Amon wandered through Gloom Avenue in a daze, narrowly avoiding several clashes with her fellow citizens. Her feet ached from running from the northern districts to the southern reaches of Kuvash, as there was no time to pause and rest in case the man continued to follow her.

Thankfully, these markets hosted all the city’s discarded people. Countless homeless people—from veterans with stumped legs to families of four with skeletal children—reached out to the young crowds that wandered the streets, begging for even a bronze piece.

One child went so far as to tug on a man’s slacks. “May I have a piece of bread, sir?”

The man could not have been too old—perhaps in his mid-twenties. That was an adult for Humans, right? Yet how he kicked the child back reminded Amon of the playground bullies. He smiled the entire time and shook his head afterward.

“These clothes were made by Quutu on the Surface. Don’t sully it, please.” He wrapped his arm around his date and continued through the street.

Amon narrowed her eyes. Without thinking about it and forgetting why she was even in the markets, she followed the pair deeper into the crowd.

On Gloom Avenue, the streets weren’t lit by streetlights like the rest of the city. Instead, voidlights floated in the air—remnants from when the Kishpu-La’atzu House held more power in the capital than the Emperor himself. Orbs that resembled a swirling abyss cast a haunting glow of violet over the street. Many compared it to the entrance to the Hells, a place many claimed to remember from a past life.

Amon couldn’t say the same.

The couple stopped by a flower vendor. The man who so easily kicked a child picked up a gathering of flowers as though they would fall apart at his touch.

Amon leaned against a storefront, blending in quite easily with the other homeless people. She peered at the flowers.

Buttercup and Cowslip… She mused. To show a newfound affection?

The man slipped a few coins onto the florist’s stand, not seeming to care that some were gold pieces for what would have easily been worth a silver and a handful of bronze. The vendor quickly pocketed them, a red blush blooming across his cheeks as his lips quirked into a grin.

Amon smirked as a plan formed in her mind.

She pushed off the wall, following a few paces behind the couple.

“—thought they could beat me, ha!” The man chortled as he waved his hands in the air. “I used to train with the Berserkers before deciding a better life awaited me. So, they were no match against this fist of steel!” He held up his fist as he spoke.

Amon rolled her eyes. His date did the same.

Footsteps rushed behind her. She tensed.

“Have you seen a Kenra with white hair and purple eyes?” Someone asked in between heavy breaths.

She needed to hurry and find shelter. But the man…

“I’m an emissary from Runda. She’s wanted for the murder…”

She glared at the back of the man’s head, filing away his face for later as she ducked into the first shop she found.

A bell jingled above her. The door’s movement brought a gentle breeze, which stirred up the dust until it sparkled in the air.

Shelves upon shelves of curios greeted her. There seemed to be a bit of everything. Clothing allegedly blessed by the oracles, armor that shimmered with enchantments, small mechanical devices far too advanced for this realm… there was no limit to what was in the shop.

Amon took a step closer to the wares. It was her first time in the store, and she should pretend to be a normal customer, right?

She drew closer to the shelves. There were even tomes about some of the forsaken gods, which Amon thought had long since burned down with her old home.

No… with Persi’s old home…

No one stood behind the shopkeeper’s desk, though there was a cup of tea sitting beside the stool with steam still rising from its copper depths. Amon took a deep whiff, smiling at the sweet, floral fragrance. White tea with a hint of sugar and cream. Her sergeant.

She trailed her fingers against the glass display. Jewelry glinted underneath, some made of gems Amon didn’t recognize. They must have come from the Surface. Further behind the desk, chained behind a myriad of enchanted runes, were racks on racks of weapons, perhaps for the self-proclaimed enforcers who loved to patrol these corners of the city.

A curtain hung from the back wall, which must have led to the part of the shop where the shopkeeper was. Amon elected to wait before finding a new hiding place, browsing the shelves filled to the brim with books. Some caught her eye, especially the ones which declared to know the truth about the Divines.

Dede would have loved these, Amon thought as she fingered some of the leather spines. Guilt immediately welled up in her, along with the phantom screams from that night oh so many years ago.

She stepped away from the shelves. No, she shouldn’t be thinking about him. At least, not fondly. He didn’t deserve it right now with what he’s put her through... putting her through.

It was supposed to be a simple job, one they had done so many times before. And yet here she was—in a world that wasn’t her home, playing pretend in an empty shop, with a dead person’s memories threatening to swarm her brain at any moment. And where was he? Gone, along with their seniors.

The curtain swung open, revealing a crooked old woman with a face covered in cakey makeup. She muttered to herself as she swept behind the desk.

Both froze when they noted the other.

The old woman frowned; her eyes exceptionally big behind a thick pair of glasses.

“No, no, no.” The woman rounded the corner of the counter faster than one her age should have been able to, raising the broom in warning. “You go tell that bastard Faraldin that I will not be throttled into another price rise.”

Amon jumped back, her hands up in surrender. “I’m not involved with him, I swear!”

Stolen story; please report.

“Sure, you’re not.” Swing. Thwack!

Pain blossomed across Amon’s cheek as her vision swam. She raised her left hand, touching the skin in shock.

“Now just what…” The old woman reached forward but Amon quickly jumped out of the way.

“What is wrong with you?” Amon said, eyes wide as the woman’s demeanor softened, her focus on Amon’s raised hand.

“Let me see your hand or I’ll hit you again!”

Not wanting to provoke her, Amon complied, reaching out gingerly with her left hand.

The woman grabbed it, tugging her forward with more strength than she looked like she wielded.

The shopkeeper examined the back of her hand, mumbling nonsense to herself in the Common tongue.

“You come from the House of Starlight, don’t you, child?”

This would be the time to lie. It had to be. Her family’s name—their House—only brought death and destruction. It was the entire reason her second ‘family’ had abandoned her and left her to fend for herself in the capital.

No, Amon thought with a subtle shake of her head. That didn’t happen to me.

But as she stared at this woman, she recognized the glint of knowledge—and all too familiar fear—in her eyes. There would be no point trying to fight it. She could continue playing pretend.

The shopkeeper’s hand was warm as it held her own. Once again, Persi’s thoughts invaded her own—noting how this woman’s hand differed from the coldness of her guardians as they told her they were done covering for her, that she needed to find her own place to hide and live a quiet life until death claimed her.

Which is why…

“Yes. I am the second child of the House.”

There was no gasp, no jumping away from her as though her very skin was poison. No… this woman instead cocked her head to the side, examining Amon from top to bottom.

“So, you’re the false heir, then? Been on the run for quite a few months. Everyone thought you would be dead by now.”

Amon quirked an eyebrow. “I thought they would be more interested in my brother’s whereabouts.”

The woman shrugged. “You were more in the public eye. The Jewel of the Skies, and we used to call you so with pride.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “How quickly everyone turned on you when it was your brother who committed the highest treason.”

“But you didn’t?” The sound of armor clinking outside caught Amon’s attention. Her hands warmed. Where would she run?

The old woman cocked her head to the side. “I have a feeling we won’t be able to discuss as much today. But, no, I didn’t. Some of us see reason instead of being overrun with fear. It’s better to let go of the pains of the past than hang on to them and ruin our present.”

But Amon was more focused on the growing number of Guardians outside. To make matters worse, some Berserkers and Guardsmen were joining up with them as well, trying to figure out what brought their presence.

“None of you have any jurisdiction here,” a Guardsman said. “You leave these blokes to fend for themselves while you protect the high and mighty folks up north. Tell us who you’re after and we’ll handle it just fine.”

“We go where the Oracles direct us. And unlike you, we have nothing holding us back from that goal.”

Amon’s hands began to shake. They were crowding the doorway.

She swung around to face the old woman, who was organizing some of the shelves Amon perused earlier.

“If you still see me in that same light, surely you have a way for me to avoid getting arrested tonight?”

The woman hummed and plucked a few books off the shelf. “I don’t need any Guardians running amok in my shop. As you’ve probably seen, not all of this was gathered by the Valkyr.”

Amon bit her lip, thinking fast. “What about Faraldin? You fear he’s giving you another price raise, right? That usually means he’s down on workers.” The rotten bastard was notorious for his protection taxes, but he otherwise seemed like a good man—always willing to offer others work. Amon avoided him like the plague, afraid he would sell her to the highest bidder. But if she went there for business…

“He did place an order a few weeks ago. Most of the children are too scrawny to survive the trip to North Vil.” The old woman peered down at Amon, a grimace lacing her wrinkled face. “Not that you’re much better, darling. But you’ve made it this far.”

The shopkeeper brought a pile of selected books to the front counter, taking her time wrapping them up individually and placing them in a satchel.

Amon fiddled her fingers, tapping her foot as she reverted to an old habit—her Sight. Focusing on her vision and what she could see, the world around her shifted until the energies of the world—both magickal and natural—revealed themselves to her. It would give her a headache if she stared for too long, so she made sure to take everything in fast. Only the light, calming blue of sincerity surrounded the shopkeeper. No trace of yellow or imminent betrayal.

“And one more thing,” the old woman went to the racks of clothes shuffled into one corner of the store, pulling out a cloak engraved with silver sigils. “It’s enchanted to confuse whoever is looking at you into thinking you’re something else. Like a glamour, without changing your form.”

Amon exchanged the cloak with the tattered one that had come with her all the way from that dreaded night decades ago. The shopkeeper gagged as she dropped it into a nearby trash bin.

“Now,” the old woman handed the bag to Amon, “go ahead before they storm my shop. And keep that bastard from raising the tax!”

Amon nodded and walked out the door. She kept her pace at a normal glide down the stairs, making sure not to stare too much nor too little at the gathered crowd of reinforcements—who seemed much more focused on each other than their surroundings.

On the other side of them, propped up against a wall, sat the young man who had chased her all this way. A healer knelt in front of him, dabbing at his mouth which was stained blue. His head rolled to the side, his golden eyes landing on her.

Amon tensed, waiting for him to start yelling at her, but his eyes slowly closed—his body falling limp to the ground.

The healer yelled out to the Guardians, who rushed over to him.

But Amon was already turned around, heading back to the northern districts.