The door shut behind him, and the city fell away.
Wheels took over—steady, low, unbothered. Inside, it was warm. Lamplight held a small, steady circle between the two of them. She sat opposite him, relaxed in a way that said rooms usually adjusted to her, not the other way around.
For a while, no one spoke.
"You're quieter than I expected,"
she said at last.
"Maybe you expected the wrong thing."
The silence stretched, measured in the sway of the lamp.
"Most men stare by now,"
His mouth twitched into something not quite a smile.
"I've got better manners."
"Do you?"
Her eyes stayed on him.
"I prefer those who don't bother pretending."
Nyx kept his back against the seat. The cloak she'd given him held its weight well, the fabric warmer than it looked.
"And I thought buyers preferred quiet."
"Some do."
Her tone didn't shift.
"I don't."
"That sounds like a dangerous preference."
„Danger has its uses. Keeps the night from falling asleep."
He raised a brow.
"And I'm supposed to be the danger here?"
"That depends,"
a smirk crossed her face.
"Are you?"
He let that one pass and watched her instead. She didn't look out the window once. One gloved hand rested on the arm, the other loose in her lap—still, but not idle.
"You're not asking where we're going,"
she noted.
"If I needed to know, you'd tell me."
"And if I never tell you?"
"Then I'll know I didn't need to."
Something close to amusement flickered and was gone.
"You make it sound simple."
"It usually is. People just prefer it complicated so they feel important."
The carriage found smoother ground; the lamp didn't sway as much. He listened to the wheels, the muted clop of whatever passed for a horse in this city. For a time, only wheels and hooves filled the air.
Then she broke the quiet.
"You don't just look. You take measure."
His gaze flicked her way.
"Habit."
"Of what?"
"Of people who want something. They always show it, if you know where to look."
"And me?"
He didn't rush the answer.
"Still working on the read."
Her head tilted.
"And so far?"
"That you spend without pause. You dislike collars, but not order. And you don't buy things to watch them break."
A small pause.
"Not wrong,"
a trace of amusement threaded the words.
"But you haven't reached the bottom of it."
Her hand rose, unhooking the clasp at her temple. The mask came away in one clean motion, leather whispering as she set it beside her.
For the first time, he saw her face.
Pale skin that held the lamplight softly. Silver-white hair with a few black strands threaded through, drawn back into a low bun at her nape, a black rose nestled against it. A few loose strands escaped, framing her face and slipping over bare shoulders. Eyes—golden, clear, watchful—met his without flinching. Her mouth kept a hint of curve at one corner, not an invitation, not a warning, just a line she owned.
The dress did more than cover. Black fabric cut to flatter; gold bows drew the eye along the lines of her figure; shoulders bare, posture easy. Curves that made elegance look like it knew exactly what it was doing.
She was, simply, beautiful.
Nyx let the fact register and filed it away with everything else.
So she was nice looking.
He leaned back as if that settled it.
Her expression barely shifted, but he felt the note of it—she'd caught more in his quiet than he'd meant to give.
"Better,"
The restraint in her tone slackened by a fraction.
"Now we can speak as ourselves."
"All this time were we speaking as someone else?"
"As roles,"
her reply was immediate.
"Now it can be less… theatrical."
He glanced at the discarded mask.
"You're fond of theater?"
"I'm fond of tools."
Her eyes stayed on him.
"And of knowing when to set them down."
"Convenient timing."
"Convenience is just preparation meeting a chance."
"Tell me, Nyx—do you always turn everything into a test?"
"That depends."
He matched her tone.
"Do I pass?"
"Undecided."
A small pause.
"But you're still here."
The carriage took a gentle turn; somewhere outside, a gate clanked and then receded. He marked the sound. Noted it. Kept it.
After a moment.
"You heard my description, Noctari. House Veylin."
"I did."
"And?"
His voice was flat.
„From the front row—how did I look? All that grand name I'm not allowed to use, dressed up with the rest of the fancy extras—and the most expensive rags of linen you've ever seen."
"Expensive, and inconvenient to the wrong people."
A breath slipped from him, halfway between a laugh and something sharper.
"Funny. I didn't even know what I was until tonight. Seems everyone else figured it out first."
Her head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"You didn't know?"
For the first time, the mask of composure slipped. The surprise was plain—sharp, genuine. Someone who had paid dearly for him, who clearly expected calculation and games, suddenly faced the impossible thought: a man who didn't even know his own race.
"Not a clue."
His mouth curved without humor
"Guess it's always nice to be the last to hear your own story."
He watched the lamplight slide along the gold trim at her shoulder. The silence stretched.
She studied him longer than before.
"Not everyone."
Her voice had softened by a fraction.
"But enough."
He let out a dry breath.
He thought of masks turning toward him. Of small silences that said large things. Of his sister's voice telling him there was no place for him at the table even when there had been an empty chair.
His mouth went dry with a memory he didn't invite. He swallowed it.
"Good. I like being a surprise."
"That won't last,"
She leaned back, fingers brushing the edge of the window.
"People love surprises until they can name them. Then they love control."
"And you?"
"I prefer certainty."
Her gaze held.
"Which is why I bought you."
He let the sentence sit between them.
"Certainty is expensive."
"I paid."
Her tone made it sound obvious.
"You did."
Nyx let his eyes slip to the mask again, then back.
"Why me?"
"Because you stood,"
No hesitation.
"And because the room felt something it couldn't place. Because the announcer's words said less than they should have, and silence where there should've been detail makes people curious. And because my enemies like to think I play safe."
"Do you?"
"Only when I can win more by waiting."
A pause.
"Tonight wasn't one of those nights."
Her voice carried the shape of reasons, neat and orderly. But the truth was less tidy. Something in him had caught her attention before the numbers had. Not calculation. Not strategy. Something harder to name.
He didn't press her on what she'd meant—the grade of his trait the announcer had named had been enough to turn heads. No need to offer her a mirror for that curiosity.
"What happens when we get… wherever we're going?"
"You'll bathe. You'll eat. You'll sleep. You'll be seen. Not by many. Not yet. You'll listen more than you speak."
"And if I don't?"
Her mouth curved the faintest fraction.
"Then we'll discover whether you prefer the pens' rules to mine."
His eyes dipped to her hands. Steady. No ring to declare ownership, but everything else about her did—the guards that obeyed without pause, the room that had bent its spine to her presence. Whoever she was, the mask wasn't the beginning.
He let the thought hang a beat before asking,
"And what do I call you, if we're done with theater?"
"Call me what you like. People tend to."
"That sounds like a lie rich people tell for sport."
She let the accusation pass.
"In private, you may use Caelia."
"May,"
he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue.
"May,"
she confirmed, unbothered.
He tried it once under his breath.
"Caelia."
The name fit sharp against the silence.
"It will do."
"Short,"
he muttered.
"Sharp. Looks good on paper."
Her glance flicked, dry.
"Luckily, you won't be filing any."
He let that one slide into the stack.
Silence returned, thinner this time, easier to sit in. The wheels murmured on. The beast pulling them blew out a breath that misted the small pane of glass in the door.
"You told them I go clean,"
His eyes flicked toward her.
"No collar."
"I don't like leaving marks other people chose."
He almost smiled.
"Does that include auction stamps and family ledgers?"
"It includes anything that makes a person easier to confuse with a thing."
"You say that like you don't buy things."
"I don't choose what I can discard."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"And because I don't gamble with what I keep."
"That sounds like trouble I didn't ask for."
"No one asks,"
Caelia leaned back, unbothered.
"It still arrives."
He nodded once. A quiet concession.
Outside, the road changed under them—less stone, more gravel, then a smoother pull again. Nyx felt it through his boots, through the bench, through the way sound moved and didn't. A bell somewhere far back counted a number he didn't know the meaning of.
"You mentioned 'being seen,'"
Nyx said after a beat.
"By who?"
"People who need to understand you're not for trade. People who read ledgers with their knife hand."
"Friends?"
"Provisional,"
A low sound escaped him, half laugh, half not.
"I know that word."
"I thought you might."
He studied her face when it wasn't meant for an audience. Less theater. More intent. Younger than the voice on the dais, older than the mask.
"You're cataloging,"
she said after a while, not offended.
"Habit,"
he said again.
"And verdict?"
"Undecided."
A faint shrug.
"From window to threshold, maybe"
"Don't throw anything through it."
"Working on it."
The carriage slowed.
Sound changed again—muffled by walls, swallowed by trees, shaped by open space. The lamp's flame thinned as if the air had ideas about it. He smelled water, cut grass, oil on hinges, money that didn't need to show itself to be counted.
Caelia reached for the mask but did not put it back on. She lifted the cloak folded beside her and set it near his knee.
"You're going to be looked at, don't stare back unless I do."
"I'm very good at being furniture,"
he said.
"I noticed."
A pause.
"Don't be furniture if anyone touches you."
Nyx glanced up.
"That an order?"
"A preference."
Her eyes held his.
"You'll learn the difference."
Outside, a voice called something he didn't catch. The carriage eased to a halt. The door latch clicked.
One last thing, he thought, but held it.
Caelia didn't.
"Whatever you were before the Exchange,"
she said, quiet but flat,
"you can keep or discard at your own pace. But if anyone tries to name you for you—correct them."
"That your rule or mine?"
"Both,"
The door opened to a wash of night air and a courtyard lit clean and even. A wall he couldn't see the top of. Stone dark with age, windows warm, a line of figures in plain black waiting without fidgeting. Somewhere, water ran—steady, precise.
Caelia stood first. He followed.
No one reached for him. No one hissed an order like a whip. The nearest figure—older, carrying his years like he'd asked for them—bowed a fraction to Caelia and didn't glance at Nyx.
"Welcome back, my lady,"
"Thank you, Cail."
Her voice shifted, fitted to this place.
"We'll need water, food, and the south rooms opened."
"Of course."
Caelia looked at Nyx.
"Come."
He followed. The stones underfoot held a day's heat and let it go carefully. The night smelled of iron gates and trimmed hedges, oil and damp green. He took it all in and let none of it show.
At the door, she paused just long enough that he understood: the moment that line was crossed. Whatever he had been ended here.
Nyx glanced at the sky one last time and found no stars that belonged to him.