The warlock’s door shut behind us with a dull thud, the smell of smoke and herbs still clinging to my hair. My stomach was unsettled from the potion, my head foggy, but the cool air of dusk steadied me. Ahead, the path wound downward toward the cluster of rooftops I’d glimpsed on the way here, the village spread out at the forest’s edge, chimneys breathing pale smoke into the fading light.

  Grabber adjusted the strap of his satchel with brisk finality. “We shouldn’t linger. Thorne can stay behind and get what we need, but we should start making our way back.”

  “Efficient,” Riven muttered.

  “Necessary,” Grabber corrected.

  I stopped dead in the path. “Wait. That’s it? We’re finally near civilization and I’m not even allowed to look around?”

  Thorne arched a brow, grin sharp as always. “Careful, Soren. She sounds mutinous.”

  I ignored him, fixing my gaze on the one I knew made the decisions. “You took me to a warlock without warning, shoved a potion down my throat, and acted like it was all perfectly normal. The least you could do is let me walk through an actual market without treating me like a package you’re smuggling.”

  Riven’s head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t safe.”

  “It hasn’t been safe since the day you dragged me into this,” I shot back, though my tone softened near the end. “Just a little while. One street. I just… want to feel like a person again. Not a problem to solve.”

  For once, silence stretched between them. Grabber’s eyes flicked over me, weighing something behind his cold expression. Thorne leaned lazily against a tree, clearly enjoying the standoff.

  Finally, Grabber sighed, sharp and annoyed. “If we do this, one of us stays with you at all times. No exceptions. The second it feels wrong, we’re gone.”

  A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. “Deal.”

  “Gods,” Riven muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s going shopping.”

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  The village came into view as the road bent, thatched roofs pressed close, smoke curling into the dusk, the murmur of voices and clatter of wagons rising like a tide. From where I stood, it looked almost ordinary. Almost safe.

  But I wasn’t part of that world. Not now.

  The warlock’s potion still clung to my veins, humming low and restless under my skin. I could see the villagers as clearly as I saw Riven and Grabber beside me, a younger man carrying a basket of bread, another tugging a goat through the square, men unloading barrels at the tavern, but none of them looked my way. None of them even flinched when I stepped closer.

  I might as well have been a ghost.

  “Stay close,” Grabber murmured under his breath. His eyes scanned the market, always calculating. “You may be invisible, but you still have a shadow. If you drift away on your own, someone is bound to notice a shadow without a body on the other end. That draws more attention than you think.”

  “Noted,” I muttered, though my feet were already carrying me forward, drawn toward the stalls and their riot of color.

  The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, sweet cider, freshly turned earth from crates of root vegetables. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, their light spilling over bolts of fabric, glass jars of honey, knives laid out in rows sharp enough to glint.

  I stopped near a table of carved figurines, small animals and birds lined neatly in rows. My fingers itched to touch one, a tiny fox, its tail curled, but I caught myself. If I lifted it, the merchant would see nothing but a trinket floating through the air.

  I glanced at Riven. His mouth was curved in a humorless half-smile, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Don’t,” he warned.

  “Can’t I at least look?” I whispered.

  “You can look all you want,” Grabber said quietly, his hand brushing against the small of my back, subtle pressure to keep me moving. “But no touching. No talking. You’re not here, Liora. Remember that.”

  The words prickled, but the truth of them weighed heavier. I wasn’t here. Not to these people.

  Still, I lingered at every stall. A baker dusted loaves with flour, steam curling from the crusts. Children darted through the square, shrieking laughter as they chased each other around the fountain. Musicians tuned their instruments, one drawing a slow wail from a fiddle that cut through the noise like a thread of light.

  For a few moments, I let myself imagine what it would be like to belong here. To haggle for bread, to laugh with strangers, to dance in the square until my feet ached. The longing twisted sharp in my chest.

  “You’re smiling,” Riven said quietly, stepping close enough that only I could hear.

  “So what if I am?”

  His expression didn’t soften, but his gaze lingered on me a second longer than it needed to.

  We moved deeper into the market, my steps slower now, reluctant to let the moment slip away. But no matter how carefully I tried to pretend, the truth was there in every glance that slid past me, no one could see me. Not the baker dusting loaves, not the children shrieking with laughter, not the fiddler coaxing music into the dusk.

  To them, I was nothing.

  And yet, to the men beside me, I was everything. The secret they carried. The danger everyone seemed to want.

  The thought left my stomach cold, even as the music swelled and the air thickened with the smell of roasted meat.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  The market had thinned some by late afternoon. The bright buzz of morning had mellowed into something slower, the laughter quieter, the musicians fewer. I’d pressed for one last turn around the square before we left, wanting to see the painted glass charms that caught the sunset like fire.

  Grabber had argued. He always argued. But in the end, he relented, muttering under his breath about “spoiled girls who don’t understand danger.”

  He didn’t let me go alone, of course. He walked half a step behind me, looming like a shadow I couldn’t shake. And Riven was already there, having returned from scouting the edge of the square. He cut through the crowd toward us, slipping into step at my other side with a look that said he hadn’t been asked but had come anyway.

  Together, we made an odd group: me between them, unseen by most eyes, flanked by men who carried danger like a second skin.

  Grabber’s hand ghosted near me every time the crowd pressed too close. Riven didn’t touch me, but his gaze was a constant sweep, stalls, rooftops, doorways, shadows.

  “You’re twitching,” I murmured, forcing lightness into my voice.

  Riven’s jaw flexed, though his eyes never stopped moving. “I don’t twitch.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  He didn’t smile.

  Grabber was less subtle. He muttered a curse, sharp and low, when a man brushed too near. “You’ve had your fun,” he said to me, though his eyes were fixed elsewhere. “We’re leaving.”

  I frowned. “We just -”

  “Quiet,” he snapped, then leaned closer, voice dropping. “Something’s wrong.”

  Riven’s hand closed briefly around my wrist, not rough, but firm, anchoring me. He leaned in just enough for his words to cut through the noise. “Don’t argue. Just keep walking.”

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  I followed their line of sight then, scanning the crowd. At first, nothing seemed amiss.

  But then I saw it.

  A shape too still in the swirl of movement. A man leaning against a post, his eyes sharp, not wandering like a shopper’s but fixed, measuring. Another figure by the fountain, adjusting the strap of a crossbow, and another slipping into the crowd from the far edge of the square, his smile too deliberate, too cold.

  One by one, I spotted them. Shadows closing in.

  They weren’t looking at me, they couldn’t.

  They were looking at my men. And their eyes were roaming over the empty space between them.

  Grabber’s hand stayed on my wrist, steering me without pause. “Left,” he muttered. “Now.”

  Riven had already shifted, his body angled protectively between me and the man with the crossbow.

  We moved, slow enough not to draw attention, fast enough that my pulse stumbled to keep up.

  And then -

  A flick of a hand from one of the watchers. A signal.

  The hair on my arms rose. My stomach dropped.

  Grabber cursed under his breath. “Fuck. We stayed too long.”

  That was when the first bolt flew.

  Riven yanked me sideways before I even registered the glint of metal. The bolt thudded into the wooden stall where my head had been, splintering a basket of bright red apples that rained down across the stones. Shouts erupted, first confusion, then panic as the crowd realized what was happening.

  “Down!” Grabber barked, his arm shoving me hard against the side of the stall. His dagger was in his hand so fast I hadn’t even seen him draw it.

  Riven’s sword cleared its sheath with a metallic snap, his eyes already locking on the man with the crossbow. The attacker was reloading, too calm for the chaos he’d caused.

  Another bolt whistled past, aimed not at me, but at Riven. He twisted, the shaft grazing his arm, tearing fabric and flesh. His teeth clenched, but he didn’t falter.

  “They can’t see her,” Grabber snarled, his body pressing me deeper into the stall’s shadow. “They’re not aiming for her, they’re aiming for us.”

  He was right. The watchers weren’t looking toward me at all. They were targeting my men, and my men only, cutting them down to clear the path, to leave me exposed once the invisibility failed.

  The crowd screamed, scattering in every direction. Stalls overturned, baskets spilled, tables cracked beneath fleeing feet. And through it all, the attackers moved with purpose, weapons gleaming, forming a ring that began to tighten.

  Riven lunged forward, blade flashing. He caught the crossbowman before he could reload, steel biting into leather, flesh, and bone. The man crumpled with a wet gasp.

  But another took his place.

  “Move!” Grabber shoved me hard toward a narrow lane between stalls. I stumbled, invisible feet kicking up dust that no one else could see. He stayed close, his arm braced against mine to guide me through the surge.

  Riven backed toward us, covering the retreat, his blade a silver blur.

  A dagger flew from somewhere in the crowd, fast as lightning. It would’ve caught me clean in the chest, if Grabber hadn’t seen the angle. His hand shot out, catching it by the hilt in midair with a speed that seemed inhuman. He twisted, teeth bared, and sent it spinning back into the fray.

  A scream answered a moment later.

  But for every man that fell, two more seemed to press in.

  Riven’s voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding. “Run. Get her out.”

  My heart seized. “No -”

  “Now!”

  Grabber didn’t wait for me to argue. His hand clamped around my arm, and suddenly we were moving, fast, so fast I barely kept my feet beneath me as he barreled us down a side street. The world blurred, shouts, steel, splintering wood, the sharp tang of blood in the air.

  Behind us, Riven fought, the ring of steel on steel echoing like a terrible heartbeat.

  And somewhere across the square, through the fleeing villagers, the chaos, the smoke, I saw Thorne.

  He was fighting his way toward us, every stroke of his blade brutal, desperate. His face, gods, his face, was carved with something I’d never seen before. Not his usual grin. Not his easy arrogance. But fury, and fear, and a raw determination that made my stomach twist.

  He was trying to reach me. And he would kill every man in his path if he had to.

  Grabber dragged me harder, faster.

  “This way,” he growled. “Don’t look back.”

  But I couldn’t help it. I looked.

  I saw Riven cut another man down, only to be forced back by three more. I saw Thorne slash through a spear-wielder, his arm bleeding, his eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the square that mattered.

  And then, I saw another arrow flying straight for Riven’s unguarded back.

  I screamed, but my voice was swallowed in the chaos.

  The arrow screamed through the air.

  Riven twisted just in time, the shaft carving a bloody line across his shoulder instead of burying itself in his spine. The cut bloomed red, but he barely seemed to feel it; a shimmer seemed to ripple across his skin, with the cut slowly disappearing. He staggered once, breath sharp between his teeth, then moved again, faster, lighter, as if the air itself leaned to help him.

  When the next attacker lunged, Riven moved with sudden, inhuman grace. From where I stood, I could see his lips moving, though no sound reached me. His blade rose in a vicious upward strike that split one man from hip to rib, and before the next could react, something unseen seemed to seize him, holding him rigid for a heartbeat too long. Riven was already there when the spell broke, his sword finishing what the magic had begun.

  “Go!” he barked as he turned to us, blood streaking down his arm. “Don’t you fucking stop!”

  Thorne was almost to him now, cutting through bodies with a savage grace that left a trail of ruin. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood, his mouth a hard line.

  And then he saw us again, saw the way Grabber had his hand locked around my arm, dragging me through the chaos. Our eyes caught across the madness. His lips shaped a single word. Run.

  Grabber didn’t hesitate. He pulled me down a narrow lane, shoulders broad enough to shove aside anyone in his way. My feet scrambled to keep up, stones and splinters tearing at my soles as the square behind us erupted into a frenzy of clashing steel.

  I heard Riven’s growl carry over the din, low and dangerous, and Thorne’s answering roar, sharp as a war cry.

  The sound of their blades was a song I didn’t want to listen to, but it followed us anyway, striking, scraping, breaking bone. They weren’t fighting for glory. They were fighting to keep the way clear. To hold the line and to keep me alive.

  Another whistle cut the air, an arrow, this one aimed at Grabber. He ducked without breaking stride, the shaft sparking off the wall beside us. His grip tightened on me like iron.

  “Faster,” he growled, and I didn’t dare argue.

  We tore through the twisting alleys, the smell of fire and blood thick in the air, shouts chasing us like wolves on our heels. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but still we ran. Still I heard the battle behind us.

  Riven’s voice, sharp and guttural.

  Thorne’s snarl, ragged with rage.

  And for one terrible moment, I thought I wouldn’t hear them again.

  I stumbled as the ground dipped, my balance breaking. Grabber caught me with a brutal yank, hauling me upright before I hit the stones. His eyes flashed to me, harsh and unyielding.

  “Stay on your feet. They’re buying us time with their blood. Don’t waste it.”

  I swallowed hard, throat raw, but nodded.

  The sounds didn’t leave us, even as the streets bent and swallowed the square from view.

  Screams. The metallic ring of steel. The ugly crunch of something breaking under a blade or boot. And louder still, the distinct cadence of them.

  Thorne’s guttural snarls, clipped and brutal like a wolf’s bite, Riven’s fury, spilling out in grunts between the clash of his daggers.

  They were still there. Still holding. Still bleeding for me.

  And the knowledge of it made the pit of my stomach twist.

  Grabber yanked me around another corner, nearly pulling my shoulder from its socket. “Keep moving.” His voice was low, tight with effort. Sweat plastered dark hair to his temple, his jaw a rigid line.

  We ducked beneath a hanging sign, the painted letters of some shop blurring as he dragged me on. Shouts echoed behind us, closer now, then farther, then closer again, bouncing off the stone like a hunt with hounds.

  “They’ll follow,” I gasped, stumbling on uneven cobbles.

  “Not if I kill the trail.” He shoved me hard into the gap between two leaning houses. The walls pressed in, damp wood and stone biting at my shoulders. Grabber moved with the quick efficiency of someone who had hidden more than once in his life, slamming a broken fence in front of the alley, dragging parts across the opening to obscure the path.

  As we crouched down, I pressed my hand to my chest, heart a hammer against my ribs, my breath ragged in the stale air. Beyond the makeshift barrier, the sounds of pursuit surged, boots slapping stone, voices barking orders.

  Grabber’s hand clamped my wrist, dragging me deeper into the shadows. “This way.” His voice was a rasp now, low and roughened by exertion.

  We wound through the hidden back paths of the village, ducking low beams, splashing through foul water that stank of rot. My legs shook, but he didn’t slow, and I didn’t dare let go.

  When at last we broke into a small, abandoned courtyard, choked with weeds, shutters closed tight, Grabber finally stopped. He shoved me down onto a worn stone step, his chest heaving, eyes scanning every shadow.

  For a long moment neither of us spoke. The only sounds were our breathing, and faintly, carried through the labyrinth of streets, the dying roar of the battle we’d left behind.

  My throat ached as I whispered, “The first time you dragged me off like this…”

  His gaze cut to me, sharp even through exhaustion.

  “…I was kicking and screaming.” My lips quirked despite the fear still twisting me tight. “At least this time I ran with you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost not. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  But his grip loosened on my wrist, just slightly, as the sounds of Riven and Thorne’s fury echoed far behind us.

  Authors note

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