The sun wasn't just hot; it was aggressive. It baked the salt-crust of the Lower Quarter into a fine white powder that stung my eyes as I navigated the narrow gaps between warehouses. I kept my hood pulled low, not because I was being dramatic, but because I'd seen three different Covenant patrols in the last ten blocks. They weren't marching in formation anymore. They were searching—kicking over crates, checking the holds of fishing skiffs, and looking generally twitchy.
They were looking for Mia. A twelve-year-old girl with a shock of white hair who could make the world fall up was a hell of a thing to lose, and Inquisitor Marek wasn't the type to let it slide.
"Perfect," I muttered again, the word tasting like copper. "Just perfect."
