Iris pushed open the door to the inn with more force than necessary.
The warm scent of broth and lavender didn't calm her like it usually did. It somehow made her madder—like the city was trying to soothe her with cozy smells while it failed to protect soft bread and personal dignity.
Jamie was already inside their room, hunched over the tiny desk by the window, his coat draped on the chair behind him. His hair was still damp from the fog, and his satchel was half-open, papers spilling out.
"Welcome back," he said without looking up.
"You're alive. Good. I had a dramatic rescue planned," Iris replied, tossing her bag onto the bed. "Would've involved pastry-based bribery and maybe a fire."
He finally looked at her. "...Pastry-based?"
"Don't ask."
Jamie blinked, then wisely let it go. "I've got a lead."
"Already?"
He nodded, tapping the scrap of navy fabric. "I showed this to three different tailors. One of them—an older woman tucked behind an apothecary—recognized it. She made it years ago. Said it wasn't just embroidery—it was a message. A warning woven in silk. Commissioned for a man named Captain Lennox Rourke."
"Sounds like a lot of drama for fabric."
"Hypocrite, I remembered you lecturing me when I stained some for your silk with tea."
Iris blinked. "It was expensive, but—" She jabbed a finger toward his coat. We need new clothes."
Jamie blinked. "What?"
"Wardrobe," she said firmly, already on her feet. "We look too country. Too small-town. It's obvious. People in this city talked, and some were talking about us."
Jamie frowned. "You heard something?"
"I might've accidentally walked into a bar while looking for you, but that's not the point. They knew we weren't from here. They noticed us, Jamie. We stand out."
He looked down at his boots, then at her patched cardigan. "…Okay, fair."
"We need to blend in," she continued, pulling on her coat. "No more looking like we got dressed in the dark behind a curtain made of shame and wool."
He snorted. "You're fixated on our outfits."
"If I get murdered in a back alley, I want to be at least murdered in something stylish."."
"Oh, be, I forgot I'm going to meet someone tonight. One of the retired guards at the tavern called him the Drowned Stag. He recognized the name and said to come back alone."
Her brows pulled together. "What time?"
"You're not coming."
....."
Iris sat down slowly. "And let me guess… you want to die ."
"No bu_."
Iris groaned, flopping backward onto the bed. "I am coming, and you can't stop me."
Jamie stood. "Fine"
She exhaled loudly, then sat up. " But I swear, if we find this guy dead, I am going to riot"
Jamie gave a tired sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let's just hope it doesn't come to that."
"I already have a pitchfork in mind," Iris muttered. "Mentally. It's velvet-wrapped and very angry."
He smirked. "I'd expect nothing less."
.
When they stepped back onto the street, the sky had darkened into bruised indigo. Gas lamps flickered to life, casting long shadows that crawled over cobblestones like they had somewhere to be.
The streets weren't as crowded now, but they weren't empty either. The city never really slept—just shifted moods. And right now, it was edging into something hushed and watchful.
"Where are we going?" Iris asked, keeping her voice low as they passed a cluster of loitering vendors packing up for the night.
Jamie pulled the crumpled note from his coat. "Boarding house near the east riverfront. He said room twenty-three. Name's Brannick. He didn't give much—just that he used to serve under Rourke."
"Charming. Let's hope he's still breathing."
Jamie didn't answer. He didn't need to.
They moved quickly, weaving through alleys and side streets, where the city's polish thinned and cracks showed. Posters flapped half-torn on brick walls. A cat hissed from a windowsill above them, its eyes glowing in the dark. The smell of fish and soot thickened the farther east they went.
By the time they reached the boarding house, it looked... tired. A crumbling three-story building with peeling paint and cracked windows. A flickering lantern hung by the door, swinging gently in the breeze like it was nervous too.
Jamie stepped forward and knocked. No answer.
He knocked again, harder this time—still nothing.
"Maybe he's asleep?" Iris offered, though her voice didn't sound convinced.
Jamie glanced at her, then at the doorknob.
It wasn't locked.
He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the hall was narrow, dimly lit, and smelled like mildew and old tobacco. A staircase to the left creaked with every shift of the floorboards above.
"This is a horror movie waiting to happen," Iris whispered.
Jamie agreed.
They climbed to the second floor. The hall stretched long and dim, lined with mismatched doors, most of them closed tight. Room twenty-three was near the end. The door was cracked open.
Jamie froze.
"Don't," Iris whispered. "You always do this—go in first like some tragic hero."
"I'll be careful."
He pushed the door open the rest of the way.
And stopped.
Iris moved in beside him.
The room was small, barely big enough for a cot, a table, and a chair. The window was open, curtains flapping in the breeze like something had rushed out quickly.
And on the floor—
Jamie stepped closer, slow and careful.
Brannick was sprawled face-down near the table. His body stiff, his skin gray. Blood pooled beneath him in a halo, dried and dark. His throat had been cut.
"Gods," Iris whispered, hand flying to her mouth. "He's—"
"Yeah," Jamie said quietly. "He's very dead."
Jamie crouched near the body, jaw clenched. He didn't touch anything—just scanned, eyes flicking over the stiff limbs and dried blood with the cold focus of someone who'd seen too much already.
Iris lingered by the door, the warped wood creaking faintly under her boots. The room smelled like damp linen, cheap ink, and something metallic that clung to the back of her throat. Her arms were crossed tight across her chest.
This wasn't the front lines.
But it sure as hell felt like a casualty of war.
"You think this was a robbery?" she asked quietly.
Jamie didn't look up. "No. Too clean. Whoever did this knew what they were looking for."
He rose slowly, eyes scanning the tiny room. "There's nothing personal here. No bags, no spare boots, no letters from home. Like he didn't plan to stay long. Or he didn't want anyone to know he was here."
Iris moved toward the desk, careful not to step in the dried blood. "Or maybe he knew he wouldn't leave."
Jamie crouched again near the bed, running his fingers along the cracked floorboards. "Found something."
He slid a notebook out from beneath the mattress. It was small and battered, the cover dark with age and damp corners.
He flipped it open, brows drawing tight. "Military shorthand. Patrol logs. Notes on movements, names, places—none of them current."
Iris leaned in, her voice tight. "Old records?"
Jamie nodded. "Looks like he'd been tracking someone. Someone tied to Rourke."
She exhaled slowly, glancing around the peeling wallpaper and chipped wood. "How many others like him are holed up in places like this? Veterans, informants, ghosts."
Jamie didn't answer. He just turned the page.
More notes. Scattered thoughts. And on the last page, scribbled hastily:
"No one remembers the small wars. But they leave the deepest wounds."
Beneath it, one final line—different ink, shakier hand:
"He knows."
Iris stared at it. "What does that mean?"
Jamie tore the page out carefully, slipping it into his satchel. "Not sure. But I don't think it's a good thing."
She stepped back, gaze lingering on the man crumpled on the floor. "Do you ever get tired of how quiet it is after death? Like the world holds its breath and waits for you to notice."
Jamie's voice was low. "War teaches you to notice. To listen for silence before the next shot."
She rubbed her face. "I hate this. We're not soldiers, Jamie. We're just two idiots with a dead man's notebook."
The window rustled again behind them. Wind from the east. The sound of marching. Faint, but it carried ash in it—real or imagined, neither could tell anymore.
"Let's go," Jamie said.
"Yeah," Iris murmured, following him out. "Before they get closer"
They stepped out of the room like ghosts themselves, pulling the door shut behind them with a quiet click. No need to alert anyone else in the boarding house—not yet.
Neither of them spoke as they descended the stairs. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was heavy. Laced with things neither of them had the breath to say out loud.
At the bottom landing, Iris paused. "Do we report it?"
Jamie's mouth twitched. "To who? The capital doesn't care unless someone bleeds on their paperwork."
She nodded grimly. "Right. Forgot where we were."
Back on the street, the city had shifted again. The air was colder, and the gas lamps now flickered with a sharp edge, like they were burning closer to the wick. The fog had thickened in patches, curling low against the stones, carrying voices that weren't close—but didn't sound far enough.
Iris crossed her arms tight as they walked. "He knew something, Jamie. Something worth dying for."
Jamie pulled the torn notebook page from his satchel and stared at it under the lamplight.
He knows.
"Yeah," he said. "But we don't know who."
They passed an alley where a boy was lighting scraps of paper in a tin can, hands trembling against the cold. He didn't look up.
Jamie stopped walking. "There was a list in that notebook. I didn't get to read the names. But if Brannick was tracking people—other soldiers, maybe—one of them might still be alive."
Iris turned to face him. "And if he knows, then they're not safe either."
Jamie folded the paper and slid it back into his coat. "Then we find the others. Quietly. Before someone else gets to them."
Iris exhaled slowly. "And maybe next time," she muttered, "they'll still be breathing."
Jamie gave her a tired look. "We'll need a plan. And probably new names."
She raised an eyebrow. "Fake names?"
He nodded. "You wanted to blend in."
She grinned faintly. "Can I be Lady Buttonworth the Third?"
Jamie didn't even blink. "Only if I'm Sir Tattered of Threadbare."
A tiny laugh slipped between them, just enough to chase the worst of the shadows.
Then Jamie's eyes sharpened, catching something in the distance.
At the far end of the street, a man stood half-shrouded by fog. Not moving. Just... watching.
By the time Jamie took a step forward, the figure turned and vanished into the smoke.
Jamie muttered, "We're not alone."
Iris tightened her grip on her coat. "We never were."
They turned toward the inn, boots quickening on the stone.
Somewhere behind them, a bell rang.
And somewhere else, another war—quieter and smaller—kept dragging them in.
They turned toward the inn, boots echoing sharply against the damp stone.
But something was wrong.
The street behind them wasn't empty anymore.
Footsteps.
Light, deliberate, just far enough back to stay invisible—but close enough to hear now that the fog had thinned.
Jamie glanced over his shoulder. "We're being followed."
Iris didn't stop walking. "You sure?"
"Two sets of steps. Matching ours too closely."
She reached into her bag and slipped the seam ripper from its side pocket. "I swear, if I get jumped before I've had a new jacket—"
"Left," Jamie murmured. "Now."
They turned sharply, ducking into a narrow alley between two shuttered storefronts. The light here was bad—just enough to see shapes, not faces.
More footsteps.
Faster now.
"Jamie—"
He grabbed her hand. "Run."
They took off, boots slapping against stone, dodging crates and hanging laundry. A shout echoed behind them, followed by a clatter—someone slipped. But someone else didn't.
"Who are they?" Iris gasped.
"No idea," Jamie hissed. "But they're not just curious."
A figure lunged from the side.
Jamie ducked, slamming his shoulder into the attacker's ribs. The man grunted, stumbled back—but didn't fall.
Iris spun, caught a glimpse of another shadow charging from behind, and did the only thing she could—jabbed her seam ripper into the side of the man's leg.
He yelped and staggered.
"Not today!" she snapped, kicking him in the knee before bolting after Jamie.
They turned another corner and burst out into a small courtyard—open, ringed by locked doors and broken lanterns. A dead end.
Iris skidded to a halt. "Seriously?"
"Working on it," Jamie said, scanning the walls. He spotted a broken ladder half-buried in crates.
"I'll boost you," he said. "Up and over."
"What about you?"
"I've jumped higher walls."
"I'm five-four in a panic and a skirt—this is not my strong suit!"
Another shout behind them.
Jamie crouched and cupped his hands. "Now!"
She ran. Stepped into his grip. He lifted. She grabbed the ladder rung, pulled up—and scrambled onto the low rooftop, panting.
Jamie was already climbing the crates.
One of the pursuers rounded the corner just in time to catch a boot to the face.
Jamie didn't wait. He scrambled up and over the edge, rolling across the rooftop beside her.
They lay there for a second, breathless.
Below, the men shouted—then ran off in another direction, maybe thinking they'd doubled back.
Iris sat up, heart hammering.
"That wasn't random," she said, voice tight. "They weren't thieves. They were waiting."
Jamie nodded, still catching his breath. "Someone knew we were going to see Brannick."
She pulled out the torn notebook page again, hands shaking.
He knows.
"He's not the only one," she whispered. "And now they know we do too."
They looked at each other—silent, breath still fogging in the cold air.
Then Jamie said, "We need to move. We're not going back to the inn."
He wheeled around, backing toward her, weaponless but braced.
Then the new shadows stepped forward.
They were dressed in black coats with high collars, faces half-covered by simple masks—cloth veils that hid the lower half of their faces, but not their sharp, calculating eyes.
The taller one raised a hand—not threatening.
The shorter moved like they'd been waiting.
Behind Iris and Jamie, more footsteps grew closed in—closer—closer—
Then silence.
A thud.
A gasp.
Iris turned in time to see one of their pursuers collapse, a dart sticking from his neck.
The others hesitated, spooked.
The masked strangers moved fast—silent. One kicked a pursuer into a chimney stack. Another swept low, knocking legs out from under another. The last man turned to run—
And ran directly into a fist.
It was over in seconds.
Jamie stood frozen, chest heaving. "Who the hell—"
The taller masked figure turned to him. "You were not supposed to die tonight."
Iris bristled. "Oh, thanks. That's comforting."
The figure ignored her. "Come. Quickly." Opening a car door