eyes narrowing.
"Uh." Amiya cleared her throat, forcing a straight face. "Do you… need help?"
He blew a strand of dark hair out of his face. "What gave it away?"
"I don't know. Maybe the tragic way you're flailing around."
His eyes narrowed further. "I am not flailing."
Amiya crossed her arms. "You look like a fucking fish in a net."
His lips twitched, but he covered it with a scoff. "If you're done making fun of me, maybe you could be a decent person and give me a damn hand."
Amiya rolled her eyes, stepping forward with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But if you get stuck again, I'm leaving your ass here."
She crouched down and started working at the rope tangled around his leg. Up close, she noticed he wasn't as scrappy as he first seemed. His face was sharp, his striking emerald green eyes alert despite the situation. He had the build of someone who could handle himself—if not for his current predicament.
After a few frustrating moments of tugging at stubborn knots, he was finally free. He sat up with a relieved sigh, rubbing his face before grinning up at her. "You have my eternal gratitude, mysterious alleyway stranger."
"Don't mention it."
"No, really," he continued, standing up and dusting himself off. "I mean it. Thanks, uh… what's your name?"
Amiya hesitated. "Amiya."
The name left her lips before she could think better of it. It wasn't like he'd recognize it.
He raised an eyebrow. "Amiya, huh? Sounds fancy."
She forced a casual shrug. "It's just a name."
He smirked. "Right. And I'm just an honest businessman."
Amiya snorted. "You don't look like an honest anything."
Sylas grinned. "Fair. What about you? You don't exactly look like you belong around here either."
"Maybe I don't."
He studied her for a second, like he was trying to piece something together, but then shrugged. "Well, in any case, pleasure to meet you, Amiya. I'm Sylas."
She committed the name to memory, though she wasn't sure why.
"Well, Sylas," she said, stepping back, "try not to get into another tragic accident with a pile of crates."
"Can't make any promises," he replied. "Disaster just finds me."
Amiya rolled her eyes, pulling up her hood. "Good fucking luck with that."
And with that, she slipped back into the shadows, disappearing into the city.
Sylas's Perspective
Well, this was fucking absurd.
Sylas stood there for a moment, his fingers still clutching the rope, watching as the girl—Amiya—disappeared into the dark streets.
What the hell had just happened?
One minute, he was trying to move some stolen goods—nothing too fancy, just the usual shit—and the next, he's tangled in crates and flour bags like an absolute idiot, and some random stranger is laughing at him.
And not just any laugh. No, this girl—Amiya—had a laugh that punched right through the bullshit. It wasn't some cute giggle or fake courtesy; it was raw, like she saw straight through him. Which, considering the mess he'd made, she probably did.
And when she looked at him—shit, he could still feel it. Those eyes. There was something sharp about her, like she was sizing him up from the second she saw him. But she didn't let on, kept it cool. A bit too cool. She wasn't some innocent bystander; there was something more beneath the surface. Maybe it was the way she held herself, or maybe it was just the fact that she didn't hesitate to roast him for his miserable display.
But goddamn it, she'd also helped him. No one else would've even spared a second glance, let alone offer a hand, and she damn well didn't have to. She could've walked away, kept her distance, but instead, she stuck around long enough to untangle his stupid ass. A part of him was tempted to ask why, but he already knew the answer: she was probably bored. Maybe she liked the chaos.
Amiya.
That was the name she gave. And for some reason, he couldn't get it out of his head. She didn't seem like a typical street rat, not by a long shot. Too clean, too deliberate in the way she moved. He'd dealt with enough people to know when someone was hiding something, and she reeked of it. Not in a desperate way like the other desperate souls that ran through these alleys, but in a calculated, careful kind of way.
And the way she hesitated before telling him her name… that was the part that stuck with him. She almost didn't want to say it. Like she was debating whether to lie or not. That wasn't normal. No one in this part of the city cared enough to lie about their name, but this girl? She was different. He wasn't sure how yet, but he would find out. He wasn't the type to let a mystery slip through his fingers.
And then there was the way she called him out on his bullshit. "You don't look like an honest anything." That shit had stung a little more than it should've. Because, yeah, he wasn't. He was an asshole, a thief, a liar—hell, maybe even worse. But the fact that she could see it so clearly made him think. What was she hiding behind that cool, collected front?
Sylas couldn't decide whether he should be pissed off or impressed.
He cracked his knuckles, staring after her, his mind working a mile a minute. His gut told him he was going to run into her again. He could feel it in his bones. Trouble had a way of finding him, and she had trouble written all over her.
He stretched, his sore muscles protesting the movement, and glanced around at the mess of crates and broken flour sacks still littered around him.
"Fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He'd made a fool of himself—again. And the fact that this girl had witnessed it made it even worse. But it also made it… memorable.
Amiya.
It was a name he'd remember. Not just because it was unique, but because something about her gnawed at him. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she'd laughed at his expense, and the way she hadn't hesitated to help. She wasn't like anyone else he'd met in the city, and that intrigued him more than he was comfortable admitting.
Sylas shook his head, forcing himself to move. He had a job to do, and wasting time thinking about some girl who probably had her own secrets wasn't going to get him paid.
But as he turned to leave, he found himself looking over his shoulder one last time, half-expecting to see her lurking in the shadows again. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the city, the usual noise in the distance.
Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the last time he'd see her. There was more to her than she was letting on, and Sylas had a way of getting to the bottom of things, no matter how deep they went.
He chuckled darkly to himself, turning his back on the mess and walking into the night.
"Disaster just finds me," he muttered again, but this time, it sounded more like a warning than a joke.