The night air of the port city was cold and sharp, smelling of salt, tar, and the desperation of men who made their living on the whims of the sea. Cloaked in the sleek, dark frame of the Mark VI and the deeper, more personal shadows that were her birthright, Patricia moved across the rooftops with a silence that was more absolute than mere quiet. She was a ghost in a city of ghosts, her movements a fluid, economical dance from one slate-shingled peak to the next.

  A single, cold tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek inside the sterile confines of her helmet. The suit's internal climate system, ever vigilant, compensated with a gentle puff of dry air, whisking the evidence of her grief away before it could fall.

  The command still echoed in her mind, spoken in the cavern's oppressive silence hours ago: ‘We already have our core.’ Watching her young master decide to disassemble his workshop, his sanctuary, had sent a pang of guilt so sharp through her heart it was a physical pain. She remembered the day he’d first unveiled the plans for it, a ten-year-old boy barely tall enough to see over the workbench, his face alight with a creator’s pure, unadulterated joy. The thought of watching him tear that place apart with his own hands, of witnessing that light being methodically extinguished, was more than she could bear. So she had left, volunteering for this pointless reconnaissance mission as an excuse to flee.

  The decision had been made with a cold, mechanical detachment that was more terrifying than any scream of rage. This was the boy she had practically raised, the child her mistress had entrusted to her with a love so fierce it was a force of nature. And he was becoming so cold, so lifeless.

  The face she had seen today, when he had briefly removed his helmet in the forge’s glow, was a mirror of another face. One she had seen long ago, reflected in the dark, swirling water of a river.

  Her own.

  She was no more than seven years old. Her reflection stared back at her from the water, a half-elven girl with eyes that were already dead, lifeless, unfeeling. She didn't know how many hours she had been running. Her mother’s last words had been a desperate, ragged command: “Run, Patricia. And don’t look back.”

  But she had. She had looked back, just for a second, and had seen the brilliant green spell of elven magic pierce her mother’s heart. What was their crime? Her father was a human, an injured adventurer her mother had found and nursed back to health. They had fallen in love. That was all.

  Her village had hunted and killed her father before she was ever born. After her birth, she was a living stain on their great elven honor. The year she turned seven, the harvest was poor. They came to the patched-up hut at the edge of the woods, their faces grim. The spirits were angry, they said. It was the human spawn’s fault. The neighboring village had a plentiful harvest. The solution was clear. “We must sacrifice her,” the elder had declared. “Until the land is drenched in her impure blood.”

  Her mother had agreed with a chilling calmness. “I will bring her to the altar myself.” But in the hut, she had pushed Patricia through the small rear window. “Run.”

  Now, alone and terrified, she saw a light in the distance. A campfire. Men were gathered around it, their laughter rough but not unkind. Adventurers. Her father had been an adventurer. Maybe they could help. Her blind trust, her last, desperate flicker of hope in the world, would be her damnation. They greeted her with smiles, offered her food, and then shackled her like a dog.

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  Time became a blur of hunger and darkness. She was hauled in a caravan to a huge, teeming city and pushed out of the barred cage. The lack of food meant she could barely walk. The merchant took out a huge whip, its crack a familiar sound. He was about to lash her again, to make her stand for the buyers. She braced for the sting, but what she heard was not the crack of the whip, but the shriek of a woman’s voice, shouting at the merchant with an imperious fury.

  She was surrounded by men in heavy armor, and she had emerged from a luxurious carriage that seemed to glow in the grimy street. She was shouting about how in her lands, no one, not even a slave, would be treated this way. She took a heavy bag of gold coins and threw it at the merchant’s face. Patricia expected the merchant to lash out, but he immediately began groveling.

  Soon, she was in the carriage. The maids with the noblewoman tried to stop her, but she didn’t listen. She was taken to a huge palace, where she was bathed, clothed, and fed a real meal for the first time in memory. She was given a job. A slave, not only freed but paid. She was happy, a strange and fragile feeling she dared not show on her face.

  When she was eleven, she discovered her aptitude for shadow magic. Terror seized her. The mistress was the head of House Wight. Their rivals were House Black, masters of the dark arts. Surely, she would be cast out. When her lack of control was inevitably discovered, she braced for exile. Instead, the mistress was overjoyed. “A hidden talent! We must nurture it!” she had declared, and had hired the finest tutor money could buy.

  Duchess Seraphine Wight was the light of her life, the only person other than her own mother who had ever shown her true kindness. Patricia’s loyalty became absolute. She rose through the ranks, her efficiency and silence earning her the position of head maid.

  Then came the day the young master was born.

  “Your primary duty from now on will be to serve him,” the mistress had told her. Patricia had asked if she had disappointed her. Seraphine had just smiled. “No, Patricia. I trust you more than anyone. I am trusting you to take care of the one I love the most in this world. My cream pie.”

  So she became the boy’s nanny. He was abnormal. No baby should be that calm, that unnervingly intelligent. Then came that fatal day when the assassins came. She had felt so helpless. And then he, a three-year-old child, had demonstrated magic beyond his years and saved them all. To her shock, he had healed her. The third person in her life to show her kindness. The child she had held suspicions about, the unnatural boy she had glared at more than once, had saved her. The mistress wasn’t angry with her for failing; she had just patted her head and held her.

  The days went on. She watched him grow, saw him make things that defied all logic. She saw him come to her whenever he was hurt, a small cut or a scraped knee. She could tell he was only acting, that the pain was a performance, but she played along, cleaning the wound and applying the bandage with the solemn care he seemed to expect. His smile, the rare, genuine one he saved for his family, soon became another light in her life.

  Now, that smile was gone. That face he was making, the one of cold, hard purpose, was so similar to her own reflection in that dark river all those years ago.

  I know the pain of losing a mother, she thought, her vigil on the rooftop forgotten. I know I can’t replace the mistress. But I cannot let him become like me cold, lifeless, and hated by all.

  She made her decision as she melted back into the shadows, her mission complete, the informant’s fate sealed. When the ship is completed, when we are safe at sea, I will talk to him. I will let him cry, even for a bit.

  She could not let his beautiful, brilliant smile turn into the same mask of indifference that had become her own face for so many years.