Amiya's POV
Amiya's breath hitched as she crept deeper into the shadows, her boots silent on uneven stone. The flicker of torchlight painted distorted shapes across the crumbling walls, while voices ahead crackled with tension—sharp, clipped, and unmistakably hostile.
She edged closer, drawn despite herself.
The scene was chaos waiting to happen.
A cart had been overturned in the middle of the square, its contents—crates, bottles, sacks of grain—spilled across the cobblestones. Around it, a knot of angry civilians argued with a group of soldiers, their armor catching the firelight like dull blades. Raised voices. Jabbing fingers. The unmistakable stench of fear, layered with frustration.
What were soldiers doing this deep in the lower quarter? Uniformed guards didn't patrol these streets unless something was very wrong.
Amiya's hand rested on the hilt of her dagger. Her hood was still up, her face shadowed—but it wouldn't take much. Not tonight. Not with this many eyes and nerves on edge.
She shouldn't be here.
But her feet didn't move.
She needed to know.
She edged into the crowd, heart thudding, ears open. The tension clung to the air like smoke.
A woman beside her whispered, "They're looking for someone. Dragged in a name from one of the taverns."
A name. Not a face.
That should've comforted her.
It didn't.
A bottle shattered near the cart. A soldier shoved a bystander. Voices rose like a spark catching dry leaves.
A man shouted, "You think we'll give up one of ours because some noble prick got nervous?!"
The crowd didn't scatter.
They leaned in.
That was the difference. In the palace, chaos whispered behind closed doors. Out here, it roared.
Then—through the haze and the bodies—she saw him.
Sylas.
He was across the square, hood drawn, lingering at the edge. Watching. Waiting. She didn't know how long he'd been there, but she could feel his gaze sweep the crowd like a blade unsheathed. He was reading the scene—same as her. Maybe better.
Of course he was here.
Her eyes darted away before they could meet his. Her pulse roared in her ears. She hadn't decided yet if seeing him made her feel safer… or more exposed.
She took half a step back.
And froze.
"You there! Hood down!"
The soldier's voice cracked through the square.
Amiya's breath caught in her throat.
Someone moved near her. Heads turned. Fingers pointed. It wasn't just a shout—it was a target being painted. She felt it land on her like a brand.
Her heartbeat thundered.
But she didn't run.
She couldn't.
All she could do was stand there, frozen in place, her hand near her dagger and firelight glinting in her eyes.
And somewhere across the crowd, Sylas was moving.
Sylas's POV
The square was set to blow.
Sylas stuck to the edges, half-shrouded in the flickering torchlight. Voices bounced off the stone—shouts, threats, the scrape of boots and tempers rising too fast to stop.
He'd followed the noise expecting trouble, but not this. Not guards clashing with civilians in the lower quarter. Not this level of heat.
Something had them spooked. He could feel it. The tension wasn't just about spilled grain or an overturned cart. This was personal. Specific.
He scanned the crowd.
And there—too close to the fire—was Amiya.
His gut tightened.
She moved through the press of bodies like someone trying not to be seen. Too cautious. Too obvious. She didn't know how to disappear yet, not in a place like this. Her shoulders were hunched, head dipped, eyes too sharp for someone playing at ignorance.
And she was moving toward the soldiers.
Sylas shifted instinctively, circling the square's edge to mirror her path. He didn't close the distance, not yet. But every step she took sent alarm bells ringing in his mind.
What the hell was she doing?
Didn't she see the tension?
People didn't shout at guards here unless they were ready to throw down. And those guards—he watched them move—were ready to draw blood.
A soldier raised his voice:
"You there! Hood down!"
The shout cracked across the square.
Sylas's eyes snapped to Amiya.
She froze.
He couldn't hear the exchange—too much noise, too much movement—but the air shifted. Heads turned. The crowd pulsed like a living thing around her.
Shit.
He started moving, quick now, weaving through the press of bodies, but staying low, staying fluid. If they were calling her out—
No. He didn't know that. Not yet.
But they were too close. And she was too still.
Then someone screamed.
A stone flew.
It cracked against a soldier's chest with a hard thunk.
The crowd erupted—fury uncoiled into chaos.
And Sylas moved faster.