The afternoon sun bled into a warm, golden orange, casting long shadows across the alley. The silence between them had stretched for hours, a thick, uncomfortable blanket broken only by the rustle of fabric as they worked.
They had sorted the trash into neat, surprisingly large piles. One for silks, one for cottons, one for lace. August had never seen so many pairs of panties in his life.
The whole situation was absurd.
Anna wiped a smudge of dirt from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a clean streak on her grimy skin. "That's enough for today," she said, her voice quiet.
She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on brushing dust from her trousers. "I should go."
She turned to leave. The easy way she had moved before was gone, replaced by a stiff, hurried energy. He couldn't let her go like this. Not with this horrible, awkward space between them.
"Wait," August said, taking a step towards her.
She froze, her back still to him.
"You're not going back to... wherever you sleep," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm getting a room at an inn. The Salty Siren, maybe. It's cheap. You should get one too. I'll pay."
He saw her shoulders tense up, and he hurried to make it sound better. "They have baths. Hot water. And they serve that thick stew with the dark bread. My treat. As a business expense. For my... lead strategist."
She slowly turned to face him, her expression guarded. Her cheeks were still flushed a faint pink.
"No," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "No, thank you."
August frowned, his mind a tangle of confusion. It was a good offer. A real bed. A hot meal. A bath.
After a day spent digging through trash, who would say no to that? It was a simple, decent offer.
"Why not? It's just for the night. We need to plan our strategy for tomorrow. It's better than sleeping in some cold alley."
He took another step closer, his voice softening. "Come on, Anna. Let me do this."
She looked at her new boots, then at the grimy wall, then at a pile of discarded corsets. She looked everywhere but at him. "I can't," she said, her voice a little stronger, but still shaky. "I... I have things to do. A place to be."
It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it. Her refusal felt like a slap. He had tried to fix things, to bridge the gap between them, and she had just built the wall higher.
What happened in the trash pile had been… explosive. Intense. But he thought it had brought them closer. Now, it felt like it had driven a wedge between them he couldn't see.
She needed an escape. Her eyes darted around and landed on the largest pile of their findings. "We, uh... we found a lot of this kind," she said, pointing a trembling finger at a heap of scandalous-looking garments.
There were thongs made of little more than string, crotchless panties with pearl beads, and a strange red contraption with too many straps.
"The nobles are even more degenerate than I thought. We should... we should sell these first. They'll fetch a high price."
Before he could respond, she turned and fled, her small figure quickly disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone in the alley with a mountain of expensive, discarded underwear and the lingering, sweet smell of her climax.
His jaw tightened. A hot flush of frustration prickled his neck. He stared at the empty alley entrance. This wasn't about the inn. This wasn't about being awkward.
This was a secret.
A big, ugly secret she was running to protect. And he, her partner, the one who had his hand down her pants not three hours ago, was on the outside.
No. He wasn't letting this go.
Without a second thought, he broke into a run, his boots pounding on the cobblestones. He rounded the corner just in time to see the flash of her red hair vanish into another narrow street. He ducked into the shadows of a deep doorway, his heart hammering.
He was a fool for what happened earlier, but he wasn't a fool who would let his only friend run into danger alone.
He closed his eyes. He didn't just think 'camouflage'. He pictured it.:
The slimy green moss clinging to the stone, the dark, wet patches where water had seeped through, the splintered grey of a nearby barrel. He pulled the images into his mind and forced them onto his clothes.
Mimic
A warm wave washed over him as the magic took hold. He opened his eyes. The plain brown fabric of his tunic was gone, replaced by a shifting, mottled pattern of his surroundings. He blended into the alley wall, a piece of the city's filth.
He moved, a silent shadow detaching itself from the others.
Anna was a fox. She navigated the streets as if she paved the roads herself. She cut through a fishmonger's stall, earning a string of curses. She dodged down a lane barely wide enough for a single person, forcing him to turn sideways. She scrambled over a low wall with the agility of a cat.
Each twist, each turn was designed to shake a pursuer. A cold fist of worry clenched in his stomach. Who's she running from?
He kept pace only because of his magic. He stayed far back, a moving blur in her periphery that she would dismiss as a trick of the light. He watched her, and a strange mix of emotions churned in his gut.
He was impressed, deeply impressed, by her skill and knowledge of the city's hidden veins. But beneath that was a growing dread. The alleys grew dirtier and meaner. More unsavory types popped up in groups.
They were entering a part of town where the Watch didn't go
Finally, she ducked into a dead-end alley that stank of stale beer. Tucked against the grimy back wall of a bakery stood a shack built of mismatched, rotting planks and a sheet of rusted tin for a roof.
Gaps between the boards showed only darkness within. It was a miserable place, not even fit for an animal.
She stopped at the flimsy door, her shoulders rigid. She didn't turn.
"I know you're there," she said. Her voice was flat and hard, stripped of all warmth and life. It echoed unnervingly in the small, filthy space. "This is Red Hands territory. You've got five seconds to piss off before they find you. And they're not as nice as I am."
The Red Hands. A gang? An adventurer party? What the hell is going on Anna?
He let the magic fade from his clothes, the drab browns and greens returning. He stepped out from behind a stack of empty crates. "It's just me, Anna."
She whirled around. Her eyes widened, the shock plain on her face. For a split second, he saw a flicker of something—respect? surprise that he'd managed it?—before it was instantly consumed by a firestorm of pure rage. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her eyes to burn like the fires of a Jade Dragon.
"You!" The word was a venomous hiss. She stalked towards him, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. "You followed me."
"Anna, I just wanted to make sure you were safe—"
"Don't you 'just' me!" she snarled, her voice low and dangerous.
"What in the hells do you think you're doing? This isn't part of the plan! This isn't professional! Our entire partnership is built on lines, August! On secrets! You stay in your world, I stay in mine. You just stomped all over them with your big, stupid farm boots!"
She was in his face now, jabbing a finger hard into his chest, forcing him back a step. "And for what? To see where the poor little beggar girl sleeps? To satisfy your damn curiosity? Or did you think because of what happened in that trash pile, you suddenly have a right to my whole life? Is that it?"
Her voice cracked with fury. "Did you think you could just follow a girl down a dark alley and it would all be fine? That it wouldn't be terrifying? Do you have any idea what could have happened if you were someone else?"
He took an involuntary step back, the words dying in his throat. Her accusations cut deep. He hadn't thought of it like that. He'd been so wrapped up in his own confusion, he hadn't considered her fear.
It was the same cold, righteous fire he saw in his mother's eyes right before she threw a pot across the kitchen. He was smart enough to know that mentioning the resemblance would be a fatal mistake.
"I was worried," he managed, the words sounding hollow and stupid even to his own ears.
She laughed, a sharp, ugly sound completely devoid of humor. "Worried? Don't you dare hide behind that! You were insulted because I didn't want your charity! Because I didn't fall at your feet for the offer of a hot meal! This is my life, August! Mine! You don't get to poke at it just because you feel like it! Now get out of here. Get out and don't you ever—"
"Anna?"
The voice was a high, thin whisper from the shack, fragile as dried leaves. The makeshift door creaked open, and a small face, pale and drawn, peered out.
"Sister? Do we have a guest?"
Anna froze solid. Every ounce of anger, every bit of fire, drained out of her in an instant. The fury on her face shattered, replaced by a stark, naked terror that made August's blood run cold.