People were already shuffling through the streets by the time Mira made it into the main square, hidden by the shuffling feet and flaring coats of strangers as she interrogated those who crossed her path all the while snagging a few coins for compensation. The crowd of the midday hours reminded her a lot of the Merchant’s Table in the capital: a large plot of land in the streets of the Droidell Capital that merchants from all corners of the outer towns went to sell their goods which ranged from clothing, machines, food and other valuable items.

Mira had only been there twice in her life. Once to accompany her father in the hopes to exchange their excess ingredients for cash and a second time after her seventeenth birthday to represent her father during one of his many hospital stays. She remembered people sidling up to the stand she’d just barely put together, bargaining for the flour and butter she had on display. Elnoire’s odd bustle felt similar in this way and she kept her belongings—which she brought with her in case she’d need to bribe her way out of something—close to her.

This time her travels brought her up north; Mira was able to hear the chugging of the train from her spot by some of the more put together looking buildings, but to her knowledge far enough from the station to be in any real danger from the dreaded northern mercenaries. Still, she kept her eyes ahead of her, focused and fretfully scanning for suspicious characters while carefully choosing her targets to make additional money.

“They’re liars, and tricksters, and thieves,” Benji had said to her, nearly three days before her and Magic’s departure. “People don’t hang around there unless they have specific business.”

“Like a bounty?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but what I do know is that if people are hiding out in the north, it’s not because of something good. Not that the rest of Elnoire is any better, but it’s not good for people like the two of you.”

It was sound advice, but Mira knew what her father really meant.

Broken bottles littered her path near some of the houses, which she prodded with her foot and punted through the alleyways, cringing at the clattering of metal or the sound of a howling animal as the objects met their targets. Something, man or creature, Mira couldn’t tell due to the pitch, was wailing, a mournful call to the heavens. The backstreets were just as packed and just as disdainful as the rest of the town; there was little in the way of amicable glances or friendly chatter, but the same whispers and glares Mira had seen for the last thirty minutes on her walk up north.

For a town run through by low funding, Mira assumed the houses in this area of town to be worse off than the south.

Except, this part of town felt like a miniature version of the capital city.

These houses were well kept behind neatly constructed walls, as though it were a completely separate being from the rest of Elnoire. Its streets were less bumpy; paved with a concrete and tar mixture instead of dirt with rocks embedded in the soil. The streetlamps here were fully functional. There was no hum that reminded Mira of buzzing cicadas like Chrome’s lamps did, nor was there the flickering of light that told her they had maybe a few days left to live.

These Elnoirans were walking the streets in pairs or alone without extra bundles to keep them warm. Instead, they walked with only one layer: large, insulated coats of differing shades and boots with fur that crept out of the top to form a rim along its circumference. They laughed and walked with such levity in their shaking shoulders, an easy sway to their gaits.

Beyond the gates and carefully constructed fences, though, were the Elnoirans she and Magic had seen the entire time they’d been in town. The grievous screaming from earlier was louder now; in the distance a little off to Mira’s left was a woman huddling with two children no older than six or nine, shielding them with a hug, leaning against the fence with one hand pawing at it with defeated strokes.

Mira gave a self-conscious tug on her own jacket to hug her body, quickly turning on her heel to avoid the gated bubble of Northern Elnoire.

She paced the border between central and northern parts of the town, looking for targets, but she couldn’t bring herself to steal more than she already had on her way here. The people here, and probably in the rest of the town, had lost enough.

Her mind had already made its decision before she could stop her feet from moving.

With a small turn, Mira returned to the source of the screaming wails further up north, digging into the confines of her duffle bag to drag out a large coat and one of the berry containers. At the sight of her, the woman shielded the children and moved them back with her in one fell swoop.

Mira shook her head. “I’m not looking to take anything from you. I just wanted to give you these.”

She gained nothing in response aside from innocent looking stares courtesy of the children and a confused sputter from their mother. In slight exasperation—and a little bit of chest pain—Mira reached out and placed the materials in the woman’s hands for her, doing her best to ignore the immense confusion that came with it.

Confusion that turned to malice. She shoved the materials back into Mira’s chest. “I don’t want your charity.”

“Not trying to be charitable,” Mira said, taking a hesitant step away. “Just helpful.”

“That’s what they all say,” said the woman, waving an accusatory finger in her direction, “while they spit in our direction on the streets. When they hand us our belongings on the doorstep with a few coins and a prayer. You are all the same.”

“I’m not from here. I’m not like them.”

“Maybe you aren’t, but money is a language that doesn’t need words. And you speak very loudly in its tongue.”

The woman fidgeted with something beneath the cloak that shielded her and her children and Mira had the faintest idea that, had it not been for the youngsters, the woman might have stabbed her on the spot. Still, the need to plead her case was there and, in a final attempt, held out the materials.

Not to the woman, but to the kids.

Mira placed her duffle bag on the floor, sat on her heels, and held out the quilt and container of berries to them. The oldest, a boy with hair the shade of dried earth, speckled through with shades of brown, stared at her with wide brown eyes, tiny hollows in his cheeks that accentuated his cheekbones. At this angle, the boy looked older, aged by hardship in a way he shouldn’t have been.

Clutching his side was a younger sister, dark brown hair in bedraggled strands that fell to the small of her back. Her large blue eyes were fixated on Mira as she placed the materials on the ground. “What do you guys think?”

“Don’t talk to them, vyrm,” snarled the woman, the last word said like something filthy.

“Do you think you’d want these?” Mira continued, ignoring the jab. “Would it be helpful?”

The young girl looked at her brother who, in turn, briefly looked at his mother as if for answers. The cloaked woman engaged in a silent conversation with her son, one that consisted of tiny shakes of disapproval and mouthed instructions. Mira said nothing while this went on and, to her shock, the boy reached his tiny hands outside of the barrier his mother created and took the objects delicately within them.

Mira hid the smile on her face behind passive observation as the mother, who had gone slightly pink in the face, held her children close and stormed away from them without another word.

With a sigh, she scratched at the back of her head and returned to walking the border of Northern Elnoire. It could have been worse. The woman could’ve murdered her, chased her out. Yet despite the defensive attitude, Mira didn’t think it was purely out of malice—at least, she wanted to hope so.

She carried herself through the alleyways, trying to offer her materials to those who looked like they would give her an easier time or spare her even a minute to chat. Finding those people was rare; Mira bumped into more people who called her a rainbow of terms. A rat. A worm. Even words she’d never heard of before, spoken with a slanted accent she couldn’t recognize for the life of her.

Few acknowledged her and even fewer accepted her offerings. Mira found that the more she tried to help, the more people were likely to avoid her or cross the other way on the street rather than interact with her. The notion left her feeling strangely gutted. If this was what Elnoirans thought of her—a foreigner—she wondered what they thought of the ones who coated the northern side in a fresh coat of paint.

Mira didn’t know where she was going, only that her restless mind had given her feet some kind of agency to wander around wherever they pleased. They carried her to a corner, closer to the sound of something banging against metal. She paused. The noise was repetitive and, as she rounded the corner, Mira hoped that whatever she found wasn’t going to be something she’d need to remove from her mind or eyes using incredibly strong eye drops.

Immeasurable relief released the fear weighing on her chest as she rounded the corner. What she found instead was a million times more amusing—someone had gotten themselves stuck waist deep in a dumpster, their feet dangling outside the edges and banging hopelessly on the metal sheets. Mira didn’t know what worth a dumpster could have in a place like this, but considering the nearly gated portion of the northern side, she supposed that maybe there could be some hidden treasures buried beneath the grime. “Need a little help?” she called.

The kicking intensified. “No,” replied a voice—deep and hoarse. “I can manage myself.”

“The bottom half of you says otherwise.”

Mira watched as the stranger lifted his arms, gripped onto the edge of the container and pushed up, removing themselves from the mouth of the dumpster and jumping to drop onto the floor. She got a better view of the individual once they turned.

It was a man, not too much taller than her brother—who wasn’t terribly taller than her—with an angular face and dark brown hair that stood out against his much paler skin. Mira had never seen a human being who looked like they’d never seen sunlight, but maybe that was why he was hiding out in the shade of the alleyways instead of the main town.

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He pushed a hand through his fluffy brown hair that stood up at inconsistent angles like a windstorm had gone straight through it and left it mangled. The large, paper-thin olive coat he had on made him look far smaller than he was and with one hand on the dumpster he gave her a long appraising stare. Mira couldn’t figure out what it was about him that sent her warning bells into overdrive until she realized that, like the old woman in the east before him, it was his eyes.

One of them was a coffee colored brown.

The other a cold, milky white.

Before she could get a word out, he tipped his chin in her direction and spoke, words accusatory. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Mira replied. “I was just wandering around.”

“In that apparel? Don’t make me laugh, vyrm. If you want me off the property just yell at me outright.”

Vyrm. The same word the woman called her. Mira didn’t have much of an ear for languages—she only knew one—but she could tell from his tone that it held the same exact weight as the word “duster” would back home. Filthy. Despicable. Mira leaned against a wall, arms crossed over her chest. “With an attitude like that, you’ll be lucky if I go anywhere, vamp.”

“Taking shots, are we?” The man gave a scornful sounding laugh, shaking his head and shrugging the bare bones coat over his shoulders. She doubted something like that would keep him warm. Magic would throw a fit if he were here. Too thin, he would’ve said. It won’t even keep out a breeze. “Go ahead. See what I care. You dogs have called me worse names than that.”

What was this guy’s problem? Even the woman, for all her glares and dirty looks didn’t give her nearly as much of an issue. But her words came back with surprising clarity.

Money is a language that doesn’t need words. And you speak very loudly in its tongue.

Saying she wasn’t from around here would do her nothing. So long as she was dressed, snug in her thick, insulated coat to shield her from the vicious cold when it arrived, the Elnoirans would continue avoiding her, being cautious around her. In an attempt to extend an olive branch, Mira dug into her travel bag and dragged out a quilt—her last quilt she realized with a small flutter of panic in her chest—and held it out in the man’s direction.

Now he stared at her, one brow raised. His posture softened, arms less rigid, face more relaxed. He still stood there like he had a pole up his ass, eyes searching her for something to attack, but it was better than the blatant distrust and aggression he’d been showing earlier. “What’s that for?”

“Are you dull?” Mira asked, waving the heavy material up and down. “It’s for you. The cold front will be coming any week now; you’ll freeze in that thing.”

He took it from her gingerly, cradling it in his arms as though he might wake a sleeping infant. “What’s the catch, tratiza?”

There he goes again, using words I can’t understand. “There is none. Take it for yourself, give it to someone else. I don’t care what you do with it, so long as you put it to use. At least someone won’t have to freeze to death.”

The stranger tossed the blanket in his hands, fabrics nestled in the crooks of his elbows. Hugging it to his chest, he gave Mira an appraising look, as though she were a puzzle he was trying to piece together. At least, that’s what Mira hoped he was staring at her for. She was starting to get the slightest bit self-conscious, heat radiating in her cheeks, nerves buzzing in her limbs. Finally, he tipped his chin up. “You aren’t from here, are you?”

“Wow,” Mira said, in a tone that didn’t sound remotely shocked at all. “It took you quite a bit to make that connection, didn’t it?”

“Don’t sass me. Wearing the stuff you have, you can’t blame me for thinking you’re no different from the vultures beyond those gates.”

“Oh, trust me, cavern dweller, I’m—”

“If you’d like to give me a reason to speak with you, insult me less by calling me Spiros.”

“Fine,” Mira said. She approached him with long, careful steps, head tilted to keep eye contact with him. The air felt warmer here, the sensation of heat before rain, buzzing in jagged bursts. “Trust me, Spiros, I don’t want anything to do with this crap town. If we’re being honest, I’d rather be home. Or in Flamburr.”

“And where is home for you? With the swimmers down south? Because if that’s the case, you’re quite far from home, celetiza.”

The word tickled something in her brain. It felt less dirty than the other words, almost warm and fuzzy sounding. “Don’t mistake my looks for where I live. The only Maribyssan thing about me aside from my appearance is my name.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll inform me with that, will you?”

“Not a chance. Names are precious.”

“Alright,” Spiros said, a hint of a smile on his face. “But if you aren’t one of greedy bastards beyond the fences … then what have you come all the way up here for?”

“Information.”

“On?”

“The thing everyone seems intent on hiding away from. What do you know about the Beast of the Maidenwoods?”

Now she had his attention. But the look in Spiros’ eyes didn’t feel like he was going to give up his knowledge easily. He reminded her a lot of Magic when she asked him the same question; there was a significant pallor to his face as though she’d cursed his entire bloodline to be doomed for eternity.

He didn’t say anything at first, only kept his gaze steady on her own, searching, digging for something he couldn’t find, too preoccupied by the shock of her statement that he didn’t sense her feeling inside his own pockets. “I … I thought you would’ve known that, given your eyes.”

Again, back to her eyes. Mira felt her frustration rising. “I don’t understand what being from Chrome has anything to do with this conversation. But that doesn’t make this shit any less confused about why people are so scared of a phantom that they won’t set foot out east!”

Spiros raised a brow. If anything was going through his head about her heritage, he didn’t say it out loud. He held his hands out by his sides in exasperation, as though he couldn’t be bothered to explain anything anymore. “That could work in your favor. Look, don’t go searching for information you’ll regret. You won’t get it from anyone here and you certainly won’t get it from me … Well, maybe one person, but it isn’t me. I for one refuse to give the Beast more publicity than it’s made for itself.”

He shoved past her, making a beeline for the corner. A smirk pulled up on Mira’s lips as she lifted her hand. “I could. But then you’d never get this back.”

Clasped in her right palm was a silver brooch in the shape of a rabbit’s skull, two large antlers jutting from the top of its head. Where its stout muzzle should be was an elongated jaw suitable for that of a deer. Sunlight glinted off a protrusion from the animal’s forehead, a tiny sapphire with eight elongated sides, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Time stopped between them. Spiros’ jaw dropped; he gaped at her, scrambling around frantically inside of his pockets as Mira gently tossed the brooch into the air as though it were nothing more than a single zirca coin. She saw the moment Spiros collected himself; his shoulders squared and he wasn’t catching flies with his mouth open. But his fists were closed, pressed firmly against his sides as he stalked over. “How did you—?”

“Just like names,” she mused, “my methods are a secret.”

“This isn’t funny.” His words held a twinge of panic as he swiped in the air for the brooch. Mira pulled it out of his reach, shoving it into her pocket. “Give that back.”

“Tell me about the Beast and I will.”

Spiros tossed his head back and groaned. “I can’t. Because if I do, he’ll just bring more violence that I have to watch out for. As if I need any more of that in my life as it is. He thrives off fear—at least, so the stories go.” His eyes slowly shifted in her direction. “Satisfied now?”

“Not really—”

“Tough,” Spiros huffed, offering his hand, eyes glued to the silver brooch in her palm. “Hand it over. I answered your question.”

When Mira didn’t move, he swiped at it and she drew her hand back. “Uh-uh,” she said, wagging it back and forth. It was incredibly petty and she knew it, but if this was what it would take to get him to comply, then so be it. “Answer one more thing for me and maybe I’ll consider it.” Mira strode forward, gliding down the alley on soft feet, Spiros not far behind her. Every now and again he reached for the pin, to which Mira retaliated by shoving it into her pockets, keeping her hands inside them. “Why are you here, then, if the Beast scares you so much? Why don’t you leave?”

“Because I can’t,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

“Have you tried leaving this town? They’ll hunt you down like a dog—not even. They’d treat dogs better than they’d treat me or you. And going back to the mountains up north wouldn’t matter much anyway. I left of my own accord.”

The way he said it made Mira think that Elnoire, of all towns, wasn’t exactly where Spiros had imagined he would end up. Perhaps he thought he’d be in the sparkling, capital city and the thought of that made her want to gag. Droidell was made up of some bad parts, Elnoire among the worst of them. But the money-grubbing tactics of the capital made it no better. “I take it you aren’t going to tell me why you left.”

“Not unless you give me the pin. That …” He paused, tightening the hold he had on the quilt. “That’s all I have from home.”

Well fuck.

Now she felt like an asshole.

And she would’ve given it back to him had she not seen a stranger turn the corner, dressed in a dapper-looking red coat, olive pants and tall, brown working boots that stopped in the middle of his shin. Spiros noticed him too and took a commanding step in front of her, one hand outstretched as if to shield her from the other person. Mira scoffed and stepped purposefully to stand beside him. Something about the man’s appearance looked familiar, but she couldn’t place why.

“Ah,” said the stranger, “there’s our man with a savior complex.” Spiros stiffened, wiggling the tips of his fingers. The heat she remembered from before returned. Oddly, it remained around his outstretched hand, hottest near his fingertips. “Have you got yourself a new partner in crime, you white-eyed cretin? Or is she ditchable, too?”

“Not a partner,” Spiros said and Mira felt slightly dejected at that. “Just a townie. A townie who’s got nothing to do with you, Mensch.”

“I may not know you, but I know of you. And I know who you hang around. And Jax is going to be so pleased when I give in my report of your capture. Pity for you that one of your little white-eyed posse members is going to have to suffer along with you.”

Panic thrummed in Mira’s chest. Every single part of her sang with the desire to flee, to go find Magic and drag him out of this hellhole. But the proud, sadistic look in Mensch’s eyes told her that running was a surefire way of getting shot on the spot or otherwise harmed. Magic would never forgive her if she died here because of her own stubborn resolve.

She retreated behind Spiros. “If you want to give me an explanation for why he looks ready to kill us,” she muttered, “now would be a great time to do that.”

“Not sure if there is time for that, celetiza,” he whispered. “But remember when I said someone can give you answers?”

Mira nodded.

“Take my pin with you to the blood house further east. By the fog. You’ll get your answers there.”

“What—”

“What’s the matter, you filthy rat?” Mensch cut in. “Cornered?” He parted his coat to rest one hand on his hip, gently caressing a holster attached to it and, when the coat billowed as he approached, she realized why it looked so familiar.

She helped a young boy earlier with directions who wore a coat just like this. Mira remembered the pained look on his face when he mentioned how late he already was to get to his destination.

Good luck. Don’t get murdered.

That’s the goal every day.

It hadn’t occurred to her that whatever pain this red coated man was going to dish out, the boy she’d helped might have received some version of it as a form of punishment.

“You should know better than to corner a snake, vulture,” Spiros said with a hiss. “You never know when they’ll strike.”

By the time her brain had formed the thoughts of words, something sparked at Spiros’s fingertips. It leapt several feet in front of him, igniting into a frenzy of hungry blue flames.