7. Discussing the Stray

Marin had spent years perfecting the art of moving through Oryn-Vel unseen. She knew how to disappear into crowds, how to walk with purpose but without drawing attention, how to listen without being noticed.

And yet, no matter how skilled she was, there was no way to slip into the Phoenix unnoticed when Callen was beside her.

The man was a beacon for trouble. He walked like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, boots clicking against the uneven cobblestone, a smug grin already pulling at his lips. The Phoenix wasn't the kind of tavern that welcomed arrogance—it was a place for people who had learned the hard way to keep their heads down. But Callen? He strolled in like a prince surveying his court.

Marin exhaled through her nose, already regretting coming here with him.

The tavern was dimly lit, its air thick with the smell of spiced ale, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of old wood soaked in years of spilled drinks. The voices of mercenaries, traders, and fugitives layered over each other in a constant murmur—some drunk, some whispering deals, some keeping their hands close to their weapons.

Marin's sharp eyes scanned the room, landing on their targets in the farthest booth, half-hidden by the flickering lanternlight.

She immediately regretted looking.

Tess and Ishmael were kissing.

And not the casual kind, either. Ishmael was halfway draped over Tess, one hand tangled in her loose curls, the other braced against the table like he was keeping himself from melting into her completely. Tess, for her part, had her fingers curled into the collar of his coat, pulling him closer as if the entire tavern had ceased to exist.

Marin grimaced. "Ugh."

Callen, meanwhile, let out a loud bark of laughter.

"Well, well," he said, clapping a hand over his chest in mock admiration. "Young love! So pure, so innocent—"

"Shut up, Callen," Marin muttered.

Tess and Ishmael broke apart instantly, Tess wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Ishmael coughed, looking away like a guilty teenager.

"Gods," Marin said, crossing her arms. "Could you two at least pretend you're capable of professionalism?"

Tess, to her credit, didn't look remotely embarrassed. She just rolled her eyes and leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. "You're early," she said lazily. "We had time to kill."

Ishmael, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "Marin," he said, clearing his throat. "Callen."

"Don't let us interrupt," Callen said cheerfully, sliding into the booth beside Tess. "Unless you want us to, in which case—you're welcome."

Tess shoved him with her foot under the table. "Just sit down and talk."

Marin sat across from them, folding her hands on the table. She had not come here to watch her colleagues make fools of themselves.

"We need to discuss something," she said, ignoring the way Tess smirked. "Callen and I picked up someone unexpected tonight."

Tess raised an eyebrow. "Picked up? Like a stray?"

"Something like that."

Ishmael's brows furrowed. "Who?"

"Calls himself Charon," Marin said. "Claims to be from the southern regions. Says he worked transport until his crew got blacklisted."

Ishmael frowned. "The name's not familiar."

"Exactly," Marin said. "We checked. No known associates, no record of him in any of the usual places."

"Which means," Callen said, propping his chin on his fist, "he either exists so far under the radar that he's a ghost, or he's lying."

Tess drummed her fingers against the table. "And what do you think?"

Marin hesitated.

She didn't like unknowns. Oryn-Vel was a city built on power plays and deception, and trusting the wrong person was the quickest way to get yourself buried in an unmarked grave. She should have no reason to entertain the idea that Charon was anything but trouble.

But there was something about him.

Something that felt… off.

Not in the way liars usually felt. Not in the way of men who spun stories to survive. It was something else—something strange in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at them.

Like he knew them.

Not just as figures or names. As if he had seen them before, a long time ago, and was just now remembering.

She had been watching him carefully ever since they brought him to the safe house. The way he hesitated when answering. The way he looked at Callen—not the way most people did, with amusement or exasperation, but like he expected something from him.

Like he was waiting for Callen to say something he already knew.

And that unsettled her more than anything.

Because Marin knew every single person worth knowing in Oryn-Vel.

And Charon?

He wasn't supposed to exist.

"He's not a complete idiot," she said finally. "When I tested him on border checkpoint protocol, he answered correctly."

Tess lifted an eyebrow. "Lucky guess?"

"Maybe," Marin admitted. "But he knew details. Things that a common smuggler wouldn't have bothered to memorize."

"Which means," Callen said, "he's either more than he's letting on, or he's got a damn good imagination."

Marin pressed her lips together.

Imagination.

That was the other thing about Charon.

He spoke like someone used to telling stories. Someone used to bending reality into something more interesting. And yet, for all that, he didn't have the look of a conman. He wasn't smooth enough. Wasn't trying to win them over. If anything, he seemed nervous.

Callen tapped his fingers against the table, glancing at Marin like he could sense the thoughts running through her mind. "You're not convinced he's dangerous."

Marin exhaled. "I'm convinced he's something."

Ishmael sighed. "So what do we do with him?"

"Keep him close," Marin said. "See what he does next."

Tess smirked. "And if he's a threat?"

Marin met her gaze evenly.

"Then we handle it."