Chapter 2: Shadows in the City

Liora Blackthorn sat in the dimly lit corner of one of her many hideouts, her back to the wall, a pint of ale in front of her untouched. Her emerald-green eyes, sharp as a blade, were fixed on the tankard in front of her. She wasn’t in the mood for drink tonight, nor for company, but she couldn’t ignore the message coming through the front door.

A young street urchin, barely fifteen, slipped into the tavern under the guise of the evening’s bustle. He was a thin thing, with a mop of unruly brown hair and an expression that always seemed to hover on the edge of fear. His name was Tamsin, though Liora never bothered to ask for much more than that. He was just another face among the many children scraping by in the city, but he had earned her trust for one simple reason. He knew where to find information, and he knew how to get it to her without being caught.

She caught sight of him the moment he walked in and beckoned him over with a subtle wave. He didn’t smile or hesitate, though she could see the way his hand trembled slightly as he approached. He slid into the seat across from her, a hand slipping into his threadbare coat pocket. He met her eyes with a look of practiced bravado, though she could see the worry beneath the surface.

“Anything of interest, Tamsin?” Liora asked quietly, her voice low and measured. There was no need for pleasantries. They both knew why he was there.

He shifted in his seat, glancing nervously around the room. “Aye, Mistress. Got a message for you. From the usual place.” He slid a small bundle of parchment across the table, careful to keep his hands steady.

Liora took the letter with little more than a glance, her eyes flicking to the familiar seal etched into the wax. Her stomach clenched at the sight of it. Tristian Gallows. The name alone was enough to make her grit her teeth. He was nothing but a convenient ally, always appearing when she needed him most. His smug demeanor and grating voice scraped on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard, but his intel was invaluable.

The crime lord had his uses, though. His position in the city gave him access to information Liora could never acquire on her own. Still, he was no friend. She would use him as long as it suited her and not a moment longer. Gallows had his own agenda, and Liora would be damned if she played a part in it. But that was the nature of the game, wasn’t it? Everyone had their role to play, even if it meant putting up with someone like him.

She took a slow breath, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment with precision. There, in the cryptic script only she could decipher, were the words that made her stomach drop.

The King is dead.

Her fingers tightened around the paper, her thoughts already racing with the implications. King Alden, the man who had precariously maintained the fragile peace between the noble houses, was gone. With his death, the entire kingdom now teetered on the brink of all-out war. The animosity among the great houses would only fester and grow, and as always, it would be the people—the poor and the powerless—who would bear the brunt of the suffering.

"She glanced up at Tamsin and met his gaze, noticing the worry etched into his young face." His wide eyes darted nervously, lips parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right words to break the silence.

Liora exhaled slowly, softening her tone just a fraction. “How’s your sister, Tamsin?” she asked, her voice quieter now, though it still carried an edge of concern. The boy's sister was a sickly thing and had been on her mind for some time now. She knew Tamsin was doing everything he could to get her the medicine she needed, but as always, it was never enough. She could see the exhaustion in his eyes, and it only made her resolve harden.

“Still bad,” Tamsin mumbled, looking down at his hands. “Won’t get better unless I can find the money for the herbs... but it’s getting harder, Mistress. The streets are colder, and the markets are... they’re more dangerous now.”

Liora gave a small nod, her expression unreadable. “I see,” she murmured, her voice offering little comfort. “You two should make plans to leave the city soon. It’s going to fall apart. You won’t want to be caught up in any of this.”

Tamsin nodded absently, his eyes flicking to the parchment in her hands, but his mind seemed far away. He fidgeted, his gaze lost in thought as he weighed her words.

Liora’s own gaze dropped back to the parchment, her jaw tightening as her thoughts churned. If she had to guess, the Starless were already on the move. It was only a matter of time before the great houses turned on each other. She could already see it. The nobles bickering and fighting over power while the streets ran red with blood. She had no intention of letting her people fall victim to their petty political games.

“Tell your sister I’ll have someone send over the herbs,” Liora said, her voice unwavering. “And keep your eyes open. Things are about to get much worse.”

Tamsin nodded gratefully, though his eyes still held a trace of that nervous energy. He shifted in his seat, his hands now moving to fidget with the frayed edge of his scarf as if gathering the courage to say something more. When no words came, he stood, the chair scraping softly against the wooden floor. Her gaze followed him as he adjusted the wispy fabric around his neck and tugged his coat tighter around his thin frame. He hesitated by the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, and for a brief moment, it looked as though he might turn back, but then he squared his shoulders and stepped out, letting the tavern door creak shut behind him.

She watched his retreating form through the grimy window, her expression softening for just a moment before narrowing once more. With a quiet sigh, she leaned back in her chair, the creak of the worn wood breaking the silence. Her gaze dropped to the empty tankard on the table before her, but her thoughts were already wandering far beyond the confines of the dimly lit tavern.

Her thoughts drifted back to the bustling markets of the Heartlands, to a time when she had been little more than an urchin slipping through the crowds. At fifteen, she’d been wiry and lean, her face streaked with dirt and her stomach an endless, gnawing ache. The market stalls, vibrant with ripe fruit and bolts of dyed fabric, had been more than just a place of business. They were a battlefield. A chaotic, unforgiving place where survival meant fighting tooth and nail every single day. And it was there, in the heart of that chaos, that she’d made her first grave misjudgment.

She could still feel the sharp jolt of panic from that moment. Her fingers had brushed the fat coin purse of what she thought was a nobleman. The iron grip that clamped around her wrist had frozen her in place, her heartbeat hammering as she met his dark, amused eyes. Not anger, not cruelty—amusement. At first, she’d taken him for no more than a well-dressed young noble, but he’d quickly proven otherwise. She could picture it vividly even now: how he had pulled her into a quiet alley, that cocky smirk on his face, his sharp gaze cutting through her like a blade. Tristian Gallows.

The name still made her jaw tighten, though whether it was from anger or begrudging respect, she could never quite decide. He hadn’t turned her in. Instead, he’d given her a choice: learn from him or fend for herself in a city that devoured the weak.

She’d chosen to learn.

At the time, she hadn’t realized just how steep the cost of his lessons would be, or how tightly those lessons would bind her to him. It was Tristian who had taught her the art of deception, how to read people like books, and how to strike before they even realized they were the target. Skills and information she used to this day, though the thought of him still left a sour taste in her mouth.

A faint ripple beneath her skin drew her abruptly back to the present. Hydra stirred, her presence coiling and stretching within her like a serpent waking from a deep sleep. Liora’s lips twitched as the voice of Hydra curled through her mind, smooth and sharp like the edge of a well-honed dagger.

“Thinking about that slippery bastard again, are we?” Hydra’s voice carried a tone of mockery, warm and familiar in a way that only long-time companions could manage. “I don’t know why you waste your energy. If I had arms, I’d wring his scrawny neck for you.”

Liora leaned back in her chair, smirking faintly as her fingers absently traced the edge of the parchment. “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she muttered under her breath, her voice low enough not to draw attention in the otherwise quiet tavern.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t.” Hydra’s voice softened, adopting a sly, teasing lilt. “Whatever debt you think you owe him, I’d say it’s more than paid.”

She let out a soft chuckle. “Old habits die hard, Hydra. He’s a useful bastard, even if he is insufferable.”

“Useful or not, he’ll drag you into the muck with him if you’re not careful.” Hydra’s voice softened, almost as if sighing. “You’ve done better without him. Don’t let his games pull you back.”

Liora leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

Hydra made a noise like a hiss of disapproval, which had her chuckling once again, shaking her head. “If I didn’t know any better, Hydra, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Jealous? Of him? Don’t insult me, girl. I just have better taste than to waste my time on filth.” Hydra’s tone was indignant, but she could sense the amusement lurking beneath the words.

The smirk faded from her lips as her gaze returned to the parchment. Her fingers tightened slightly, the weight of the news pressing down on her once more. “What do you make of this, Hydra?” she asked, her voice dropping to an even lower whisper. “King Alden, dead. The noble houses will tear each other apart.”

“And the people along with them,” Hydra murmured, her tone growing quieter, almost reflective. “The man wasn’t perfect, but he kept everything in check. Now that leash is gone, and you know how the dogs will behave. Blood will surely be spilled.”

“Exactly.” Liora sighed, folding the parchment and tucking it into her belt. “Which means it’s time to make moves before the storm hits.”

“Aren’t you always making moves?” Hydra quipped, though there was a note of approval in her tone. “Go on, then. Summon your little council of misfits. Just try not to get too sentimental about Gallows while you’re at it.”

Liora snorted, rising from her chair with a practiced grace.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you love me.”

The bond between them pulsed with warmth, like the gentle flicker of a flame, as Liora pulled her hooded cloak over her head. The serpentine patterns etched into her leathers caught the dim candlelight, glinting faintly as if alive. With a practiced motion, she adjusted the cloak, its edges falling in heavy, shadowy folds that seemed to swallow the light around her.

Reaching out to Hydra, she called upon the pact that had bound them together for years. The shadows in the room shifted, slithering like liquid around her frame. Her footfalls became silent, her presence a whisper that barely touched the world around her. The shadows bent to her will, obscuring her entirely, making her little more than a phantom in the flickering light of the tavern.

***

Liora moved through the darkened streets of Vessport with ease. Built along the rugged coastline, the city sprawled outward in a chaotic, unplanned sprawl. The wealthier districts perched high on the cliffs where they could catch the salty sea breeze, their stone estates standing aloof and untouched by the chaos below. But here, in the lower levels, the shanty-like buildings pressed against each other in a tangled maze of narrow streets and alleys. It goes to show how much the largest and most chaotic capital in the Heartlands cares about its people.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The city seemed alive, a restless beast that never truly slept. Merchants still called out in the evening markets, their stalls lit by flickering lanterns. Fishermen hauled their day’s catch from the docks, the smell of brine and fish guts mingling with the ever-present stench of damp wood and rotting refuse. Sailors staggered drunkenly between taverns, their laughter mingling with the cries of street vendors selling greasy fried fish and stolen trinkets. Liora’s sharp eyes caught glimpses of children darting through the crowd, quick fingers lifting purses or trinkets as they went.

The people here were hard, their faces weathered by salt and sun, their clothes patched and stained. Yet, there was a resilience to them, a kind of reckless determination born from living so close to the edge. In Vessport, everyone was either trying to scrape by or claw their way to the top, and the line between the two blurred more often than not.

Liora continued to weave through the crowds, her movements fluid and silent. Hydra’s power cloaked her, not with invisibility, but something more subtle. The shadows seemed to shift around her, bending to obscure her presence. A merchant’s lantern flickered just as she passed, casting a brief pocket of darkness that swallowed her entirely. Even the faint creak of the wooden planks beneath her boots was lost in the noise of the city.

Hydra’s influence wasn’t just in the shadows. Liora could feel the serpent’s presence coiling within her, heightening her senses to a razor’s edge. She felt the vibrations of the city through her feet, every creak and murmur of the streets a faint echo in her mind. The air shifted subtly, alerting her to the approach of others before she saw them. Hydra’s power wasn’t overt, but it made her a ghost among the living.

As she passed a cluster of merchant stalls, her ears caught the low murmur of a conversation that made her pause.

“Did you hear about one of King Alden’s knights?” a fishmonger whispered to a customer, his voice low and conspiratorial. “They say he’s become Starbonded. A real celestial pact.”

The customer snorted, shaking his head as he reached for a bundle of salted fish. “A load of shit, that is. Some drunken man’s tale made to rile us up. If anyone was going to be Starbonded, it wouldn’t be one of them.”

Liora lingered just long enough to catch the fishmonger’s response, a stubborn, “We’ll see soon enough,” before slipping past.

The mention of a Starbonded knight sent a ripple through her thoughts, bringing with it a flood of memories she would have rather kept buried.

She briefly considered the implications, her fingers brushing over the constellation imprints etched into her skin. Hydra’s presence stirred within her, warm and steady, like the pulse of a heartbeat.

“That’s not a pact,” Hydra’s voice interrupted her thoughts, amused. “That’s a leash for people too stupid to realize they’re being used.”

Liora’s brow furrowed slightly, her stride slowing as the weight of Hydra’s words settled over her. “A leash?” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the din of the bustling street. “Is that true? Celestials wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Hydra interrupted with a chuckle that rippled through her mind like a serpent’s hiss. “Meddle in one another’s affairs? You don’t think our precious ‘pacts’ come with strings attached? The stars are as territorial as wolves and just as cunning. They don’t meddle because it’s beneath them to clean up each other’s messes. They prefer their chosen to stay in neat little lanes, marching to the beat of their master’s drum.”

Liora pressed her lips together, her expression tightening as she considered Hydra’s words. “So, if this Starbonded knight exists, he’s just a puppet?”

Hydra’s voice came again, soft but sharp. “Exactly. A weapon, forged to serve a purpose, used until they’re no longer needed.”

Liora’s fingers brushed against the scar hidden on her palm, a faint reminder of the pact she had made. Hydra’s words stirred something inside her. Unease, but also a cold clarity. She and Hydra were different. They were partners, not master and servant.

Her voice was quiet, but there was a hint of uncertainty. “And us?” she asked, her gaze narrowing as she thought of the bond they shared. “You’re not using me like that, are you?”

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, Hydra’s voice returned, smooth and confident. “Us? No. We’re not the same. I don’t have use for a pawn who can’t think for herself. You’re resourceful, clever. That’s exactly why I chose you.”

Liora held back the retort that threatened to slip past her lips and quickened her pace through the streets. Hydra’s words clung to her, the line between truth and manipulation as blurred as ever. She had spent years with the celestial, knew how these bonds worked. Yet, despite all of her experience, the thought of the Starbonded knight gnawed at her.

There was something off about the gossip. She couldn’t shake it.

She turned her mind back to Hydra, pushing her curiosity to the side. “Do you know anything about this knight?”

Hydra remained silent for a long moment, then replied with a lazy drawl, “Like I said. We don’t meddle in each other's affairs. You already know that.”

Liora’s lips tightened, her mind reeling. She’d learned long ago that Hydra’s silence was just as telling as anything she might say. There was something more there, but Hydra wouldn’t reveal it. Not now, at least.

While moving through a tighter side alley, her thoughts drifted back to the night she had made her own pact with Hydra. The night that had saved her life.

It was a flicker of memory, a shadowed moment that came and went too quickly to hold onto. The shadows had spoken to her that night, a presence slithering into her mind like a snake in the dark, offering power, freedom. Her hand, trembling with exhaustion and pain, had sealed her fate in blood. The scar beneath her glove was proof of that bargain—a mark of something both terrifying and empowering.

Liora’s fingers brushed against that scar once more, the faint burn always a constant reminder. A flicker of rage sparked in her chest, but she quickly pushed it aside. She didn’t have time for such things.

With a sharp breath, she turned away from the memory and focused on pushing forward. Her footsteps fell silent against the wet cobblestones. The noise of the city, the clatter of ships and the shouts of traders, faded into the background as she navigated the winding back alleys. Each turn was second nature to her, every shadow a cover she knew like the lines of stars across her skin.

The hum of the mill ahead grew louder as she drew closer, a familiar and comforting sound. This part of the city was the forgotten end, a place where survival was measured by the hour. Workers trudged through their days in near silence, their faces hollow from exhaustion and years of hard labor. The mill was a symbol of their lives. Grinding, repetitive, always pressing. The men and women who worked here were part of the unseen backbone of Vessport, their lives little more than a series of shifts, the promise of pay barely enough to feed them, and even less to offer hope.

Liora passed the front door, taking a path only the workers knew. She moved quickly, eyes sharp for any sign of trouble, until she reached a set of back doors that led her deeper into the mill’s underbelly. The room she entered was dimly lit, its walls covered in peeling paint, the smell of dust and rotting wood mixing with the mill’s stale air. A few rickety tables sat around the space, but it was the foreman, a tall man with a face as lined and worn as the mill’s timbers, who waited for her. His name was Fenwick, a no-nonsense type with a reputation for taking care of his own.

Fenwick barely looked up from the pile of papers he was sifting through when she entered, letting Hydra’s shadows fall away. He knew her well enough to not ask questions.

She crossed the room to stand opposite him, their exchange always the same. He paid her in favors, in loyalty, in trust, and she paid him by keeping an eye out for the vulnerable. Men and women who had nowhere to go but into the hands of those who would use them. A simple bargain, a smooth transaction, yet one that kept her relevant in the city’s underworld. Every favor she did for him gave her deeper roots and the loyalty of those who lived in her debt.

“Seems you’ve heard the recent news?” Fenwick asked, finally lifting his gaze. There was a flicker of concern in his eyes, a wariness that stretched between them. Seems she wasn’t the only one who got Tristian’s message.

Liora met his eyes, taking a deep breath. “It’s a mess,” she said. “Things are bound to get worse before they get better.”

Fenwick’s gaze hardened, and his voice dropped lower, laced with unspoken experience. “I agree. We should act fast. I’ve got the girls at the mills, but we can’t keep them here much longer. It’s only a matter of time before the thieving circles start drawing too much attention. We need to start evacuating.”

He leaned forward, his broad hands pressing against the table as if to emphasize the urgency of his words. “I’ve got a few safe houses lined up, but we need to move quick. If we don’t, they’ll get swept up; too many will go missing in the chaos.”

Liora thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the constellation-like marking along her forearms. They shimmered faintly beneath the surface of her skin, the power of Hydra coiling silently within her. She understood her role as a Starbonded. They were a spectacle to the world. Elevated, adored, but also feared, their very existence a reminder of the power that lay just beyond human reach. And yet, Fenwick’s unease at the sight of the celestial markings wasn’t lost on her. He eyed her forearms warily, his gaze flickering to the marks before quickly looking away.

He didn’t say it, but Liora knew what he thought. The Starbonded were unnatural and unsettling. Too many whispered that they were cursed, or worse. Fenwick had never outright questioned her, but the tension between them was palpable, his discomfort hanging in the air like a cloud ready to burst.

“You need to keep a low profile, Liora,” Fenwick said, his voice low, edged with warning. “Word’s spreading that the Great Houses are sniffing around for Starbonded. It’s getting dangerous out there.”

She stiffened, though her expression remained carefully neutral. “What do you mean, ‘sniffing around’? What could they possibly gain from targeting us?”

Fenwick hesitated, his eyes flicking to the faint shimmer of her markings. “Don’t know for sure. But I’ve heard whispers—some say it’s connected to the Starless. There’s talk that they’re... drawn to you Starbonded, like moths to flame.”

Liora didn’t respond right away. She felt Hydra's irritation begin to stir. Hearing the sharp edge of Hydra's voice, low and venomous in her ear.

“Tell him to shut his insolent mouth,” Hydra hissed, her voice filled with contempt. “The Starbonded are nothing like those celestial failures. We are not like them, never have been. Do not listen to the lies, Liora.”

Her words burned in Liora’s mind, the flickering rage like a fire sparked within her chest. She felt the urge to lash out, to silence Fenwick’s worries, to tell him where he could shove his caution. But she controlled it, forced it down. She was well aware of how blurred the line could be between her own emotions and Hydra’s. How Hydra’s fury often threatened to overtake her. This was not the time for recklessness.

The Starbonded were not like the Starless. She knew this, deep down, and yet... the connection was undeniable. The power they both shared, born from the same celestial magic, was ancient, dangerous, and intoxicating. It was why the Starless were drawn to the Starbonded, like moths to flame. Their existence, their very essence, was tied together by something older than the city, older than the petty politics of the Great Houses.

And yet, the Starbonded were not evil. They were not mindless monsters, driven by hunger and instinct alone, as the Starless were. They had purpose; they had will. The Starbonded were a force of balance, of control, of strength—strength that set them apart from the chaos of the Starless. She was not a mindless beast. The world would never see that, of course. They would always be seen through the lens of superstition and fear. But Liora knew the truth. She knew that she was different from those star-cursed monsters.

Liora’s jaw clenched as she resisted the urge to snap at Fenwick. She knew his concerns weren’t born of malice, but Hydra’s temper was hard to ignore. “The Starless aren’t ‘drawn’ to us,” she said, her voice colder than she intended. “They’re remnants of something broken. They failed where we didn’t.”

Her words tasted bitter, dredging up memories she tried to bury. The Starless were failures, twisted remnants of people who had once reached for the stars and fallen short. The transformation was horrifying—ordinary men and women who had sought to bond with the heavens but lacked the will, the strength, or the favor needed to succeed. Their bodies couldn’t handle the celestial magic, and instead of ascending, they were consumed by it, becoming mindless, monstrous echoes of their former selves.

The faint hum of celestial energy prickled at the edge of her memory. It was always there, that lingering echo of a night she had long tried to forget. The promise, the ritual, the light—it crept in like an unwelcome shadow, sharp and cold against her thoughts.

She remembered the shadows that shouldn’t have been there, the way the Starseeker’s voice faltered, breaking mid-chant. She didn’t have to close her eyes to see the convulsions, the unnatural jerking of limbs being bent and reshaped by some monstrous, unseen force.

The starlight had burned too brightly, searing into her vision even as she tried to look away. And his eyes, when he finally raised his head, those hollow, empty voids.

Liora shook herself from the memory. Her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the edge of Fenwick’s table, grounding herself in the rough wood beneath her fingers.

“You are not him,” Hydra’s voice murmured, curling around her like a protective shadow. “You are not a failure. You are chosen. You are strong.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as Hydra’s presence calmed the storm in her mind. When she opened them again, Fenwick was watching her with concern.

“Liora, are you all right?”

She forced a weak smile, straightening her posture. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Just... memories.”

Fenwick didn’t press further, but his gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “Just... keep your head down, all right? The city doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

She nodded, the weight of his words settling over her like a cloak. “I will.”

As she turned to leave, Fenwick’s voice stopped her. “Liora... take care of yourself. Truly.”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder. For all his rough edges, Fenwick’s concern was genuine. She gave him a nod before stepping back into the shadows, the weight of Hydra’s power humming beneath her skin.

As she passed through the door and disappeared back into the streets of the city's underbelly, what felt like the weight of hundreds of lives pressed down on her, and she wore it like a crown.