Izen had always believed that silence was a companion, not a void. Silence filled the gaps between actions, the fragile tissue between thoughts. But in the upper levels of Renner Valche's estate—where nothing moved except the swaying of velvet drapes and the faint shimmer of candlelight—silence became something else. It pressed in from every direction, dense and heavy, like water.
He crouched in the hollow of a corridor wall, breath held, ear tuned to the rhythm of distant footsteps. The hall curved like a bowstring, dimly lit by a few wall sconces whose flames pulsed faintly. Every step he took could echo, even through the thick carpet. So he didn't walk. He waited.
Earlier that night, Lys had delivered her orders in her usual clipped tone.
"The ledger is in his study. Upper floor, third door to the right past the stairwell. One page. Burn the rest. If anyone sees you, don't return."
It had been phrased like a test, not a mission.
And Izen knew why.
The ledger wasn't just names. It was proof—links between Valche and factions that threatened the Academy's backers. That meant it was more valuable than Valche himself. Which also meant there was a good chance it was being watched.
So he moved like ink spilled on silk—slow, cold, and soundless.
At the top of the stairs, Izen paused. A tapestry hung along the left wall, frayed at the bottom, threaded with dust. It depicted the founding of Veltaris in stitched gold—four lords raising swords atop the first stone bridge. But something was wrong.
The eyes of the lord on the far left had been picked out. Torn. Nothing else.
Izen's skin prickled.
The study door loomed, its surface carved with curling beasts. He approached it sideways, stepping only on the seams between tiles. His fingers brushed the edge of the handle. No heat. No moisture.
He pressed his ear to the wood.
Nothing.
Still water.
Inside, the air was warmer. The room smelled of ink, tobacco, and iron shavings. A long desk dominated the far wall, cluttered with scrolls, wax seals, and an open bottle of dark amber wine. Books lined every corner—some bound in human skin if the rumors were true.
But Izen didn't waste time on curiosity.
He scanned the desk.
The ledger wasn't hidden. It sat in plain sight, spine cracked and parchment curled at the edges. A page had been folded outward, as if someone had been interrupted mid-inspection. Izen slipped on his gloves and turned it gently, careful not to leave prints.
There.
Four names.
Written in red.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a sheet of parchment, pre-treated with wax to resist smudging. He transcribed each name in block script, slow and steady. He double-checked the spelling. Then, with a final glance, he set the ledger's edge to the candle flame.
The fire took it with hungry fingers.
Smoke began to fill the corners of the room, curling like ghosts beneath the ceiling beams. Izen reached for the latch—
—and froze.
A shadow broke against the door. Not footsteps. Not words. Just a movement.
And then a voice. Female. Rough. "You missed your window, rat."
Instinct flared. Izen ducked behind the drapes in the far corner, just as the door swung inward with a bang. A figure entered—cloaked, masked, armed. She wasn't a guard. Too precise. Too calm. Her blade gleamed like black glass.
Assassin.
But not one of theirs.
She crossed to the desk and saw the ashes, now beginning to scatter. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her knife. "You clever little bastard," she murmured.
Izen pressed himself deeper behind the drape, heartbeat pounding. He counted the seconds.
One... two... three.
She turned.
"You're still in here, aren't you?" she whispered.
Something about her tone chilled him more than the knife.
"Very well."
She walked to the far window, opened the shutters slightly, then stepped onto the sill.
But before she leapt, she turned her head just enough for him to glimpse the scar across her throat.
She was smiling.
It took Izen nearly five minutes to move again. When he emerged from the corner, the air smelled like scorched vellum and sweat. He checked the desk again, confirming that the page had burned fully. The rest was ash.
He slipped out the study door without a sound.
He didn't go back the way he came.
Back at the Scarlet Jib, Lys was pacing the room when he entered. Her eyes flicked to his hands first, then to his expression.
"You saw her," she said. Not a question.
Izen nodded. "Scar on her throat. Moved like someone trained in Serevan style."
That made Lys pause.
"Did she see you?"
"I don't think so."
Lys rubbed the bridge of her nose. "If it's who I think it is, you're already dead. Or will be if you're not invisible by dawn."
"Who is she?"
Lys didn't answer. She only reached into her coat and pulled out a vial of dark purple liquid, placing it in his palm.
"Drink this. Then leave."
Izen took the vial, but didn't raise it yet.
He felt the tremor again—the strange stillness that sometimes overtook the world, like a breath held too long. The flickering candle beside him seemed to stretch. Time didn't stop.
But it... paused.
And in that pause, something inside him stirred.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered his mother's final words—not the words exactly, but the weight of them. The way they curved in her mouth, a language she hadn't spoken in years. The kind of speech you used not for people, but for truths.
Then it was gone.
Time uncoiled.
The vial tasted like copper and mold. It numbed his tongue instantly. Lys pulled back the rug and revealed a trapdoor beneath the bed.
"Canal escape. Walk thirty minutes east, take the stair at the split pier. Someone will meet you. If they say 'velvet fish,' you nod. Anything else, run."
Izen climbed into the dark.
The door closed above him.
He moved through the canal tunnel with only the faint glow of luminescent moss to light the way. Rats skittered through wet stone, and distant water dripped like the ticking of a clock. He didn't know if he was being followed. He just kept walking.
Every few steps, he brushed the side of the tunnel wall with his hand. A habit.
A way to stay present. To anchor himself.
To avoid slipping again.
The tunnel eventually opened into a spillway beneath a half-collapsed pier. The air smelled of brine and rotting wood. True to Lys's word, a man in a fisherman's coat waited there, holding a lantern.
"Velvet fish," he said.
Izen nodded.
The man handed him a wax-sealed envelope and turned without a word.
Inside the envelope was a list of six names and a brief note: "New assignment. Trust no one in Veltaris. Not even me. — L."
Izen folded the paper carefully and burned it using a match from the dock's post. The flames took the ink quickly, but the names etched themselves into his mind:
Daelo Aven
Kiren of Brass Row
Malcin Weaver
Serine Halvest
Brek Two-Tongue
Kaelith
He stared at the last name longer than the rest.
Kaelith.
His ally. His classmate. The quiet girl with the silver eyes and patient silence.
What was her name doing here?
The fire hissed and died.
Izen sat on the pier edge, boots dangling over the water. The city of Veltaris sprawled before him—drunk, loud, full of secrets. He didn't trust the letter, but he didn't dismiss it either.
Something had begun.
A wheel turned.
And somewhere deep beneath the surface of all this violence and scheming... something else waited.
Something old.
Something patient.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out the coin. The one his mother had pressed into his hand as she bled out in the snow. The one marked not with a nation's seal, but with a spiral.
It pulsed warm for a heartbeat.
And then it was still.