Being a detective was fun and all, but you know what would’ve been more fun? Having one of those sleek, hovering broadswords. Lysska owned a few—well, "salvaged" from some less fortunate souls—but actually using them? That required a permit. And these days, unless you were part of the Iron Pact, getting your hands on one of those precious documents was harder than prying teeth from a drakkari. Poor her. Instead of soaring dramatically through the skies, she was tiptoeing through the grimy streets of Shadow’s Warren.

  And tiptoeing here wasn’t a metaphor. It was an art form. After all, it was an obstacle course designed by a sadist. And Lysska? She navigated it like it was her personal stage. Mud slicks, hidden shards of glass, puddles that might as well have been portals to the underworld, she avoided them all. The key was in the details. The ball of the foot touched down first, then the heel, a smooth roll that kept her balanced even on the uneven cobblestones. Her eyes flicked down often, scanning for the telltale gleam of trouble: oh yes, there, a glossy, worn stone here, a treacherous crack there, the slight discoloration in the muck that hinted at a shoe-swallowing abyss.

  Trash piles loomed like deceptive sirens, promising stability but delivering sharp glass or rats with attitudes. Lysska weaved past them, pirouetting with just enough flair to avoid splattering her robe. A loose drain grate? Weight shifted instinctively, steps recalibrated in an instant. No slips, no missteps, no unfortunate plunges into district’s dubious underbelly.

  Every movement was deliberate. Every decision calculated. It was an art, navigating these streets.

  Still, while she might’ve loved to take a scenic detour and admire the chaos of the district—watching shady deals go down, dodging pickpockets, oh those were fun and generally soaking in the vibrant dysfunction—work called. And when work called, Lysska answered.

  She made her way to the main market square, where she could grab a ride with one of the licensed carpet fliers. Their owners were arrogant and overpriced, but they were fast. Waving a hand with a casual flick of her wrist, a carriage rolled to a stop beside her, its driver tipping his hat with the obligatory politeness that came with ferrying “respectable” passengers. Lysska climbed in gracefully smoothing her robe as her mind wandered elsewhere.

  Through the keen, curious gaze of a crow wheeling above, Lysska observed the silver-haired girl darting through the crooked streets below. The mask gave her away at once—Venom. A smirk ghosted across Lysska’s lips as she noted the peculiar way the girl moved. A sly little gambit, softening her presence just enough to slither past notice. Cute, in its way.

  But then, there it was—a hitch in the flow. Someone else was on her tail. Lysska’s brow furrowed as she zeroed in on the figure: a bald man, his neck emblazoned with a crest tattoo. A small-time thug, no doubt, angling for some ill-advised intimidation. Venom’s cloak, polished and pricey, probably whispered promises of a good haul.

  Lysska’s smirk flatlined. Ven was veering into an alley—an alley—in the Warren. For a ghost who supposedly knew how to vanish, the girl had the survival instincts of a drunk moth at a bonfire. Rule one of gutter logic: alleys here were either ambush buffets or mass graves. You didn’t stroll in unless you owned stock in coffin-makers.

  The crows swept ahead, mapping the killbox, while Lysska slumped in her carriage, fingers drumming a funeral march on the armrest. She’d almost decided this was not her circus—when the bald goon pounced.

  Venom’s retaliation was… educational.

  First, a knee to the crown jewels so vicious Lysska’s crows winced in unison. Then her claws snicked out with switchblade grace, anchoring the thug’s scalp to her fist. What followed was a percussive masterpiece: his forehead clacked against cobblestones in a rhythm that’d make a bard weep. By the third verse, he was snoring in the key of concussion.

  And then—because subtlety was for corpses—Venom treated his torso like a tavern table, executing a victory shimmy that’d shame a carnival dancer. She relieved him of his dignity and coinpurse, then sauntered off like she’d just watered a geranium.

  Lysska’s eyebrows attempted a vacation in her hairline as her mouth opened. Well. That escalated.

  Then her mouth snapped shut, her smirk tugging back into place—until it faltered. Venom had stopped, her mask lifting just enough to reveal a sharp-edged grin, her eyes boring into the crow Lysska had been using as her proxy.

  And then, she spoke. Not loudly, but clearly enough that Lysska could read the movement of her lips with practiced ease, the way a good detective learns to do.

  “Hello, Whisper.”

  ***

  I screwed up somewhere along the way—no denying it. First, this random bald bastard decided to get bold, tailing me like he had a death wish. The nerve! For a second, I thought maybe he was one of those shady kidnappers Vasilisa mentioned, the kind targeting her business and snatching up her apprentices. Maybe my mask wasn’t doing its job, what with my silver hair still peeking out, and the hood didn’t exactly flatten the faint outline of my horns. Subtle? Not my strong suit.

  But no, turns out he was just some thug sniffing around for an easy payday. The “fight” lasted three seconds. Groin kick (classic), claw-assisted headbanging (therapeutic), and a victory shimmy (non-negotiable—dragon code, clause 12: Always dance on their pride). Sue me. Even Lotte used to do pirouettes over scorched bandits. Probably. She must have!

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  Where I really botched things, though, was the crows. Should’ve kept my Air Sense dialed in for birds, but nope. It was Alice who pointed out the weirdness, chirping in her oh-so-insightful tone, “Those crows carry echoes of an undercurrent—far away, faint, but definitely not their own.” Translation: someone was spying through the feathered freaks.

  And I didn’t need a second guess to figure out who. That vision I got through divination made it crystal clear. My hunch was bang on. But now she’d seen me—saw me take down Baldie McPunching Bag and, worse, caught me doing my victory wiggle over his unconscious body. Arghhh.

  Still, I couldn’t let her think I was some unhinged lunatic. So, after hashing it out with Alice, I decided to let Whisper know I was onto her. You know, to show I had intentions. Smart ones. Totally not panic-driven.

  “Arghh! Did I do it right, Alice?!” I grumbled, weaving through the crowd. Air Sense pinged no crows nearby, but paranoia had me hyper-vigilant. “What if I scared her off? What if crows are her secret weapon and now she thinks I’m an enemy?!”

  “You’re overthinking this, Mistress,” Alice replied from her now comfy perch on my shoulder.

  “Overthinking?! Then explain why there are no crows tailing us anymore!”

  “Yes, well, I did divine that this would be favorable to you,” she mused, before adding, “Although, come to think of it, I didn’t specify how it would be favorable. Maybe avoiding Whisper altogether would’ve been the better outcome?”

  “You’re not helping!”

  “I’m just stating the facts, Mistress.”

  It had been half an hour already, and I’d managed to wander my way down to one of the lower district’s many market squares. Every time I came down here, it was like the city itself was whispering, Hey, want to get mugged today?

  Also, Fifth pickpocket incoming— I sidestepped, heel crunching their toe. “This cloak’s a liability. I’m trading it for chainmail. Or fire. At least fire’s honest.”

  “Chainmail lacks panache,” Alice said. “And fire lacks pockets.”

  “So does a corpse, which is where I’m headed if—”

  “She’s here.”

  Alice’s voice cut through my rant, sharp as a scalpel. I froze. The crowd’s roar muffled to a hum. “Where?” I whispered.

  “Three paces behind. Left. Undercurrents of excitement, amusement and impending sarcasm.”

  Ah, great. Just fantastic. I straightened up immediately, ignoring Alice entirely as my Air Sense flared out, a subtle pulse that mapped the air currents and movement around me. Sure enough, I caught the faint outline of a tall Faerin directly behind me. Her stature matched what I’d seen before. Now the question was: do I call her out? Or let her make the first move?

  Well, screw subtlety. I’d already surprised her once today; might as well keep the streak alive.

  Slowly, I lifted my mask and glanced back, intending to flash her a sly grin that said, I see you. What I didn’t expect was to be the one caught off guard.

  She wasn’t wearing a mask. Which was odd, considering anonymity was practically a prerequisite for the gangs operating down here. Her hair spilled in smooth waves, and her robe—black and red, detailed with embroidery of vixens twisting and dancing—was far too pristine for the lower district. Her amber, slitted eyes were locked on me, and the slight curl of her lips revealed a hint of sharp canines.

  The sight sent a little shiver down my spine, but I kept my cool, baring my own fangs in a toothy smile and giving her a casual wave.

  “Well, well,” Whisper purred, gliding nearer with the grace of a stalking panther. Her voice curled like smoke. “To catch me unawares once is luck. Twice? That’s either genius… or madness.”

  “A pleasure, Whisper,” I replied, matching her cadence.

  She tilted her head, the ghost of a smirk sharpening. “Lysska. Save the title for when the masks return to the stage.” With that, she turned and slipped into the throng, three foxian tails swaying, leaving me to exchange a glance with Alice. The doll’s tiny nod was all the endorsement I needed.

  She’d approached me despite my earlier theatrics, so clearly, she had some kind of motive. And so did I.

  This city was a labyrinth of secrets, and I didn’t have nearly enough answers. Sure, hitching my wagon to someone with Whisper’s—or Lysska’s—reputation wasn’t exactly the safest move. Ruthless gang connections didn’t scream trustworthy. But Lotte’s cryptic advice and Alice’s divinations had pointed me here, to this golden thread of opportunity.

  And I’d be a damn fool to let it slip through my claws.

  So, I did just that—trailed Lysska through the crowd like a shadow, weaving through the jostling bodies with practiced ease. She eventually turned into a narrow, crowded alleyway branching off the square. I kept close, my Air Sense flickering in soft pulses to map the space around me.

  She stopped in front of a two-story building squeezed awkwardly between two taller, more imposing neighbors. The facade bore years of wear: cracked plaster, weathered stone, and a sign above the door that read Lily’s Charms and Curios. Judging by the peeling paint and shuttered windows, it had long since retired from its days as a shop.

  Without hesitation, Lysska pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. I followed, careful to keep my footsteps light.

  The interior was an entirely different story. Gone was the decrepit storefront vibe; the space felt more like an office—or maybe a hideout—than a home. The smell of stale coffee lingered in the air, undercut by old paper and a faint wisp of incense. The mismatched furniture gave the room a chaotic charm: battered sofas, a scuffed table that looked one bad argument away from collapse, and a towering shelf stuffed with books and files. A few clipped papers dangled from strings by the window, fluttering slightly in the draft.

  Off to the side, I caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen, its counters cluttered with mugs and half-empty containers.

  On one of the sofas lounged Quickpaw—recognizable even without her mask. That grinning, foxian demeanor and her confident posture were unmistakable. Her face lit up the moment she spotted Lysska and me trailing behind.

  “Back so soon?” Quickpaw trilled, juggling a card between her fingers.

  “Efficiency is a virtue,” Lysska replied, sweeping toward a cluttered desk. “I trust our guest remained… engaged?”

  “Oh, he’s been riveted,” Quickpaw crooned, twirling the card into her palm. “Haven’t you, little songbird?” The boy sitting across from her—dwarfed by an oversized robe—looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes darted to the exit, but his feet stayed rooted. Trapped, not by chains, but by survival’s arithmetic.

  The boy’s throat bobbed. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

  Quickpaw’s grin turned toward me. “Also, hey, V—”

  She didn’t even get the word out before Lysska’s sharp glare cut her off mid-syllable.

  Quickpaw quickly pivoted, her tone all playful innocence. “Ah, who might our new customer be?”

  “She lost her cat,” Lysska deadpanned, settling into a chair by the cluttered table near the window. She gestured for me to sit as well, and with a shrug, I claimed a spot next to the overly eager Quickpaw.

  “But first,” Lysska continued, steepling her fingers as her gaze pinned the boy, “let us attend to your quandary.” Her smile softened, honey over steel. “You sought a detective, did you not? Speak freely… we’re all friends here.”

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