Almost two months of Bravhessa had taught me this much: the city never slept, only shifted. By day, market stalls bled color into the air. By night, drunks sang and boots clattered in the alleys. The forest had been cruel, but it had been quiet. This place was cruel too—but never quiet.
And through it all, I kept seeing her.
The plain woman. Ever since the night I got the letter from Nareva. Always at the edge of a crowd. Never looking long enough to draw attention, but never gone either. At first, I thought I imagined it—another shadow to join the others already in my head. But Selaithe noticed too.
"Her again," Sel muttered one dusk, pulling me by the shoulder into the doorway of a butcher's shop. Across the street, the woman stood at a stall of boiled chestnuts, not buying, not selling, just… waiting.
I'd seen her at the bridge. At the market. Once even outside The Fiddler's End. She never approached. Never spoke. But she was there.
This time, Selaithe had had enough.
⟡
We caught her in the alley behind the inn. Sel moved quicker than I could blink—knife pressed under the woman's chin, her free hand pinning her against the wall. At this point I'm starting to think Sel is using Veilstep without telling me.
"Why are you following us?" Sel snarled. Her mauve eyes burned, sharp as glass.
The woman didn't flinch. She looked older up close, weathered, like stone rubbed smooth by river water. Her cloak was plain, her boots worn. Not Church. Not soldier.
"You finally asked," she said, voice even.
I stepped closer, fists tight. "Who are you?"
Her gaze flicked to me. Not Sel. Me.
"Not your enemy. Only the hand of one who cared enough to pay." She reached slowly into her cloak, producing a small slip of familiar parchment—creased, but untouched by mud or flame. My chest tightened.
Copy of the letter. The one I got a month back.
"You…" My throat felt raw. "You're the one who delivered it."
She nodded once. "She bought me months ago. Paid me more than the Church ever could. Told me to wait, to watch, and to put it in your hand if the Church or the Academy ever chase after you."
Sel's knife pressed harder. "And if they hadn't?"
"Then I'd have faded into the streets, and you'd never know my face."
Her voice was flat. Mercenary's voice. No loyalty, no warmth. But not a lie.
"Why still follow us, then?" I asked.
The woman's eyes—grey, unremarkable—narrowed. "Because I wanted to see what the girl bought with her coin. You're the only soul I've delivered a message for who hasn't ended up dead by dawn."
That silence after hurt worse than any blade.
Sel finally pulled her knife back. The woman rubbed her throat but didn't move. She just added, softer:
"There's more than one bounty on you now. Not just the boy with the sword. The elf too. You're painted in gold and blood."
Then she left. Not a threat. Not a protector. Just gone, like a shadow shaken loose.
⟡
The alley felt colder after she left. The plain woman's steps faded into the noise of Bravhessa, and suddenly the streets felt full of eyes. Sel cleaned her knife on her sleeve and muttered something sharp under her breath, but I couldn't answer. My fingers still itched from holding the letter, from hearing Nareva's name spoken aloud in someone else's mouth.
When we returned to The Fiddler's End, the room felt too small. The shutters too tight. Even the air smelled wrong, like dust caught in candle wax. I couldn't sleep. Neither could Sel.
So I found myself on the floor, basin before me, knees crossed, while she leaned against the wall with her arms folded, watching like a cat.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Nareva's words itched at my skull like embers. Her voice rose and fell in memory:
Don't force it. Don't drown it. The Waeve listens more than it bends.
I dipped my hands into the basin. The water stung with cold.
Sel tilted her head. "You're going to burn your eyebrows off again."
"Shut up."
She smirked. "That's not a denial."
I closed my eyes. Breathed. The Waeve brushed my skin like loose threads, always pulling, always fraying. My aura wanted to spill wild and white, as it always did, thick and too bright, straining to tear through my body.
Your aura wants to escape. Don't fight it. Invite it.
Nareva's voice again. Her hands steady as she'd guided mine in the dark of the estate gardens.
I let the thread brush my palm. The water rippled. Warmth swelled—gentle, fragile. Not fire. Not ruin. Just warmth. For a heartbeat, it almost felt right.
Then it snapped. The basin hissed cold again.
Sel clapped slowly, grinning. "Well, you didn't explode. Progress."
I almost laughed. Almost. "You're supposed to help, not heckle."
"I am helping. Keeping your pride small enough to fit through doors."
But then she moved closer, crouching beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. "Do it again."
So I did. Again and again until sweat stung my eyes. Each time, the warmth lasted a fraction longer. She didn't blink. Didn't move away. Just sat with me in the quiet, her breathing steady, grounding me against the slip of the threads.
At some point I whispered, "Luméthra nael, suvenar aei…"
The chant was broken, half-forgotten from the scroll Nareva once pressed into my hands. A child's spell, simple, meant to coax fireflies from air. My voice trembled, but the Waeve caught it.
Light bloomed—soft, flickering. Tiny motes rose above the basin, glowing like stars trapped in water.
Sel gasped. Not mocking this time. Just breathless. Her mauve eyes widened, reflecting gold-green specks as they floated between us. She reached out, cupping her hands as though to catch them, but they passed through her fingers.
I wanted to hold them there forever.
Instead, the glow shivered, broke apart, and vanished into nothing.
I sagged, exhausted.
Sel's hand was already on my back. Steady. Warm. "Kaelen," she whispered. No teasing, no armor. Just my name.
I turned my head. Too close. She smelled like smoke and pine.
She smiled faintly. "Do it again tomorrow."
And she stayed like that, pressed against me until dawn painted the shutters pale.
⟡
By morning, we were packing.
The Fiddler's End had been a strange sort of anchor, but the ground was shifting under us. The whispers had thickened—Church scouts spotted near the bridge, hunters asking about "a pale boy and a girl with river hair."
"We can't stay," Sel said simply, stuffing our coins into her satchel. "North is cleaner. Quieter. Four days to the next village. We'll think after that."
I wanted to argue. To cling to the sheets that smelled of bread and smoke, to the routine that had almost felt normal. But I couldn't. I knew she was right.
When we stepped into the street, the air was sharp with morning frost. Sel tightened her cloak and glanced back at me. I surprised myself—I reached for her hand first this time.
She smirked, all teeth. "Careful, Kaelen. You'll make me think you like me."
"Shut up," I muttered, but I didn't let go.
Neither did she.
Sel squeezed my hand once before releasing it, turning her gaze northward. Her smile softened, losing its usual sharpness.
"The village isn't big," she said. "Stone houses. A well in the middle. They'll trade bread for coin, maybe soup if we're lucky. And there's an old fence on the southern side—half-rotten, leaning. If we follow it, we'll find a shepherd's trail that runs faster than the road."
I frowned, pulling my cloak tighter. "How do you know all that?"
She blinked, as if caught saying too much. Then she shrugged, too casual. "Maybe I dreamt it."
"That's not an answer."
Her smirk returned, but it didn't reach her eyes this time. "And you're not ready for the real one."
I wanted to press her. To dig, to demand. But the way her fingers brushed mine again—quick, fleeting, as though reminding me she was still there—stole the words from my tongue.
Instead, I just walked beside her, the noise of Bravhessa fading behind us. The road stretched empty and pale ahead, frost crackling on the weeds.
I told myself I'd ask again tomorrow.
But part of me already knew the tomorrow after that would come, and she'd still be a step ahead, secrets tucked beneath her grin.
And for reasons I didn't understand, that thought was both comforting… and terrifying.