Amiya's Perspective:
The palace was a gilded prison, but tonight, it was nothing more than a corpse she was finally leaving behind.
Amiya moved like a fucking phantom through the dimly lit corridors, her heart pounding in her chest. Every step had to be perfect. Every movement controlled. The walls of this place had ears, and even though she had spent weeks memorizing the guards' schedules, knowing exactly when they'd be at their laziest, she couldn't afford a single goddamn mistake.
She had spent her whole fucking life suffocating under layers of gold and silk, drowning in rules, expectations, and the ever-tightening noose of duty. The air inside these walls had never belonged to her. She had only ever been allowed to borrow it under the strictest fucking conditions.
But tonight, she would take it.
The coarse fabric of her stolen cloak scratched against her skin as she pressed herself into the shadows, watching, waiting. A lone guard strolled lazily past an intersecting hallway, whistling to himself, completely fucking oblivious that the woman he was sworn to protect was only a few feet away, watching him through narrowed eyes.
She stayed still, not even daring to breathe until his footsteps faded. Then, as quick as a blade in the dark, she was moving again.
The servants' passages were her best bet—cramped tunnels built into the walls, meant for palace workers to move unseen. The entrance was hidden behind a heavy tapestry near the kitchens, a place she doubted any of the guards had ever bothered to check.
Her fingers found the frayed edge of the fabric, lifting it just enough to slip through the narrow gap behind it. The tunnel was pitch-black, and the air was thick with the scent of old stone and dust. She pressed forward, her footsteps muffled by the dampness of the floor.
The exit she was aiming for led to a forgotten courtyard behind the kitchens, a place where old wine barrels and discarded furniture were left to rot. It was a dead space, ignored by almost everyone—except for her.
She had found the passage years ago, back when she was still naive enough to think there was some way to escape this life.
Now, she was making that fantasy a reality.
She reached the end of the tunnel and pressed her palm against the hidden latch. The wood groaned in protest as the door cracked open, revealing the night beyond.
Cold air rushed in, carrying with it the distant hum of the city—the sound of freedom.
She hesitated for only a second, her breath catching in her throat as she looked back into the darkness behind her.
This was it.
The last fucking step.
If she left now, there was no going back.
She swallowed hard and forced herself forward, stepping out into the night. The courtyard was empty, save for the broken remnants of forgotten furniture. Overhead, the sky stretched wide and endless, no longer framed by palace walls.
For the first time in her life, she was outside.
No guards. No watchful eyes. No chains around her throat.
A wild, reckless feeling surged through her—a mix of terror and exhilaration so intense it nearly knocked her off balance. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus. She wasn't safe yet.
She moved quickly, sticking to the shadows as she navigated the back paths leading away from the palace. The city loomed ahead, a chaotic sprawl of winding streets, flickering lanterns, and the ever-present hum of life.
This was where the real danger began.
But she welcomed it.
Because anything—even the uncertainty of the unknown—was better than the suffocating life she had left behind.
Sylas's Perspective:
The city smelled like damp stone, cheap liquor, and desperation.
Sylas leaned against the crumbling wall of an alleyway, watching as the streets pulsed with life. Even in the dead of night, the city never truly fucking slept. The upper districts—the ones with their pristine streets and polished stone—might've quieted, but here? The heart of the city, where coin ruled and survival meant knowing whose pockets to pick and whose to leave the hell alone?
Here, the night belonged to people like him.
The ones who thrived in the dark.
He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the strap of his satchel. His fingers drifted to the pouch at his waist, feeling the weight of the pendant inside.
That fucking pendant.
He should've sold it already. Should've walked into one of his usual spots, found the right buyer, and been done with it. The job had been simple: steal the royal family's flashy fucking trinket, hand it off, get paid.
But here he was, still carrying the damn thing like a fucking idiot.
It wasn't like him to hesitate. He wasn't the sentimental type, and he sure as hell wasn't the kind of man to start second-guessing his own fucking decisions.
But something about this job didn't sit right with him.
It wasn't just the pendant itself, though its worth alone was enough to make any thief think twice. No, it was her.
The woman.
He hadn't even known she was anyone important when he'd slipped into that room, his hands light as air as he lifted the pendant from its velvet cushion. He'd expected some terrified noblewoman, some delicate little thing too wrapped up in her own luxury to know what was happening until it was too late.
Instead, he'd gotten her.
Sharp eyes. Cold, assessing. Not scared—angry.
That had thrown him. He was used to fear. He knew how to handle fear.
But she hadn't been afraid of him.
And that was a fucking problem.
Sylas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he pushed away from the wall. He needed to get rid of the pendant. If he held onto it any longer, it was going to become his problem, and he wasn't in the business of collecting problems.
He started walking, his boots silent against the damp cobblestones. The market district was a few streets over, and if anyone could move stolen goods without asking questions, it was the fences who operated there.
But as he moved, that unease gnawed at him again, low in his gut like a fucking warning.
Something was off.
He had been doing this long enough to trust his instincts, and right now, they were screaming at him.
The woman wasn't his concern. The pendant wasn't his concern.
So why the fuck did it feel like he was about to get pulled into something way bigger than just another job?
Sylas scowled, shaking off the thought.
He needed a drink. Maybe two.
Because whatever storm was brewing on the horizon, he sure as hell wasn't ready for it.