The sun was high when they entered the trader's quarter — a tangled mess of draped cloth, shouting voices, and dust-streaked color. Fabrics hung between beams like sails caught mid-wind, each one dyed in sun-scorched hues: clay red, river green, ember-gold. Spices crackled on open grills. The air shimmered with heat and the scent of sweat, cumin, and smoke.
They stood out. Even covered in travel dust, even with hoods half-drawn — they were too clean, too deliberate. Their clothes still whispered foreign.
"Wait here," May said. Her voice low, eyes scanning. "I'll speak to someone I… vaguely trust."
She melted into the current of people, vanishing behind a curtain of linen. Moore shifted beside Ronell, uneasy. His hand grazed the handle of one of his belt knives.
"She's making a deal," Ronell murmured.
"She's making a mistake," Moore said, gaze never still.
Ronell looked around. This place — the calls, the heat, the brightness — was so unlike Thessalyn. No gold crests, no marble, no polished courtyards. Just clutter, barter, and the steady beat of survival. And yet... something about it grounded her.
She turned her back to the crowd, lifting the edge of her scarf higher. "We need to blend in."
Before Moore could answer, May returned. In her arms — a stack of folded garments and an old satchel.
"I've got us Velgrathi clothes," she said simply. "He wouldn't take Thessalyn coin. But he'll accept a favor."
Moore narrowed his eyes. "What kind of favor?"
"Courier job," May said. "Simple drop. Across the lower quarter."
Ronell, grateful despite herself, reached for the fabrics. "Thank you."
---
They ducked behind a patterned divider strung with beads and rusted charms. It wasn't private, but it was better than nothing. One by one, they emerged changed:
Ronell stepped out first — wrapped in a slate-blue tunic bound with a rust-colored sash, a sun-faded scarf hanging loose around her shoulders. Her boots were scuffed, her belt decorated with copper thread. For the first time, she didn't look like a girl caught between two lives. The scarf, the dust — they softened her edges. She looked less like a soldier… and more like someone who belonged here.
Moore wore deep gray and bone-white layers, light enough for heat, but heavy enough to conceal blades. His cloak had frayed edges, his sandals wrapped with leather cord. He looked every bit the desert-wanderer — or a local thug with good instincts.
May stayed as she was — but wrapped a charcoal veil across her lower face and eyes, shadowing her expression. A new coin charm hung from her belt, engraved with a symbol Ronell didn't recognize.
They stood together for a moment — cloaked, changed, ready.
A hot wind curled through the fabric above them, tugging scarves and rustling threadbare flags.
Ronell gave a small nod. "We won't be recognized like this."
Moore didn't answer. He was staring at the satchel May now held loosely in one hand.
"Just a parcel," she said again.
But her grip was tight.
And her eyes… weren't calm.
---
The satchel was light — almost suspiciously so — and wrapped in coarse red cloth tied with thin black twine. Moore had shaken it once, listening. Nothing inside shifted.
"Feels empty," he muttered.
May just narrowed her eyes and moved ahead.
---
The route to the drop point took them deep into the Lower Bay District — a place that felt more like scaffolding than city. Buildings here clung to cliff edges and slanted walkways. Rope bridges groaned in the breeze. Narrow alleys looped in tight spirals, coated in a permanent layer of grit. The sun didn't quite reach these levels — just a haze of light filtered through hanging tarps and swaying cloth awnings.
Children laughed somewhere out of sight. A flute played lazily from above. But below it all… silence. Waiting.
"Where are we?" Ronell asked.
May didn't answer. She was listening now — body tense, jaw clenched. Even she didn't like this.
---
The drop point was marked by a broken sun symbol carved into a pillar — just like the one they were told to look for. A rusted canopy overhead. Crates stacked haphazardly near the back. No one in sight.
"Wait here," Moore muttered, moving a few paces ahead, hand near his belt.
That's when they stepped out.
Five figures. Maybe more. All from the shadows behind the crates and down the side alley. Silent. Calm. One leaned against the wall, arms folded.
They weren't here for a parcel.
They were here for Ronell.
"That's her," one whispered, voice almost reverent.
Another: "The nose. The posture. It's her. The princess."
"Hair's lighter," someone else said.
"She could've dyed it. Doesn't matter. That's her."
Ronell stepped back, confusion giving way to unease. May reached out, lightly brushing her arm — a silent signal: stay close, stay calm.
Moore's fingers were already wrapped around his knife hilt.
One of the figures — a man with gold piercings and sunburnt skin — took a slow step forward.
"If you are her," he said, "we'll get paid double. Maybe triple. Doesn't even matter who sent us first."
Before Ronell could speak, another stranger lunged and grabbed her wrist.
"Where's your escort, princess?" he sneered. "Or did the crown forget you?"
Ronell tried to wrench away, but his grip was firm — too familiar, too practiced.
The look in his eyes made her stomach turn.
Moore moved first — no hesitation. A flash of steel. A warning slash that carved across the man's forearm.
The grip loosened.
"Don't touch her," Moore growled.
The moment shattered. The others surged forward.
May didn't wait. Her hand dipped into her cloak, retrieving a tiny glass vial — smoke bomb. She smashed it at their feet.
A hiss, then a thick gray burst swallowed the alley in fog.
"Scatter!" she shouted.
They ran.
---
Back through alley ladders, vaulting low walls. Moore knocked over a stack of crates behind them, blocking the narrow path. Ronell's scarf was nearly grabbed — she twisted, kicked, kept moving.
Above, windchimes rang from a passing breeze.
Below, the district stirred — confused by the chase, or entertained by it.
They didn't stop running until they'd crossed a hanging bridge and ducked into a half-collapsed tower. Dust. Breathing. Tension.
May slammed the wooden door shut behind them and turned.
"I knew it," she whispered. "It was a setup. They weren't smugglers — they were hunters."
Ronell sank to the floor, catching her breath. Her wrist still burned where he'd grabbed her. "They thought I was her."
"You looked just like her," Moore muttered. He didn't sound surprised.
"And if we don't act soon," May added, voice low, "others will think the same."
She looked toward Ronell now — not angry, but grim.
"We need to disappear. Properly this time."
And for the first time, Ronell didn't argue.She just sat there, rubbing her wrist. Thinking about that man's eyes.
And the way she hadn't known what to say.
---
The sun was lower now, casting angled light across the marketplace as the three of them returned — dusty, breathless, still reeling.
Ronell's wrist throbbed where she'd been grabbed. The satchel, now discarded, had been empty all along.
It had never been a delivery. It had been bait.
The trader's stall was just as they'd left it: faded cloths, a spice rack that hadn't moved, that chipped bowl of dried berries. He saw them coming — didn't flinch. In fact, he smiled.
"Well, well," he said, arms crossed lazily. "Back so soon?"
Moore stepped forward, jaw tight. "You sent us into a trap."
The man shrugged, picking at a fleck on his sleeve. "Didn't promise safety, friend. Just a job."
May said nothing. Her silence was sharper than any blade Moore carried.
But it was Ronell who moved next.
She stepped forward, head high, eyes locked on the man's. Her voice cut clean through the market chatter:
"You lied."
He raised a brow. "Come on, princess. I don't know what you're doing down here, but did you really think that face wouldn't raise eyebrows?"
The word hit like a stone in still water. Conversations faltered nearby. A few heads turned.
Ronell didn't back down. She planted her feet. "I'm not a princess," she said. "But I am someone who deserves the truth. You put us in danger — for what? A joke? A payout?"
Moore blinked. He'd never heard her speak like that. Neither had May.
The trader laughed under his breath. "Look around. That scarf won't save you. You talk like someone who's never had to watch their own back."
Ronell's fists clenched. "Then maybe it's time people like you learn what that sounds like."
It hung there — bold, raw.
Even May's brow twitched slightly.
People were watching. Tension climbed like heat off stone.
May moved quickly, placing a firm hand on Ronell's shoulder. "Enough," she said lowly. "We're being watched."
Ronell paused… then slowly stepped back, the fire in her face giving way to sudden awareness. Her cheeks flushed.
"I—right," she muttered. Her voice smaller now. "Sorry."
The crowd's interest faded with the outburst, as quickly as it had risen.
The trader gave a mocking bow. "Pleasure doing business."
They left in silence.
---
They didn't find the entrance so much as stumble into it. Hidden between the charred frame of an old tannery and a pile of collapsed crates, a crooked stairway descended into shadow — too narrow for a cart, too steep for comfort. Most people passed it by without ever knowing it was there.
But May stopped short. Her hand brushed the wall, feeling for the indent where the bricks shifted just slightly. Then, wordlessly, she stepped down. The others hesitated.
"Where are we going?" Ronell asked.
"The part of the city that doesn't want to be seen," May said. "The part even Velgrath is embarrassed to admit exists."
The air grew cooler as they descended, thick with the scent of iron, burnt grease, and stone long deprived of sunlight. Pipes ran alongside the walls — old and rusted, some still dripping. The occasional hiss of escaping steam echoed through the tunnels like a whisper that had nowhere else to go.
Children darted past them — barefoot, rag-wrapped, vanishing behind cracks in the brick. Laundry lines crisscrossed the upper beams, strung between mismatched stairways nailed directly into buildings at impossible angles. Above them, sunlight faded into dull flickers through grates and runoff drains.
This place wasn't just underground.
It was buried.
Forgotten not by accident, but by design.
As if the city had tried to cover it up — and when that didn't work, pretended it had never existed at all.
They passed a rusted iron sign embedded in the wall, its edges corroded, the emblem barely legible beneath layers of grime: a shattered shield, wrapped in coils of smoke — the symbol of an old guild, long defunct. May slowed.
She reached out and pressed her palm flat against the cold metal. For just a breath, her expression shifted — distant, almost reverent.
Still the same, she thought. Still standing. Even down here.
Ronell noticed. "You've been here before."
May didn't answer at first. Then: "A long time ago. I used to think I could disappear here forever."
She kept walking.
---
The shaded alcove was barely a dent in the wall — wedged between two leaning brick columns, half-shrouded by a sagging curtain of faded cloth. Pipes ran overhead, dripping occasionally onto the dusty floor below. The hum of the lower Warrens thrummed around them — haggling voices, the clang of metal tools, the distant clatter of a dropped crate.
"Wait here," May said quietly. Her eyes scanned the shadowed street ahead. "There's someone I need to find. He owes me a favor."
Ronell gave a simple nod, but Moore crossed his arms, tense.
Her tone grated on him. It wasn't what she said — it was how she said it. Calm. Careful. Always five steps ahead. Always assuming they'd follow.
Moore's jaw clenched. His eyes tracked the winding street just beyond the alley's veil. Smoky lanterns burned orange in iron sconces. People moved with purpose, fast and low — heads down, shoulders drawn.
He should've felt out of place here.
But he didn't.
Instead, something buried deep in his bones stirred — like a voice just beneath hearing, saying: This is familiar.This is home.
He shifted his weight, looked at May. "You always giving orders now?"
May didn't flinch. "I'm trying to keep us alive."
"Sure. But I'm not one of your lost children, May."
That one landed. For a second, her eyes flickered. Not with anger, but something softer — guilt, maybe. Regret. But she turned away, saying nothing.
Moore scoffed and stepped out of the alcove.
"Where are you going?" Ronell asked, moving after him.
"To get food," he said, not slowing. "They might not take Thessalyn coin, but I've got other things to trade. I'll manage."
"Moore—"
"I can take care of myself."
He disappeared into the crowd without looking back, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow pulled loose.
Ronell watched him go, concern etched across her brow. She turned to May, but May was already gone too — swallowed by the Warrens like smoke curling through brickwork.
And so, for the first time in weeks, Ronell stood alone — surrounded by strangers and silence — waiting.
Not just for Moore to return.
But for what would come next.
---
The alleyway was crooked, more shadow than street — hemmed in by old stone and rusted piping. Ronell had been waiting quietly, tucked into the alcove as May instructed, when the noise reached her. Muffled at first — a rough voice, a stifled plea — then the scrape of boots and something breaking.
She turned instinctively. Down the narrow passage, past a sagging awning and a spill of broken crates, she saw them.
A man — older, gray-haired, wrapped in threadbare cloth — was pressed against the wall. One arm pinned high above his head. A tall figure loomed in front of him, armored in scorched black and ash-colored plate.
The armor gleamed like dried blood under the lamplight.
An Ashbrand-trained Flame Sentinel.
Ronell couldn't hear every word, but the tone said enough. The Sentinel's voice was low and menacing, the kind that didn't need to shout.
"Fireproofing tax," he muttered, fingers tightening. "Don't make me explain it again."
The shopkeeper stammered. "Please — I already gave last week. I have three mouths at home. There's nothing left—"
Ronell moved before she realized it. Her boots struck stone with purpose. Her cloak shifted in the dust.
She didn't hesitate.
"That's enough," she said.
The words rang clearer than she expected — sharp, commanding.
The Sentinel turned, confused for only a moment before he sneered. "And who are you supposed to be, little lantern?"
His voice was mocking — but guarded. He didn't recognize her, not yet. But he recognized something in her tone. Something… familiar.
Ronell didn't blink. Her hand rested near her blade, not drawn — but steady. Her feet planted like a soldier. No — like something older than that. Something inherited.
"I said let him go."
The shopkeeper's eyes widened. The Sentinel's narrowed.
She didn't look like nobility — not in her worn tunic and dust-marked scarf. But she didn't look like she belonged here either.
Her voice was too clean. Her posture too proud.
And most of all, her eyes — green, sharp, unwavering — held something regal.
The Flame Sentinel took a step forward.
"You're out of your depth, girl."
"Then try me," Ronell said.
The air tensed. A few heads peeked from the alley's far end. Quiet steps stilled.
Before the Sentinel could answer, another voice cut through the tension — low, gravel-worn, and final:
"She's right."
It wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
A figure stepped forward from the shadow of a sunken doorway — broad-shouldered, slow-moving, and unmistakably grounded. Bronze skin dulled by years of smoke and sun. A salt-and-pepper beard caught the light like ash in soot. His arms folded, weight shifting like a man who'd seen far worse than this — and was unimpressed.
Brannick.
The Flame Sentinel froze.
Not from fear. Not quite.
But from instinct. From the way the alley had suddenly stilled. From the feeling that the walls themselves were listening now. That the air had turned denser, charged.
Behind shuttered windows, faces paused. Behind crooked crates, someone held their breath. You could feel it — the Warrens watching.
Brannick tilted his head, voice even.
"Go back to the upper tier.""Before this turns into something permanent."
A long beat.
The Sentinel's jaw twitched. His grip on the shopkeeper loosened. His glare slid past Brannick, back to Ronell — lingering on her too-long, searching her face as if trying to place what, exactly, had rattled him.
He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, then turned on his heel.
His boots scraped stone.
His armor clanked.
And then he was gone — swallowed by the alleyway's curve.
The shopkeeper slumped, sagging against the wall with a broken thank-you spilling from his lips.
Ronell stood still. Only now did she realize how tight her hands had curled. How loud her pulse was in her ears.
Brannick turned to her.
"You've got a dangerous mouth," he said, calm as ever. "And the kind of posture that gets remembered."
Ronell's brows knit slightly. "He was hurting him."
Brannick nodded once. Not in agreement, but acknowledgment.
"So were a dozen others yesterday. No one spoke up."He studied her for a moment."You did."
He offered her a hand — rough, calloused, solid.
She hesitated only a moment before taking it.
"Brannick," he said. Then, with a small, amused breath:
"Welcome to the Warrens."
---
The Ashdrift Tap smelled like smoke, wood, and spiced vinegar. Lanterns hung low, their glass cracked and stained with age, casting everything in molten light. The floor creaked. The tables were mismatched. And in the far back corner, a candle burned behind the bar — thin, steady, sheltered in a cage of tarnished brass.
Brannick guided Ronell to a stool near the end, away from the louder patrons. His movements were steady, deliberate — he moved like someone used to taking up space.
"You've got spine," he said as he slid a chipped mug toward her. "And no street sense."
Ronell gave a faint, embarrassed smile, brushing dust from her scarf.
"You could've gotten yourself dragged off," he added. "Flame Sentinels don't arrest. They remind."
"Remind?" she asked, confused.
Brannick poured water from a copper jug and slid it to her.
"Start with this. Then we talk."
She took the cup, grateful. The water was cold — miraculously cold.
A pause settled between them.
"That man," she finally asked. "The one you stopped. What… what is he? A guard? A thug? He had armor, but—"
"He's a Flame Sentinel," Brannick said simply. "Ashbrand-trained. That means brute strength over law. Think of him like… a hammer. Given just enough authority to feel justified using it."
Ronell frowned. "So… he works for the city?"
Brannick leaned on the counter, folding his arms.
"Velgrad doesn't have kings, girl. It has power. And power doesn't wear crowns. It wears trade rings, broken spears, and blood-won seats."
He gestured to the candle behind him.
"The Council of Sparks — that's who runs this place. Not because someone chose them, but because they earned it. Some with gold. Some with scars. One with prophecy. And every one of them has their own Sentinels."
"Different types?"
He nodded.
"Ashbrand ones — like him — are muscle. Enforcers. Proud of their bruises. Steamkeepers send the clever ones. Lantern Voices pick the ones who still remember right from wrong. But the Broker's? The Broker trains ghosts. You don't see them until it's too late."
Ronell's eyes lingered on the candle. "How do they get away with it?"
"They don't. Not always. Break a Pact of Flame — you vanish. But the Council doesn't care if someone skims coin off the poor. They only care if it stains their reputation."
He reached to refill her mug. She placed her hand over it gently — not refusing, but absorbing the weight of his words.
"And you?" she asked. "You stepped in. He backed down. People watched. So… what's your deal?"
Brannick gave a tired smirk. "I run this bar."
She stared at him. He raised a brow. Then turned to a man at the end of the counter and slid a mug toward him.
"To those who still stand," he said, raising a chipped tankard high.
The murmur of the room paused. Cups lifted. Bottles clinked. And for a breath, the heat in the air was something warmer — quieter.
Even Ronell found herself raising her mug.
Brannick took a sip, then nodded once. "That's my deal."
A creak at the doorway broke the moment.
May had returned, cloak drawn tighter now. She scanned the room, then met Brannick's gaze. Something passed between them — not just recognition, but memory. Maybe even guilt. She gave a small nod.
Brannick responded in kind — no smile, just the weight of respect.
"Still find trouble where it sleeps, I see," he muttered under his breath.
May approached, voice low. "You always did keep a candle lit."
"Someone has to."
Before more could be said, Moore pushed the door open with his shoulder — dusty, sun-worn, and chewing on a skewer of spiced meat.
He froze.
Looked from Ronell to Brannick to May — then down at the half-empty mug in Ronell's hand.
"…I missed something, didn't I?"
May didn't answer. Ronell just exhaled, eyes flicking toward Brannick.
"We found someone worth knowing."
---
The room was small, but clean — a wedge tucked above the bar, just wide enough for three sleeping mats and a shuttered window that overlooked the rusted rooftops of the Warrens. Oil-lamps flickered low. The smell of woodsmoke drifted in through the cracks.
Brannick secured the room himself — a quiet gesture in a city where favors meant more than gold. Quietly. No questions. A favor for May, though he'd made a point of saying "You'll owe me stories one day, not coin."
Now, the others slept. Or pretended to. Moore lay with his arm over his eyes, breathing even but shallow. May sat cross-legged by the door, sharpening a blade she'd probably never used in front of them. Watching.
Ronell sat by the window, her journal open across her knees.
The pages were stained from earlier rain. A few names were already inked there — people they'd met, helped, or nearly lost. But tonight, she turned to a fresh page.
Not just names.
She titled the new section slowly.
Things I Won't Allow
She paused, pen hovering.
Then, one by one, she wrote:
Injustice
Silence
Being mistaken for someone else
Or being afraid of becoming her
-----------------------------------------------
She underlined the last one.
The candle by her side burned low — much like the one behind Brannick's bar, quiet and steady. A reminder.
She wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was choosing.
And even if the lines between her and the princess blurred more each day, even if the streets whispered when she passed, even if her voice sometimes sounded less like Ronell and more like a crown waiting to fall into place…
She would decide what that meant.
Her scarf hung from the wall peg nearby — faded now, fraying a little at the edge.
She looked at it, then closed the journal gently.
Tomorrow, they'd find work. Maybe a contact in the Tarnished Crest. Maybe trouble.
But tonight — she had her list.
And a place to rest without flinching.