Chapter 134
It was a cruel hope, fragile as glass, yet the only anchor that kept her from shattering.
Far from the polished cruelty of court, however, the streets of Solnara pulsed with a different danger—one less gilded, more raw, and far less forgiving. Ysil, Lora, and Melgil wandered deeper into the lower quarter, their laughter a thin veil over the unease gnawing at them.
The air smelled of smoke, iron, and damp stone, and in that heavy mix, they felt the weight of unseen eyes. Shadows had been trailing them since morning, men with stiff shoulders, step-trained, and watchful gazes that never lingered long enough to be confronted yet never strayed far enough to be ignored. Cassien Eladar, too, stalked them with silent determination, patience wrapped around him like a second cloak. His footsteps were measured, his presence a whisper in the dark, and his purpose hidden as sharply as a knife beneath silk.
Their wandering carried them at last to a narrow street where a lantern-lit restaurant leaned against the ruins of two crumbling stone workshops. The scent of roasting meat and spiced broth curled through the night air, luring them inside with the promise of warmth and rest. The trio slipped through its door, the hum of clattering dishes and low conversation briefly washing the tension from their shoulders. Yet even here, sanctuary proved an illusion.
A shift rippled beneath the surface of the room, subtle but undeniable. Tables filled with late-night patrons were not as harmless as they appeared. Several men sat too straight, hands resting too close to their belts, their eyes sharp and unwavering, following the three newcomers rather than the meals before them.
Ysil felt it first, a prickle across the skin that no hearth could chase away. Lora met her gaze, unease mirrored in her expression. Melgil, too, stilled, though her silence carried a weight the others could not name. In that charged moment, they understood, they were no longer simply being observed. They were prey, and the hunt had already begun.
This was no accident. The Crimson Veil had orchestrated every step that brought them here, their hand hidden in the weaving of this trap. A secretive order known for cloaking their intentions beneath layers of smoke and shadow, the Veil had long marked their enemies not by armies but by whispers, assassins, and blood spilled in silence.
And now, seeing how closely Melgil lingered beside the young Lord Daniel Rothchester, heir to a family whose influence reached deeper than most dared to measure, the Veil had chosen to move.
Cassien Eladar shifted in the dimness, his patience snapping like a bowstring at full draw. For the first time since the chase began, he moved. The warmth of the restaurant quickly soured into something stifling, a heat that pressed against their lungs and made the walls feel too close. The men at the corner tables did not eat. They did not speak.
Their silence was heavier than the clatter of dishes or the murmur of other patrons, a silence that carried intent. One man toyed with his cup but never drank, another shifted his chair an inch to block the nearest exit, and a third brushed his coat aside, just enough for the gleam of steel at his hip to catch the lantern-light.
Ysil's hand drifted toward her side, brushing against the hilt of the short dagger she carried more for comfort than skill. Lora stiffened, her breath uneven, her knuckles tightening around the strap of her satchel as though she could turn it into a shield. Melgil, however, remained still, her dark eyes sweeping the room with a quiet patience that made her seem carved from stone. She had already seen enough.
The handprints of the Crimson Veil were all over this stage, the precise timing, the careful cornering, the faceless men who wore the air of wolves. These were not common thieves, nor mere spies sent to watch. This was a message, sharp and deliberate.
She felt the pull of her power rising, a whisper beneath her skin, ancient and dangerous, begging to be loosed. But she clenched her jaw and forced it down. Not yet. To unleash herself here would be to reveal more than she could afford. If the Crimson Veil had gone to such lengths simply because of her closeness with Daniel Rothchester, then they feared his name carried weight, and she needed to know why. To strike blindly now would be to sever the very thread of knowledge that could help him. And Daniel needed help more than he knew.
The first move came not with a blade, but with a scrape of wood. A chair dragged harshly across the floor as one of the men stood, his face an unremarkable blur, forgettable even as he reached for his belt. Two others followed, silent but certain, their daggers slipping free with soft hisses of steel. The glow of the lanterns caught on the edges, flashing like the eyes of predators in the dark.
Ysil rose halfway out of her chair, her own dagger in hand, its edge trembling in her grip. "Lora," she whispered, sharp and quick, and the girl fumbled for the blade hidden beneath her cloak. Around them, the other diners shrank back, muttering, retreating, and eager to distance themselves from the violence curling through the air.
Cassien Eladar, seated at the far side of the room, had not drawn a weapon. Not yet. His eyes, cold and unblinking, remained fixed on the three of them, calculating, measuring, as though the chaos about to unfold were simply another move in a game he had already planned ten steps ahead.
Melgil finally moved, rising with unhurried grace, her hand brushing the table's edge. She did not reach for her dagger, not yet. Instead, she let her voice cut through the growing din, low and steady. "The Crimson Veil," she murmured, just loud enough for Ysil and Lora to hear, her gaze never leaving the advancing men. "Do not waste yourselves against them. They do not act without purpose."
One of the assassins lunged, dagger flashing downward, and in that instant, the fragile barrier of suspense shattered into violence. The first assassin moved like a whip, his dagger streaking down toward Ysil's shoulder. She twisted, the blade grazing her sleeve instead of flesh, and thrust her own dagger upward in a desperate jab.
The clash of steel rang sharp in the close air, drawing startled cries from the other patrons as they scrambled for the door. Lora stumbled back against the table, nearly dropping her blade, but when another man advanced on her, she swung wildly, catching him across the forearm. Blood welled, dark and fast, and he snarled, his dagger arcing in retaliation.
Melgil stepped between them before the strike could fall. Her hand darted out, fingers closing around the attacker's wrist with a strength far beyond her frame. The assassin's eyes widened as her grip tightened like iron, forcing the dagger from his grasp. For a heartbeat, the veil of her restraint nearly tore; she felt the ancient power beneath her skin thrumming, hungry to surge forth. But she crushed it down, choosing instead to drive her elbow into the man's chest, sending him staggering back into the overturned chairs.
Another came at her from the left, blade aimed for her ribs. She bent low, catching the attack on her forearm, the dagger's edge slicing shallow across her skin. Pain flared, sharp and fleeting, but she let it anchor her, keep her grounded in control. With her free hand she seized the dagger from Lora, spinning it in a smooth arc before planting it against her assailant's throat. She didn't press, didn't kill, just reminded him of the thin line he walked.
Ysil fought like someone who had trained enough to know her weaknesses. Her strikes were quick and defensive, her feet shifting with caution rather than confidence. Still, she held her ground. Every swing bought them another breath, another second of survival. Lora, trembling but determined, mirrored her, her blade shaking in her grasp yet flashing when the assassins pressed too close.
Across the room, Cassien Eladar had not lifted a finger to aid them. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching as if this fight were nothing more than a lesson he'd set in motion. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, cataloguing every move Melgil made, every restraint she forced upon herself.
The clash grew more chaotic. Tables toppled, lanterns swung wildly, and shadows leapt across the walls as steel rang against steel. The assassins pressed harder, their attacks coordinated, too disciplined for common thugs. Melgil knew this was not meant to end in their deaths, at least, not here. No, the Crimson Veil wanted to test, to measure, perhaps even to send a warning.
At last, one of the assassins barked something under his breath—an order, a signal—and the momentum shifted. Rather than pressing the attack, they disengaged, retreating step by step toward the back of the restaurant. One hurled a smoke vial onto the ground, shattering it into a hiss of gray mist that spread like a choking fog. Coughs and shouts filled the room, the last patrons fleeing in panic.
When the smoke cleared, the assassins were gone. Only the wreckage remained: overturned tables, spilled food, and streaks of blood leading to the broken back door. On the floor near where the first attacker had fallen lay something glinting—a strip of crimson silk, torn from the binding that masked his arm. Its edge was stitched with a sigil, faint but unmistakable: a dagger crossed with a serpent.
Melgil stared at it, her jaw tightening. The Crimson Veil had not only orchestrated this encounter, but they had also left their mark behind, bold and deliberate, as if daring her to follow.
She touched the cut on her arm, the blood warm against her fingertips, and forced her voice steady. "This was never meant to kill us," she murmured to Ysil and Lora, her gaze lingering on the crimson cloth. "It was meant to warn us. And now I know they fears Daniel , enough to send shadows after me."
The smoke thinned at last, curling upward in gray ribbons until it clung only to the rafters. The restaurant's silence was heavy now, broken only by the groans of overturned chairs and the distant drip of broth spilled across the floor. The assassins were gone, vanished into the night like shadows returning to their master.
Melgil's gaze lingered on the torn strip of crimson silk, its serpent sigil half-hidden by blood. She bent to pick it up, fingers brushing the cloth with care, as though it might unravel into secrets if she gripped it too tightly. But when she straightened, ready to confront the man who had watched their struggle without lifting a hand, Cassien Eladar was already gone. The far wall where he had leaned stood empty, as if he had been a phantom borne of the smoke itself.
Ysil steadied herself against the table, dagger still clenched, her knuckles white. "Is it over?" she asked, her voice shaking despite the steel she tried to muster.
"For now," Melgil said quietly. Her tone carried no comfort, only fact. She slipped the crimson cloth into the folds of her cloak, hiding it from sight. Knowledge was a weapon, and this one she would keep sharp and close to her chest.
Lora exhaled a trembling breath, finally lowering her blade. Her eyes darted to the door, then to the empty stares of the other patrons who had scattered before the fight reached its peak. "We should… we should leave before someone calls the guard."
Melgil nodded. Practical. Wise. The last thing they needed was questions they could not answer. She pressed a few silver coins into the trembling hands of the owner, whose wide eyes betrayed more fear than gratitude. "For the damage," she said simply, her tone steady enough to cut through his nerves. "Say nothing of this."
The man bobbed his head rapidly, too eager to agree. He would remember their faces, of course no bribe could erase that, but fear of the Crimson Veil would silence him longer than coin ever could.
As the three slipped back into the night, the cool air hit their skin, chasing away the lingering smoke. None of them spoke for several streets. Ysil kept her dagger close, her eyes flicking at every corner, every shadow. Lora walked with her head low, shoulders drawn tight, as though she could shrink herself from notice.
Melgil, however, carried herself with the same controlled poise as before, though beneath it her thoughts were sharp and restless. She knew this was not the end. The Crimson Veil had revealed their interest far too openly, and such groups did nothing without reason. If they feared her closeness with Daniel Rothchester, then Daniel was already marked, and she could not allow him to face such enemies blind.
They left the restaurant quickly, keeping their pace steady, never breaking into a run though every nerve screamed at them to. To run would have drawn more eyes, and eyes were the last thing they needed. The streets of Solnara were still restless even at that hour—night vendors calling out their last offers, cart wheels rattling over uneven stone, lanterns guttering in the damp air. Every sound pressed against them like a question: who else was watching, who else knew?
They could not return to the inn they had used before. If the Crimson Veil had traced them this far, then any familiar place was already compromised. Melgil was the first to say it, her voice calm though her eyes scanned every shadow. "We need somewhere no one would think to look. Not for long—just until dawn." Ysil and Lora exchanged a look, both pale but too shaken to argue.
The lower quarter offered no shortage of hiding holes, but most were crowded, noisy, or too exposed. It was Lora who noticed the cooper's workshop, its shutters barred and tools locked away for the night. A crooked sign above the door bore no welcoming charm, only the smell of resin and sawdust lingering in the air. Beside it, however, a narrow stair climbed to a second level where a faded placard read: Rooms to Let.
It was exactly the kind of place few would look for travelers of their sort—cheap, tucked away, forgettable. The sort of lodging one passed without a second glance. They exchanged no words of agreement, only a quiet nod between them, and climbed the steps. The innkeeper, an elderly woman with a kerchief tied around her hair, asked no questions beyond their payment. She handed them a key with a weary flick of her hand, as if they were just three more shadows among countless others.
They climbed again, up creaking stairs that smelled faintly of pitch and smoke, until at last they reached the small rented room above the cooper's shop. Only there did Ysil push the door shut and lean her back against it, her chest heaving with the breath she had been holding for blocks. The room was dim, lit by a single oil lamp that threw long, wavering shadows across the cracked plaster walls.
Their shopping parcels, once filled with cloth, trinkets, and simple comforts from the market spilled across the floor as they unwrapped them, revealing the mess the fight had left behind. A length of silk torn and bloodied, a box of sugared almonds crushed to powder, even the small charm Lora had bartered for now bent out of shape. What little joy they had carried from the day lay in ruins, another reminder of how suddenly the day had turned.
"Damn it," Ysil muttered, brushing shards of glass from a bundle of spices that had shattered in her satchel. Her hands trembled as she worked, though she tried to disguise it as frustration. "We can't even have one day without shadows trailing us."
Lora sat on the edge of the narrow bed, fingers gingerly brushing her arm where a blade had grazed her. A line of red welled faintly but had already begun to clot. "It could have been worse," she whispered, her voice still unsteady. "If we'd hesitated longer, or if Melgil hadn't—" She stopped herself, eyes darting toward their companion.
Melgil sat across from them, silent, her expression carved in its usual calm. Slowly, with practiced ease, she pulled the sleeve of her dress higher to reveal the shallow cut the assassin's dagger had left. She pressed her palm over it, closing her eyes briefly. A soft warmth pulsed beneath her hand, faint but unmistakable. When she pulled it away, the skin beneath was whole once more, the wound gone as if it had never been.
To anyone else, it might have looked like a small trick of healing magic, clumsy and exhausting to maintain. She even winced faintly, drawing in a breath as if the effort had cost her. But Ysil and Lora exchanged a glance one that said neither of them was fooled.
They had known her long enough to see the truth: Melgil's restraint had not been weakness, nor was her pain entirely real. She was imitating someone. Pretending to struggle in the same way Daniel Rothchester did, with his quiet dignity and measured frailty, as if playing his mirror in order to remain believable.
"You didn't have to do that," Ysil said at last, her tone low, almost accusing. "We know what you're capable of. You're only pretending to be wounded."
Melgil's dark eyes lifted to meet hers, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. Then she gave the faintest shrug, graceful, detached. "Appearances matter," she said simply. "If the wrong eyes are watching, it is better to look ordinary. Better to let them think I bleed like anyone else."
Lora shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the bent charm in her hands. "Ordinary," she murmured, half to herself. "None of us are ordinary anymore."
Ysil pressed a strip of cloth to her shallow wound, though her eyes never left Melgil. She wanted to demand answers about the Crimson Veil, about Cassien's silent watch, about the secrets that pressed against their fragile circle, but something in Melgil's expression stopped her. There was calculation there, yes, but also a quiet protectiveness that left no room for argument. Whatever she knew, whatever she carried, she was not ready to share.
Instead, Ysil exhaled slowly and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. "Fine. We keep this between us," she muttered. "The others don't need to know. Not yet."
Melgil inclined her head, her lips curving in the faintest, unreadable smile. "Not yet," she echoed. And though her voice was calm, her mind remained restless. She had the cloth, the proof of the Crimson Veil's hand, and a new certainty burning within her: Daniel Rothchester was at the center of this storm, and she would bleed for him if she must. But not here. Not yet.
Ysil slid down against the door, pressing her palms over her face. Her breathing came in sharp bursts, too loud in the small room. "Gods, we should have fought harder," she muttered, her voice raw. "We should've chased them—cut them down before they ran. We just let them vanish."
"Ysil…" Lora's voice trembled, her hands wringing the bent charm she had bought. "They weren't common men. You saw how they moved. If we'd pushed further if we'd stayed, we'd be dead. All of us." Her eyes brimmed with the helpless sheen of tears she refused to let fall. "I don't want to die in some filthy tavern, forgotten."
Ysil's jaw clenched, anger and shame twisting together. "But running like this"
"kept us alive," Melgil cut in, her tone level, brooking no argument. She sat at the edge of the bed, her figure calm, collected, though her sleeve was still dark with her own blood. The torn strip of crimson silk lay hidden beneath her cloak, the weight of it heavy against her side. "That was never meant to be our victory. It was meant to shake us, to test us. If we'd pressed harder, we would have played into their hands."
Ysil looked at her, frustration sparking, but Melgil's eyes met hers with such steady control that the words died unspoken.
"So… what do we tell the others?" Lora asked at last, her voice small, searching.
"Nothing," Melgil replied. She leaned forward, her hands folded together, her expression unreadable. "If word spreads, we'll have every guard, every whisper, every spy looking our way. The Crimson Veil thrives on exposure, panic and fear are their weapons. We will give them neither. This night remains ours alone."
Silence followed. Even Ysil, simmering with unspent fury, could not argue.
At last, Lora nodded faintly, pressing the bent charm to her chest as if its broken shape could somehow protect her. Ysil swore under her breath, the sound brittle, but she rose and began unwrapping what clothes were salvageable from their parcels.
The three changed quickly, trading garments streaked with smoke and blood for plain wool and modest silks, nothing that would draw notice. The lamp's flickering light caught the exhaustion in their faces anger in Ysil's, fear in Lora's, and something unreadable in Melgil's, as though she wore her calm like a mask made of glass.
When at last they stepped back into the streets, they moved quietly, swiftly, blending into the thinning crowds. No laughter, no chatter marked their return only the steady rhythm of footsteps carrying them back toward the towering gates of the Royal Academy. By the time they slipped through the dormitory doors, the city's noise already muffled by stone, not one of them spoke of the fight. Not the smoke, nor the blades, nor the serpent-sigil crimson silk.
They let the silence swallow it whole, as though forgetting could make it vanish.
But Melgil knew better.