“What happened to them?”

  “They were hunted.” His voice was flat. “Systematically. Ashterion’s predecessors couldn’t control the warriors, couldn’t break them, so they did the only thing they could do. They exterminated them. Every last one. Spent two centuries tracking down anyone with even a trace of shadow fire in their bloodline and putting them in the ground.”

  The world tilted sideways.

  Extinct. They’d hunted the shadow fire wielders to extinction.

  “So the reappearance of that power now,” Cindrissian continued, watching me too closely. “Especially in the hands of someone who just crossed? Someone they don’t control?” His smile was utterly without humour. “That’s not just concerning, Isara. That’s fucking catastrophic. For you, anyway.”

  I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past the roaring in my ears.

  “You’re saying I’m—what? The last one? The only one?”

  “I’m saying you’re carrying magic that was supposed to be dead. And Ashterion felt something when you lit up crossing the Veil. He doesn’t know exactly what it is. If he did, he’d be breaking down Varyth’s doors right now. But he knows it’s tied to him. To his court.” Cindrissian leaned closer, voice dropping. “And that’s enough to make you a priority target. Because Ashterion doesn’t like surprises. And he really doesn’t like ghosts coming back to haunt him.”

  “Why didn’t Varyth tell me this?” The anger felt good, felt right. Something solid to grab while everything else dissolved into horror. “Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Because Varyth’s trying to figure out what you are before deciding what to do about you,” Cindrissian said bluntly.

  “Fuck,” I breathed.

  “Succinct,” Cindrissian agreed. “And accurate.”

  I stared at him, trying to recalibrate. Trying to process the fact that I was apparently carrying extinct magic that made me a walking target for an immortal tyrant who’d spent centuries wiping out anyone like me.

  And Cindrissian was still here. Still watching me with that infuriating mix of amusement and something darker.

  “So what now?” I asked, hating how rough my voice sounded. “You’ve delivered your terrifying news. Are you going to disappear back into the shadows and leave me to have my existential crisis in peace?”

  “I could.” He tilted his head, considering. “But that seems unkind. Besides, you came all the way out here to explore the city, and you’ve not seen anything beyond the inside of one mediocre tavern.” He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Let me give you a tour.”

  I blinked at him. “A tour.”

  “A tour,” he confirmed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Show you the sights. Introduce you to the more interesting establishments. Help you get your bearings in case you ever need to, say, disappear into the city on short notice.”

  “You’re offering to help me plan my potential escape routes.”

  “I’m offering to show you around.” His smirk widened. “What you choose to do with that information is entirely your business.”

  I should have said no. Should have told him to fuck off back to the castle and leave me alone. But the alternative was wandering aimlessly through unfamiliar streets, and at least with Cindrissian I’d have someone who knew where the bodies were buried.

  Literally, probably.

  “Fine,” I said. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to get me arrested or murdered, I’m haunting you for eternity.”

  “Noted.” He gestured down the street with a theatrical flourish. “Shall we?”

  14

  We fell into step together, moving away from the tavern and deeper into the city. The streets here were narrower, the buildings pressed closer together, and the few people we passed had the kind of purposeful stride that said they knew exactly where they were going and had no interest in being delayed.

  “It’s late,” Cindrissian said conversationally, “so most of the respectable establishments are closed. Which means you’ll mostly be seeing the city’s more... colourful side.” He glanced at me sidelong, something playful flickering in his expression. “But you strike me as someone who prefers that anyway.”

  I snorted despite myself. “What gave it away? The breaking out of magical prison castles, or the general aura of poor life choices?”

  “Both. Also the fact that you didn’t flinch when I told you about the extinct murder magic coursing through your veins.” He guided us around a corner, down an alley that opened into a small square lit by spelled lanterns that cast everything in shades of amber and gold. “Most people would be having hysterics by now. You just got angry and demanded information.”

  “Hysterics don’t keep you alive.”

  “No,” he agreed softly. “They don’t.”

  The square was busier than I’d expected; clusters of people gathered around what looked like street performers, vendors selling food that smelled obscenely good, and more than a few figures slipping in and out of doorways with discretion that screamed illicit activity.

  Cindrissian caught me watching and smiled. “Welcome to the Twilight Market. Technically illegal. Practically untouchable. Varyth knows it exists, but he also knows that trying to shut it down would cause more problems than it solves. So, everyone pretends it doesn’t exist, and life goes on.”

  “What do they sell here?”

  “Everything you can’t buy in daylight.” He started walking again, weaving through the crowd with easy familiarity. “Stolen goods, forbidden texts, substances that would make a healer weep, information, passage across borders, assassinations if you know who to ask. The usual.”

  “The usual,” I repeated flatly.

  He threw me that infuriating smirk over his shoulder. “Every city has an underbelly. This one just has better lighting.”

  We moved through the stalls, and I started noticing the pattern.

  People saw Cindrissian coming and got out of his way. Not obviously, nothing as crude as scrambling or fleeing. But conversations cut off mid-sentence. Eyes tracked him with wariness one usually reserved for predators. A vendor selling what looked like vials of liquid starlight actually took a step back as we approached, hands spreading in a placating gesture Cindrissian didn’t even acknowledge.

  “You’re known here,” I observed, watching a group of rough-looking men melt into the shadows as we passed.

  “Mmm.” He examined a display of crystals without touching them, and the merchant behind the table went very still. “Occupational hazard.”

  “They’re afraid of you.”

  “Yes.” He said it simply, matter-of-factly. “It would hardly be fitting for the Master of Interrogations to be known for cuddling strangers.” He glanced at me, something defensive flickering behind the casual tone. “Honestly, I prefer it this way. Cuddling makes me uncomfortable.”

  The bluntness of it startled a laugh out of me. “That’s the most relatable thing you’ve said all night.”

  “Is it?”

  “Touch is...” I gestured vaguely, trying to articulate a feeling I’d never quite put into words. “Complicated. Required too much when you don’t want it, absent when you do. I’m not good at it either.”

  “Well.” Cindrissian’s mouth curved. “At least we’ve established we won’t be braiding each other’s hair and sharing feelings.”

  “Thank fuck for that.”

  I caught sight of a stall ahead, a display of blades laid out on dark velvet, each one gleaming with polish that spoke to quality. My feet carried me toward it before I’d consciously decided to move.

  The weapons were beautiful. Practical, yes, but beautiful in the way dangerous things often were. Daggers with wrapped hilts, throwing knives balanced to perfection, a short sword with an edge that looked sharp enough to split moonlight.

  I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing a curved dagger. It was beautiful. Not in some ornamental, decorative way, but in the way a storm was beautiful. Deadly and perfect and utterly uncompromising.

  “Excellent taste,” Cindrissian murmured beside me.

  I lifted it, testing the weight. Perfectly balanced. The kind of balance that came from a master’s hand, from someone who understood that a weapon was an extension of the body, not just a tool. Runes were etched into the blade, flowing script I couldn’t read but could feel humming faintly against my palm.

  The twin to it sat beside where this one had been, resting on a bed of dark velvet like an offering.

  “It suits you,” Cindrissian said, and there was approval in his voice.

  I swallowed hard and put the dagger back.

  “How much?” Cindrissian asked the blacksmith.

  The man behind the stall was older, heavily muscled despite his age, with scars running up both forearms that spoke to decades of working with fire and metal. Unlike everyone else in this market, he seemed entirely unbothered by Cindrissian’s intimidating presence. He beamed, lighting up with enthusiasm only a craftsman could muster when someone appreciated their work.

  “Ah, you have a discerning eye!” He gestured to the daggers with obvious pride. “Moonsilver, straight from the mines of Nyxaria. Rare and difficult to work with, temperamental as a lover and twice as likely to burn you. But worth it.” He ran a reverent finger along the flat of the blade I’d been holding. “These beauties will hold an edge longer than anything else you’ll find in this realm, and the runes are blood-bound. Once attuned to their wielder, they’ll always return to your hand if thrown.”

  “The price,” Cindrissian repeated.

  The blacksmith named a figure that made my stomach drop.

  Cindrissian produced a pouch from somewhere in his clothes and tossed it onto the bench. The thunk it made told me exactly how much coin was in there.

  Too much. Way too much.

  “I can’t—” I started.

  “It’s absurd you’ve been left unarmed this long,” Cindrissian cut me off. “Might as well fix it with some decent blades.”

  I hesitated, fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt. It felt right there. Like it belonged. But⁠—

  “Is it a problem?” Cindrissian was studying me now, head tilted in that way that said he was actually curious, not just performing interest.

  “The only blacksmith I’ve ever taken blades from before was my husband,” I admitted quietly.

  Cindrissian’s expression shifted into surprise. “I didn’t know you were married to a blacksmith.”

  I nodded, throat tight. “He wasn’t just a blacksmith. He was the blacksmith. Brilliant, stubborn, covered in soot most of the time.” The laugh that escaped was half grief, half fondness. “Navaire made every blade I ever owned. Said he’d rather forge my weapons himself than trust my life to some stranger’s steel.”

  I traced one of the runes with my fingertip, the metal cool against my skin.

  “He used to say that every blade should know its wielder’s heartbeat.”

  “He sounds like a smart man,” Cindrissian said quietly.

  “He was.”

  Silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us would say. Then Cindrissian’s voice came again, softer than I’d heard it all night.

  “He also sounds like a man who’d want his wife to be properly armed, even if he couldn’t forge the blades himself.”

  Something in my chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.

  I lifted the blade again, flipping it in my hand. The movement was automatic, muscle memory from years of practice.

  “Show off,” Cindrissian muttered.

  The balance was exquisite. Perfect. Almost as good as Navaire’s.

  I felt the hum then. Faint but insistent, vibrating through the metal and into my bones. Like the blade was singing, pitched too low to hear but impossible to ignore. I lifted the second dagger, and the sensation intensified. The two frequencies harmonized, vibrating with something deep in my chest that felt suspiciously like power.

  “They’re humming,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

  “Humming?” The blacksmith’s brow furrowed. “No, that wouldn’t be the blades. Moonsilver doesn’t⁠—”

  “We’ll take them,” Cindrissian interrupted smoothly. “And some sheaths. Quality ones.”

  The blacksmith nodded, already moving to gather the appropriate accessories, but Cindrissian’s attention stayed fixed on me. Too focused. Too intent.

  “Have you heard that hum any other time?” he asked quietly.

  I hesitated. The memory of the Veil rose up unbidden, that moment when I’d felt the world itself singing in my blood. The moments since then, when it had felt like the shadows of the world had a music of their own.

  “No,” I lied. “Never.”

  The look on Cindrissian’s face told me he didn’t believe me for a second.

  Cindrissian took the sheaths from the blacksmith, dark leather worked with silver thread, supple and well-made. He dropped to one knee in front of me without ceremony.

  “What are you⁠—”

  “Hold still.” He was already reaching for my leg, fingers deft as he wrapped the first sheath around my thigh. Professional. Efficient. Nothing about the touch lingered longer than necessary.

  He secured the second blade to my other thigh, adjusting the straps until they sat perfectly balanced. When he stood, there was satisfaction in his expression, the kind an artist got when finishing a piece.

  “Moonsilver is rare even in Nyxaria,” he said, brushing off his hands. “The blades will learn how you fight. Flow with you over time. Adapt to your movement, your rhythm.” His mouth curved into that familiar smirk. “They’ll be as vicious as you are within a month.”

  I flexed my leg, testing the weight. The daggers sat against my thighs like they’d always been there. Like they belonged.

  Like Navaire’s blades used to.

  The ache in my chest grew, but I pushed it down. Buried it deep where it couldn’t touch me.

  “Thank you,” I said, and meant it more than I wanted to.

  “Don’t mention it. Literally. If Varyth asks where you got them, I was never here.”

  “Obviously.”

  He started walking again, expecting me to follow. I did.

  “Now then,” he said, that playful edge returning to his voice as we moved deeper into the Twilight Market. “Properly armed and dangerous. We can go find some real trouble.”

  I touched the hilt of one dagger, felt the faint hum resonating through the metal.

  “Lead the way.”

  15

  The training yard had become my personal hell of smoke and uncontrolled destruction, where the black fire lived like a rabid animal I couldn’t cage or kill. A week of dawn sessions with Shaelith and Brynelle had left me bruised, exhausted, and no closer to understanding the inferno that wanted to devour everything I touched.

  “Stop,” Shaelith barked as another wave of shadow fire erupted from my hands, turning three practice dummies to ash and leaving scorch marks across the stone. “You’re fighting it like it’s the enemy.”

  “It is the enemy,” I snarled, shaking out my hands as the flames finally died. My skin was unmarked, the fire never hurt me, but everything else in a ten-foot radius looked like it had been through a war zone. “It does what it wants, when it wants, and I’m just along for the fucking ride.”

  Brynelle winced from her position well outside my blast radius, those whiskey eyes filled with sympathy. “Magic isn’t meant to be controlled, Isara. It’s meant to be partnered with.”

  I wiped sweat from my brow, the flames dying to embers along my skin. “It’s like trying to have a conversation with a hurricane.”

  “Most powerful magic is,” Shaelith said, sheathing the blade she’d been using to deflect my more wayward strikes. “The trick is learning its language instead of imposing your own.”

  A shadow fell across the training yard, and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air itself seemed to hold its breath when Varyth was near, magic recognising magic in a bone-deep way that made my teeth ache.

  “Impressive,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of assessment. “Though you might want to work on not incinerating the furniture. We’re running low on practice dummies.”

  I turned to face him, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped at his presence. A week of careful avoidance had done nothing to dull the hard-edged awareness that flared whenever he was near. If anything, the distance had only made it worse, like a hunger that grew the longer it went unfed.

  He looked as untouchable as ever, silver hair caught by the morning light, taking in the destruction I’d wrought with something that might have been pride. Or hunger. With Varyth, it was impossible to tell the difference.

  “I’ll try to contain my devastating power to appropriate targets,” I snapped. “Wouldn’t want to accidentally level your pretty castle.”

  His lips twitched. “How considerate.”

  Shaelith cleared her throat.

  Varyth ignored her. “Actually, I came to extend an invitation.”

  “An invitation?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s a situation developing at the western border. Nothing dangerous,” he added quickly, probably catching the way my entire body went rigid. “A territorial dispute with one of the smaller courts. I’m riding out to handle the negotiations personally.”

  “And you want me to come along because...?”

  “Because you might learn something.” His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable. “And because you’re going stir-crazy in this castle.”

  The glint in his eyes told me my outing with Cindrissian last week probably hadn’t escaped his notice.

  “When?” I asked, hating how eager the word sounded.

  “Within the hour. It’s only a day’s ride, and we’ll be back by tomorrow evening.” He paused, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features. “Unless you’d prefer to stay and incinerate more furniture.”

  It was an olive branch. Clumsy, wrapped in his typical arrogance, but an olive branch nonetheless. After a week of him avoiding me like I carried plague, of stilted conversations and distance, he was offering... what? A chance to see his world? To be something more than a weapon in training?