“Rain makes mirrors of the streets. The rich see their reflection and adjust their crowns. The poor see their ghosts and remember who they buried to get there.”

  preacher of the seven

  The cold Springtide rain was still coming down, turning the pristine streets of the High City into a series of expensive puddles. I pulled my new noble-born cloak tighter around my shoulders, trying to look like a man who belonged there and not a guy who’d just spent his last hour threatening a teenager with a kitchen knife.

  I was halfway down a side street when I realized my mouth was moving.

  I stopped dead. "Great. Fantastic," I muttered to a nearby rain barrel. "One decent meal and a sad song, and now I’m a bleeding bard. Next thing you know, I’ll be growing my hair out and weeping over poems about flowers. Get it together, Eymire."

  The tune was like a burr in a blanket—it wouldn't let go. It was a weird feeling. In the Warrens, the only thing stuck in your head is usually the sound of a pipe about to burst or the rhythmic thud of an enforcer’s boots. Music was a luxury for people who didn't have to worry about where their next breath was coming from.

  I kept walking until I found a place that didn't look like it required a family crest to enter. It was a small, squat building called . It wasn't the Gilded Cup, but it didn't look like a place where you’d wake up missing a kidney either.

  The woman behind the counter looked like she’d been carved out of an old oak tree—wrinkled, hard, and unimpressed by my shiny new clothes.

  "One silver," she grunted before I could even open my mouth. "Room for the night, breakfast when the sun hits the sign. No fighting, no magic, no dying. I hate cleaning up corpses; they’re heavy and they don't tip."

  "A woman after my own heart," I said, sliding a Silver Crest across the wood. "I’ll take the room. Skip the 'no dying' part—I’ll try my best, but the day's been a real bitch."

  The room was small, smelling of old lavender and dust, but the bed felt like a cloud compared to the stone roofs I’d been calling home. I didn't even bother taking off the boots. I just fell. My brain, exhausted from the magic blackout and the constant threat of the Golden Order, finally gave up.

  Everything went black.

  Usually, when I sleep, it’s nothing. A void. A pause button on the world. But not tonight.

  In the dark, there was a sound. Sharp. Wet.

  A kid was crying.

  It was a small, high-pitched sound that echoed in a space that felt like a cold, empty cathedral. I tried to move, to find the source, to tell the brat to shut up so I could sleep, but I was paralyzed. I was just a witness to the sobbing. It was a hollow, desperate noise—the kind that makes you realize that the world isn't just cruel; it’s empty.

  The crying grew louder, vibrating in my teeth, until the darkness started to bleed red.

  I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The morning sun was stabbing through the gaps in the shutters, hitting my eyes like twin daggers. My photoreactive skin flared with a familiar itch, but I didn't care.

  I stared at the ceiling, my breath ragged, my hands shaking. The sadness from the dream was already being swallowed by a hot, thick wave of anger. It was a familiar heat—the kind I used to keep the world at a distance.

  "The same damn dream," I spat at the ceiling. "As long as I can remember."

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my head in my hands. The kid's voice was still echoing in my ears, making my chest feel tight and heavy. I hated it. I hated the kid, I hated the mother who wasn't there, and I hated that my own mind was a place I couldn't escape with a Jump.

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  "Right," I muttered, standing up and reaching for my scarf. "Enough of that. The sun's up, I’m still alive, and I’ve got a breakfast I already paid for. If I’m lucky, the eggs will be as salty as I am."

  I shoved the dream into the back of my mind, right next to the Golden Order and the King Below. I didn't have time for a tragedy. I had a week to survive, and a city full of people who didn't know they were lucky I hadn't killed them yet

  I’m not stupid. You don't sleep in stolen high-quality silk unless you want to wake up looking like a wrinkled prune and smelling like yesterday’s bad choices. I’d carefully folded the noble’s clothes and tucked them away, sleeping in my base layers. If I was going to play the part of "Elias the Upper-City Resident," I couldn't afford to look like I’d spent the night in a laundry basket.

  I got dressed, smoothed out the fabric, and stepped out of my room, still trying to shake the ghost of that crying kid from my head.

  Then I saw her.

  A flash of red caught the side of my eye, and for a second, my brain just stopped. It was the singer from the Gilded Cup. Up close, without the smoky haze of the tavern and the stage lights, she was... well, my jaw actually dropped. I'm not proud of it.

  In the undercity, you see women, sure. But in the pleasure districts of the Warrens, they aren't exactly . They’re bodies walking on autopilot—beautiful corpses with no soul behind the eyes, just survival and shadows. But this girl? She had a soul that seemed to leak out of her pores. She had a smile that could probably melt the iron gates of Aethelgard.

  She looked at me and beamed. "Good morning," she said.

  Her hair was a wild, beautiful mess of red fading into orange, like a dying ember. Freckles danced across her nose, and her eyes were a green so bright they made the tavern's dusty hallway look like a garden.

  "Ahhh... morning," I managed to squeeze out.

  "I saw you play yesterday," I said, finally finding my feet. "I mean, in the tavern. I was there."

  She tilted her head, her smile widening. "Oh, really? And what did you think, traveler?"

  "It was beautiful," I said, and for once, I wasn't lying to cover my tracks. "You’re... you’re very talented."

  She smiled again.

  "Thank you," she said softly. "Join me for breakfast? I hate eating alone when the sun is this bright."

  "Okay," I said, probably too fast.

  We went downstairs to the common room. I chose the corner table—old habits die hard. A corner means your back is to the wall and you can see everyone coming. As we walked, the room seemed to tilt toward her. People were whispering, pointing, leaning in.

  "Look, it's her," a merchant muttered, nearly dropping his ale.

  We sat down, and I leaned across the table. "You're famous," I noted.

  She giggled, a sound that made the "Hearth Knife" in my belt feel suddenly very heavy and unnecessary. "Thank you. You're sweet."

  "I forgot to introduce myself," I said, trying to regain some dignity. "I'm Eymire."

  "I'm Lirra," she responded. "So, are you a performer too, Eymire? You have the look of someone who knows how to hold a stage."

  "Not exactly. I used to be a Courier," I said. It was the best cover I had. A Jumper is just a courier who skips the stairs, after all. "Now I’m... between jobs. Exploring the local scenery."

  "A courier? That’s hard work in a city this big," she said, looking genuinely impressed. "Oh! If you're looking for work, I know a clothing store nearby that’s hiring. The owner is a bit of a grump, but he pays well."

  She pulled a scrap of parchment from her bag and quickly drew a map with practiced hands. "His name is Oren. Tell him I sent you; he owes me a favor."

  I took the map, my fingers brushing hers. "Thank you. I don't even know how to repay you for this, Lirra."

  She reached out and touched my hand, her skin warm and real. "You can repay me by coming to see me play next week in The Lyric Court Inn

  I felt that squeeze in my chest again, and it wasn't the "Memory Tax" this time. "Okay," I said, finding my voice. "It's a deal."

  Lirra stood up, her colorful skirts swishing against the wooden floorboards. "I have to head out, Eymire. Rehearsal starts at the Gilded Cup in an hour, and the Master of Ceremonies is a man who measures time in heartbeats. If I’m late, he’ll have me singing for my supper in the scullery."

  "Right. Rehearsal. Don't let the... clock-man get you," I managed to say. My brain felt like it was trying to Jump without any magic—just spinning in place and throwing off sparks.

  She leaned down, her face coming dangerously close to mine again. The scent of her—something like vanilla and spring rain—hit me harder than a Golden Order mace. She touched my hand one last time, her fingers warm against my skin, and gave me a wink that probably would have killed a lesser man.

  "Don't lose that map," she whispered. "And don't be late next week. I’ll be looking for you in the corner."

  Then, she was gone. She walked out of the common room with that same effortless confidence, leaving a trail of turned heads and hushed whispers in her wake.

  I sat there for a solid minute, staring at the spot where she’d been. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a frantic prisoner trying to kick down a door. I took a long, slow breath, trying to remember how to be a cynical, cold-blooded resident of the Warrens.

  "Get a grip, Eymire," I hissed at myself, clutching the map she’d drawn. "She’s a singer. You’re a fugitive with a magic blackout and a death warrant. You aren't 'sweet.' You’re a walking disaster in a stolen tunic."