Amiya's POV
Amiya hadn't gotten far.
The encounter with Sylas was still fresh in her mind as she slipped deeper into Selune's winding streets. The chaos of the city didn't sleep, and neither could she. Her boots thudded softly against uneven stone, heart hammering a rhythm far too fast beneath her cloak.
She wasn't sure what annoyed her more—that he'd caught her off guard, or that he'd made her laugh. In the middle of a city where every shadow might hide a knife, she had laughed.
Gods, she was an idiot.
But he had been ridiculous. And frustratingly sharp. There was something dangerous beneath that cocky smirk, something that didn't belong to a simple street rat. She didn't trust him.
Which was why it rattled her that, after slipping through two alleyways and dodging a pack of drunken dwarves, her steps slowed near a crooked old tavern. Laughter spilled out through its warped door, rough and unfiltered, clashing with the distant clatter of broken glass.
She hesitated.
She needed rest. A moment to think. Just long enough to breathe without watching her back. And the tavern—filthy and loud as it was—offered that.
Inside, the place smelled like sweat, smoke, and regret. The tables were uneven, the floor sticky, and the orc woman behind the bar poured drinks like she was preparing for war.
Amiya found a shadowed corner and sat, cloak drawn tight. Her fingers brushed the dagger at her hip.
Before she could call for anything, a mug thudded in front of her. The orc didn't speak, just gave her a knowing look.
Amiya muttered, "Thanks."
The ale was bitter and barely drinkable, but it grounded her.
For a while, she listened. The low drone of voices, the crack of laughter, the occasional off-key singing. It was strange, being among people who didn't know her. Didn't expect anything from her.
Then the door opened.
Three men pushed their way in—one stumbling, two alert. Her eyes narrowed beneath her hood.
They spotted her immediately.
"Evening, sweetheart," the tallest drawled. "Sitting alone?"
She didn't move. "Not interested."
"Oh, come on now—don't be like that."
They fanned out, cutting off her path to the door.
She stood slowly, letting her cloak fall back, hand drifting toward her dagger.
"Wouldn't," one of them warned. "You'll make it messy."
The tavern had quieted. No one moved to stop them. Her fingers tightened.
And then—
"I think she said she's not interested."
His voice, calm and familiar, cut through the noise.
Sylas.
He leaned against the bar like he owned the place.
"Who the fuck are you?" one of the men spat.
"Just someone who hates cowards," Sylas replied with a grin.
The room held its breath.
Amiya stepped back, blade half-drawn. Sylas didn't wait. He was a blur—mug crashing into a head, a shoulder slamming someone into a wall. She moved with him, kneeing one in the gut, slashing at another's arm. The fight was fast. Brutal. And when it was over, two were groaning on the floor. The third was gone.
She stood, breathing hard. Blood dripped from her dagger.
Sylas looked at her, brow raised. "You alright?"
She glared. "I had it handled."
"Sure you did," he said. "Didn't want you to hog the fun."
She snorted despite herself. Gods, he was insufferable.
"You're an ass."
"And you're welcome."
She moved toward the door. He didn't follow, not at first. But as she stepped out into the street, his voice caught up.
"Buy you a drink?"
She paused.
And then shook her head. "No. But thanks."
She didn't look back.
Sylas's POV
He hadn't meant to follow her.
He told himself it was coincidence. That the tavern was just a place to get dry, to drink away Orin's refusal to take the pendant. But the moment he saw her in that corner, cloaked and small and pretending not to exist—he knew better.
There was something about her that stuck in his mind like a splinter. The way she moved, alert and tense even when she tried to be still. The way her eyes scanned the room, calculating exits, tracking threats. He knew that look. He wore it too.
She was hiding—but not from the city. From herself, maybe.
And when those bastards cornered her? When they started circling like vultures?
He was off his stool before he could think. No plan, no strategy—just motion.
"I think she said she's not interested."
The words came out smooth, but inside, he felt the familiar spark of chaos flaring. Not fear. Not anger. Just that surge of adrenaline. The knowing that something was about to break.
He didn't care if they turned on him. Let them. He'd been in worse fights.
And besides—he'd seen her move. She wasn't fragile.
One minute, they were surrounding her. The next, it was a blur of broken furniture, fists, and blood. He used a mug like a club, felt a man's ribs crack under his elbow, dodged a bottle that shattered against the back wall. Amiya held her own like a street-born knife fighter.
She didn't hesitate.
She didn't falter.
She was fire—controlled, but lethal. And when the last man fled and the tavern began to breathe again, he looked at her and knew.
She wasn't from here. But she'd survive here.
She brushed past him with that same sharp glare, that same pride.
"Buy you a drink?" he asked, more out of habit than hope.
She paused. That pause was all he needed to know he hadn't imagined the connection.
But she said no.
And she left.
Still, he didn't follow.
He just watched her go, her silver hair vanishing into the night.
Selune was full of shadows. Full of danger.
And now, it was full of her.
He'd see her again.
He could feel it in his bones.