She squeezes her eyes shut. Tears burn hot, slipping free despite her best effort to cage them. The questions circle anyway, sharp as broken glass. Why me? Why now? Why this burden? They spin and slice but never settle into answers. Only the sound of her own ragged breath and the fountain’s maddeningly gentle trickle remain.

  Then, a noise. Subtle. A branch shifting against the hedge. A shadow bending where it shouldn’t.

  Her head snaps up. Vision blurs. Chest tightens. "Who’s there," she whispers, barely audible, as if saying it out loud will make it less real. Maybe it’s just her mind skittering again.

  But her soul fire flares, quick, cold, electric. No. Someone is there.

  She steps back from the basin, heartbeat pounding until it fills her skull. The garden suddenly feels smaller. Hedges too tall, too close. Corners narrowing around her. She doesn’t wait to confirm anything. She pivots hard, crosses the gravel path in two fast strides, and shoves through the far gate.

  Someone there or not, she needs to move. Those creatures, whatever they were, could already be hunting. She can almost feel their reach brushing the edges of her thoughts.

  The hinges groan as she slips out. Her boots strike the cobblestone lane beyond, each step sounding too loud, too exposed. Wind rushes down the narrow street and twists her robes around her legs. Ahead, the rooftops dip toward the lower streets where the air grows thicker. Running would draw attention, but her steps lengthen anyway, urgency pressing tight around her ribs. That sensation of being watched refuses to leave.

  The path bends along the ridge. Far off, the River Mair cuts through the city like an old wound, wide, slow, reflecting a dull shard of morning light. The bridge stretching across it looms long and iron-bound, leading straight into the southern quarter. Another world entirely.

  She keeps moving toward it, stride purposeful, shoulders drawn tight. Behind her, the garden disappears from view. The bridge rises beneath her feet, every board and stone cold through the soles of her boots.

  Once, this was all one city, Marrow. But the river carved it into two hearts beating out of rhythm. The north grew into Highmarrow: polished, orderly, swollen with priests and traders. Across the water, the old name stayed. Marrow. Crowded, restless, alive in ways that always unnerved the people above.

  That’s where she’ll vanish. Where she needs to vanish. The south will swallow her whole if she’s lucky.

  Stepping onto the bridge, she watches the River Mair drag itself through the city’s gut, slow, silt-choked, heavy with secrets no one bothers to name. The iron beneath her vibrates with the steady thud of hooves and rattling cart wheels. On the far bank, Highmarrow’s polished spires dissolve into a smear of smoke and crooked rooftops.

  The southern quarter unfurls before her in a sprawl of alleys and leaning chimneys. Soot streaks the plaster walls. Ivy forces its way out of brick seams. Laundry whips between windows like flags of surrender. Somewhere behind a collapsing fence, dogs bark themselves hoarse. The air tastes of fried fat, stale beer, and metal.

  She lowers her head and steps straight into the chaos.

  Noise swallows her whole. A boy skids past hugging a squawking chicken. Two women bellow over a mound of onions. A shirtless man belts out a tune so off-key it warps the air, jingling trinkets from his coat like bait. Seren keeps her shoulders angled away, slipping between bodies with as little contact as possible, eyes locked on the path ahead. Her pale robe glows like a dropped star in the murk, too bright, too clean.

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  I stand out like a sore thumb. If I’d had even half a moment to think, I would’ve grabbed a cloak or something to cover this ridiculous robe. I’ve barely left the temple, let alone crossed into the lower quarter.

  A flicker of movement snaps her attention sideways. Under a timber awning across the street, a man stands, broad shoulders, rough face, the look of a dockhand except for the absolute stillness. A black cloak shrouds most of him, but his eyes stay fixed. When their gazes meet, his doesn’t slip away.

  Her stomach drops. She pivots sharply into the nearest alley.

  The walls immediately tighten around her, dark and damp, pipes leaking down the brick, crates stacked like obstacles waiting for her to trip. Her heartbeat stutters faster, her pace quickening as she forces herself deeper.

  Behind her, footsteps. Heavy. Intentional.

  Seren speeds up.

  The streets knot around her like a trap. She ducks under a hanging sheet, careens around a corner, and spills into a cramped yard littered with barrels. A man stands at the far end.

  Same cloak. Same boots.

  He lifts his head slowly. His eyes hold no emotion, no human recognition. But his focus lands on her with the weight of a closing fist.

  She doesn’t pause.

  Seren runs.

  Her heart slams against her ribs as she barrels through the tangle of streets. She slips between wagons, shoulder-checks a stall, crashes into a cart of fish, sending scales flying. Curses chase her as she tears free. A hand snatches at her sleeve, misses by a breath. She veers left, then hard right. Her chest burns, breath tearing raw, but the Starfire presses hot and steady against her sternum, holding her upright when her legs threaten to fold.

  How did they find her this fast? The thought lashes through her, messy and panicked. Maybe they aren’t the same ones, maybe they’re just the thieves and gutter-crawlers she’s always been warned about on this side of the river. Stupid, Seren. Stupid.

  She risks a glance over her shoulder.

  Empty street.

  Her steps stumble as she crosses a narrow footbridge with half its railing snapped away. Below, the water slides past in a sluggish, dark ribbon, choked with driftwood and whatever else the city has thrown at it. A bell rings somewhere in the distance, slow, indifferent.

  Maybe I lost them.

  She forces her breathing to steady. Pretends the tremor in her hands is fading. She rounds the next corner, and freezes.

  Another figure waits. Same cloak. Same stillness. That awful, statue-like patience. Her chest tightens, breath locking as she reels back a step.

  Her legs burn as she bolts again, shoving herself toward a quieter lane where the crowd thins and the noise dies. The buildings lean inward, shutting out what little light filters through the grime. A door nailed shut sits on one wall, a door barely hanging from its hinges on the next. The air tastes of mould and damp wood.

  She turns a corner, then stops dead.

  A wall. A dead end.

  Her pulse spikes. She whirls, ready to run again, but the street behind her stays empty. Still, something clings to her skin like cold fingers. They’re here. She can feel it. Hidden or not, they’re here.

  She retraces her route, right, then left, until a faded iron sign pulls her attention. A golden star, chipped and nearly rubbed away. A tavern droops beneath it, plaster cracked, windows blackened.

  She crosses quickly and grabs the handle. The door drags open with a weary groan. Inside, stale air greets her. Dust hangs in slow swirls. Warped shutters bleed only a thread of daylight into the room. Smoke has darkened the beams overhead. Three men sit hunched over their drinks; one snores with his head tipped back. None bother to look up.