Zyren woke long before the first hint of dawn.

  He pushed aside the tarp of his small tent, breath clouding faintly in the cold morning air. A thin crust of dew clung to the moss and stones, shimmering in the faint glow of the dying coals. The forest around them was still swallowed by fog—so dense it seemed to press inward, turning the trees into warped silhouettes that leaned and twisted like half-forgotten shadows.

  He rubbed his eyes, but the dream clung stubbornly.

  Parvani.

  She had stood beside him in the dark, smiling that bright, round-cheeked smile she carried everywhere. But the ground beneath them shifted—tilting, rolling, lurching as if they were back at sea. The trees warped into tall black pillars, leafless and charred, creaking in a wind that didn’t exist. Then it began to rain—not water, but ash. A soft drizzle at first. Then heavier. And heavier.

  Until she disappeared.

  Zyren had woken choking on nothing.

  He sat now near the faint glow of the fire, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. He knew the dream’s meaning—Parvani’s death tangled with the memories of the Burned Forest, the fear, the helplessness. Kaelith’s survival had delayed the grief…but it had been waiting.

  A soft rustle behind him broke the quiet.

  “Trouble sleeping?” Hisoka’s gentle voice slipped through the fog as she stepped into view, cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

  “Parvani,” Zyren whispered. The name alone carried the weight.

  Hisoka sat beside him with a careful exhale, feeding a fresh log into the fire.

  “I know,” she murmured. Her eyes reflected the dancing orange glow. “I can’t stop thinking about her, either. But…” She nudged the log deeper into the embers. “We need to focus.”

  Zyren nodded, though the motion felt thin.

  He reached for his pack. “Want some tea?”

  She gave him a faint smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  They worked in tired silence—the sort shared by people who had fought the same battle but in different ways. The little tin cup quivered as the water inside began to shiver, steam curling up into the thick air.

  The fog lightened slowly, turning from iron-gray to pearl-white as the sun tried to force its way through, though without warmth.

  “How do you do it?” Zyren finally asked, cupping his hands around the rising heat. “Hiding. Spying. Making sure no one notices you.”

  Hisoka didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze stayed on the fire, deep and distant.

  “I was trained for it,” she said at last. “Then…I kept doing it. And it gets easier.”

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  But there was something heavy under the words—something Zyren sensed but didn’t dare prod.

  He took a sip of his tea, letting the warmth cut through the morning chill. Hisoka’s expression remained unreadable, shaped by things she didn’t put into words.

  “Your first focus,” she said, pulling herself back to the present, “is not being seen. Get close when you can, and if you must be visible…look like you belong. Like you’re meant to be there.”

  Zyren adjusted on the uneven wooden stump, uneasy. She made it sound simple—and maybe it was for someone like her. But the fear lingered anyway. Being caught here wasn’t like being caught in his parents’ tavern years ago. There, overheard stories were harmless curiosities. Here…they were dangers with teeth.

  Hisoka noticed his tightening grip around his cup.

  “We’ll be in the taverns asking questions,” she reassured him. “You’ll just stay out of sight. Gather what you can. Avoid attention.” She tapped her cup lightly against his. “Like I said—the more you do it, the easier it gets.”

  Zyren nodded, though the knot in his stomach stayed knotted.

  They broke bread quietly, spreading a smear of rendered fat across the rough crust. The fog hung unmoving, even the breeze afraid to disturb it.

  Footsteps approached—slow, solid, deliberate.

  Kael passed by them, nodding once without breaking stride. Without a glance toward the group, he moved toward the shrine erected beside their camp.

  Moments later, Tasya appeared, already armored in purpose.

  “We need to leave,” she said flatly, pouring herself a quick swallow of tea without asking.

  Kael didn’t turn. Knelt before the shrine, shoulders broad and unmoving.

  “Too early to leave,” he said. Calmly. Almost serenely.

  “You’re here to guide us,” Tasya snapped. The hand near her knife tightened, subtle but unmistakable.

  Kael’s voice didn’t change. “I’ll guide you later.”

  The grin on his unseen face was so clear Zyren almost felt it. Tasya’s silence after that was thin, sharp—like a blade held just under the surface.

  They didn’t leave until after midday.

  Tasya’s anger simmered, though she kept it contained behind tight jaw and clipped movements. No one spoke much as they climbed, the incline unforgiving. Zyren’s legs burned, Hisoka slipped twice, even Tasya stumbled once. The fog thinned only when the hill began leveling.

  And then—

  They reached the top.

  The city lay below them, carved into the stone and spreading out to the sea. Boats rocked gently near the docks. And along a main street, a river of tiny lights moved in a slow, deliberate line—the procession.

  “Ah,” Kael breathed, almost reverent. “The procession of the Tidekeepers. Just in time.”

  He looked at Tasya for acknowledgment. She pretended he wasn’t there.

  “Follow the hill down and meet Josith at the channel,” Kael continued, pointing. “He’ll take you inside by boat.”

  “What about you?” Zyren asked.

  Kael chuckled softly. “I’ll meet you back here in two days.” His eyes remained on the procession, filled with quiet devotion. “Don’t be late.”

  Without hesitation, Tasya threw down her large pack and shoved it beneath a tangle of shrubs. She kept only her weapons and a few essentials. Zyren and Hisoka scrambled to follow suit.

  Kael’s chuckle followed them like a lazy wave.

  Descending was harder than climbing. The rocks were slick with moss, the incline so sharp their bodies kept wanting to pitch forward. Zigzagging was the only way to avoid sliding.

  As they neared the bottom, the sound of water surged through the stone corridors of the city—the channel’s rush mixing with the distant hum of whispered prayers.

  “Hey!” a hushed voice called from the right.

  “Josith?” Tasya asked.

  “Hurry,” he answered.

  His small boat carried them only minutes before slipping through a narrow opening at the base of the wall. An iron gate blocked the way—bars cut long ago, hidden behind thick shrubs. Clearly ignored for years, if not decades.

  Once inside, they split. Hisoka and Tasya headed toward the taverns as planned.

  Zyren turned the opposite direction, toward the sound of the crashing waves—the harbor calling him like a thread pulling him forward. The alleys were dim, the city nearly dark except for the faint procession glow and the muted lanterns behind shuttered tavern doors.

  He pulled his hood farther forward and vanished into the maze of stone passages.

  His first task as a spy.

  His first night alone.

  And the city waited—quiet, watching.

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