Dawn settled over Mirage without ever truly softening it. The streets were quieter, the drunken shouting replaced by a low hum of merchants beginning to set up, exhausted gamblers dragging their feet toward whatever beds they crawled out of. The air still smelled like smoke, sweat, and cheap oil from last night’s pit matches.

  Raizō woke first, as always. His breathing was steady, eyes opening without hesitation. Shizume, already awake and pretending she hadn’t spent the last few hours observing every movement he made, shifted slightly when he sat up. Taren groaned something about his back. Seris tightened her armor straps with efficient precision.

  The dining hall was already loud when they arrived. Plates scraped against wood. Cups clinked. People talked over one another like the night had never happened. The smell of bread and grease filled the room, warm and heavy. None of them spoke much as they descended into the tavern’s common room. Rylan was already there. He sat at a corner table, chair tilted back, one boot hooked around the leg. He was already eating, already relaxed, already looking like he’d been waiting for them. When their eyes met, Rylan smiled and lifted his cup in greeting.

  “Morning, criminals.”

  Raizō looked away. They took a table on the opposite side of the room. Taren dropped into his seat with a tired breath. “I’m starving,” he muttered. “If this place poisons us, at least I’ll die full.” Seris sat across from him, scanning the room out of habit. Shizume took the seat closest to the wall, her posture alert even now. No one acknowledged Rylan. They ordered food. Real food. Hot. Filling. The kind that made the body remember it was still alive. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

  Then Seris spoke. “We can’t stay here long.”

  Taren nodded. “Khareen’s loud, but it’s not safe.”

  Shizume glanced toward the entrance. “The longer we stay, the easier we are to track.”

  Raizō wiped his hands on a cloth. “Aseran.”

  Seris looked at him. “Yes. That was always the plan.”

  A chair scraped against the floor. Rylan had stood up. He didn’t ask permission before joining them. He pulled out the empty chair at their table and sat down, setting his plate between Seris and Shizume like he belonged there.

  “Aseran,” he said casually. “That’s bold.”

  Taren’s jaw tightened. “We weren’t talking to you.”

  Rylan shrugged. “You weren’t whispering.”

  Seris met his eyes. “You heard us.”

  “Hard not to,” he said. “Especially when you’re talking about walking straight into the city run by the same people who slapped your faces on wanted posters.”

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  Rylan smiled wider. “And you still plan on going to Aseran.”

  “Yes,” Seris repeated.

  Rylan tilted his head. “Why?”

  Seris didn’t hesitate. “Because that’s where the truth is.”

  That caught his attention.

  “Oh?” he said. “You planning on praying them into honesty?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “We plan on exposing them.”

  For a moment, Rylan just looked at her. Then he laughed. Not mocking. Not cruel. Almost impressed.

  “I’d love to see that,” he said. “Truly. I would.”

  Taren crossed his arms. “Then stop smiling like it’s a joke.”

  Rylan’s grin faded just a little. “I’m smiling because you have no idea how hard that will be.”

  Seris didn’t argue. “We know it won’t be easy.”

  Rylan leaned forward. “Do you even have a plan?”

  Silence.

  Raizō didn’t look at Seris. He didn’t look at Shizume or Taren either. Because there wasn’t one.

  Rylan exhaled through his nose. “That’s what I thought.”

  Rylan leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to feel intentional.

  “There are ways into Aseran that don’t involve gates or blessing papers,” he said. “Old routes. Service paths. Places the Church stopped watching because they think no one uses them anymore.”

  Shizume glanced at Raizō. Seris didn’t look away from Rylan.

  “You know one,” Seris said.

  “I know a few,” Rylan replied. “And I know which ones won’t get you killed before you even step inside the city. There’s one in particular, an old sewer system. Half of it predates the Church’s reconstruction. The tunnel bypasses guards, checkpoints, everything.”

  Seris narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

  Rylan smirked. “I get around.”

  No one liked that answer. But it was useful.

  Raizō considered it for a moment.

  “I’m not going with you, by the way. I like being alive. Inquisitors tend to ruin that.”

  “No one asked,” Shizume muttered.

  “Exactly,” Rylan replied. “Which is why I’m worried.”

  Taren smirked. “You don’t strike me as the ‘charge the Church head-on’ type anyway.”

  Rylan chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

  Seris leaned forward. “We’re not dragging anyone else into this. Especially not someone who survives by slipping away when things go south.”

  Rylan looked at her as if offended. “Rude.”

  Raizō met his eyes. “After that, we walk alone.”

  Rylan smiled again, but this time there was something sharper behind it.

  “That’s usually where people regret not having help,” he said.

  Raizō didn’t flinch. “We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

  He paused, then added lightly, “Try not to die before then. It’d make this very awkward.”

  And with that, he began to tell them the route.

  Frostmarch’s nights were quiet in the way that disciplined nations were, structured, intentional, cold. In the heart of the Glass Court, Verrin sat behind his desk sorting through neatly stacked reports, diagrams, and coded messages. A lantern cast a pale blue glow across the room, illuminating his focused expression.

  A soft knock broke the silence.

  “Enter,” Verrin said without looking up.

  A Black Sigil assassin stepped inside and knelt, presenting a sealed envelope.

  “We found something, my lord.”

  Verrin finally lifted his gaze. The assassin placed the envelope into his hand. Verrin opened it. His eyes scanned the page.

  He stopped.

  Slowly, a smirk crept across his face, sleek, precise, amused.

  “…Interesting.”

  He read it again, savoring the discovery.

  “So you were hiding this from me, Raizō Kurozawa…?”

  The lantern light flickered against his sharp features. Verrin tapped the paper once with a gloved finger, thoughtful.

  “Or should I say…”

  A soft, chilling pause.

  “…Seventh.”

  The assassin lowered their head, uneasy. Verrin folded the paper carefully.

  “Keep watching him. Do not interfere. Not yet.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When the assassin disappeared, Verrin leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing with palpable anticipation.

  “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured. “Let’s see how long you stay hidden.”

  The lantern dimmed.