Amiya's POV
Amiya didn't make it far.
The fight hadn't lasted long, but the chaos of it clung to her like smoke. The flash of knives. The stink of spilled ale. Sylas's stupid grin and the way he'd stepped in—like he hadn't even thought about it.
She hated that he'd helped. Hated that it felt like part of her had let him.
The streets swallowed her quickly as she slipped through Selune's winding paths, the sounds of the tavern fading into the pulse of a city that never slept. Her cloak fluttered behind her, her hood tugged low, her hand never straying far from her dagger. The warmth of adrenaline still burned beneath her skin, making her steps sharper than they should've been.
She hadn't accepted his offer for a drink. She hadn't wanted to give him that win. But the fact that he'd offered at all—after stepping into her fight, after standing beside her like it meant something—clung to her thoughts like burrs.
He saw her.
Not just the mask. Not the manners. Not the porcelain doll she'd been trained to be.
And that terrified her.
The alleys narrowed the deeper she went. She passed a pair of goblins haggling over a cracked lantern, a troll chewing on roasted meat, and an elven bard whispering lullabies to a sleeping drake cub. Selune was alive in a way the palace never was. Unpredictable. Unforgiving.
Free.
She ducked into the shadow of a leaning brick wall as a pair of city watchmen rounded the corner, their torches casting long shadows. Their armor was worn and mismatched, and they didn't carry themselves like palace guards. These men played by different rules.
She held her breath until they passed.
A crash made her flinch.
Not far ahead, light spilled from an open square. A vendor's cart had tipped, crates shattered across the cobbles. A few locals shouted in a mix of languages, while others stood well back. She caught the glint of spilled lantern oil and the sharp smell of fruit gone sour.
She would've moved on—should've—if she hadn't seen him.
Sylas.
Half in shadow, leaning against a post just beyond the crowd. Watching. Not interfering. Not calling out. Just there.
Their eyes met.
He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just watched her like he was trying to decide what came next.
Then he was gone.
Melted into the dark.
Amiya's jaw tightened. She turned away sharply, boots clicking faster against the stone.
She didn't know what game he was playing, but she wasn't a piece on his board.
Not if she could help it.
Sylas's POV
He hadn't gone looking for her.
That's what he told himself.
He'd left the tavern with a bruised knuckle and a damp shirt, the buzz of adrenaline still ringing in his bones. He should've disappeared into the city like he always did. Should've put it behind him.
But he'd seen the way she walked out. Not afraid. Not broken. Still standing.
So he followed. Not close. Not obvious. But enough to keep her in sight.
She didn't know Selune. Not like he did. She was sharp, sure. Slipped past guards. Picked side streets that most newcomers wouldn't know to trust. But she wasn't from this world—not really. Not yet.
And something in him refused to let her face it alone.
He watched from rooftops and corners, saw her slip through pockets of street life like a shadow. A goblin spat at her boots. She didn't flinch. A troll offered her meat—she ignored him. She moved like someone holding herself together by will alone.
The crash near the square was a cart—overturned, messy. Locals shouted, a few tried to help. Most backed away like it was someone else's problem.
That's when he saw her again.
She stepped into the edge of the square, eyes scanning, tense but steady. He stayed in the shadows, just close enough to see her expression shift when she spotted him.
Their gazes locked.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And then he stepped back. Turned. Vanished into the side street like fog.
He didn't wait to see if she followed.
Didn't want to know if she would.
The further he walked, the more the night swallowed him. The torchlight faded. The stones grew slick with dew. A lone flute played somewhere in the distance, and Selune's rooftops stretched like jagged teeth around him.
He touched the hilt of his blade out of habit, not fear.
"Disaster finds me," he muttered.
And this time, it didn't feel like a joke.
It felt like prophecy.