Whispers of the Past

The guards' shouts echo behind me, a chorus of death snapping at my heels, but all I can feel is the boy's hand on my wrist, pulling me through the dark. My boots skid on the slick cobblestones, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure it'll burst right out of my chest. The alley twists and splits—left or right, he'd said, his voice rough with pain—and I don't have time to think, don't have time to weigh the odds. "Left!" I gasp, my free hand clawing at the air like it'll steady me. He doesn't argue, just veers sharp, dragging me down a narrower path where the walls close in, damp and moss-slicked, the air thick with rot and desperation.

I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's here, why he's bleeding for me, why his dagger's wet with a guard's blood. All I know is the fire still tingling in my palms, the pendant swinging heavy against my chest now that I've snatched it from the ground, and the fact that if we stop, I'm dead. The guards' boots thud closer, their steel clanging like a butcher's cleaver on bone, and I can't tell if it's the chase or his grip bruising my wrist that's making me dizzy.

"Faster," he growls, his voice tight, and I catch a glimpse of his shoulder—dark with blood, soaking through his cloak where the guard's sword bit deep. He's hurt, bad, but he doesn't slow, doesn't falter, pulling me through the maze of Veyris's underbelly like he's done this a hundred times. My lungs burn, my soaked dress clinging to my legs, slowing me down, and I want to scream—at him, at the guards, at the fire I can't unmake—but I bite it back, swallowing the panic clawing up my throat.

The alley opens into a wider lane, shadowed tenements looming overhead, their windows shuttered tight against the night. Laundry sags on lines strung between them, dripping faintly in the gloom, and for a heartbeat, I think we've lost them. Then a shout—"There!"—and the glint of a torch flares behind us, painting the stones red. My stomach lurches. They're not giving up. They'll never give up, not with the king's mark on me now, that cursed pendant glowing like a beacon to seal my fate.

He curses again—sharp, guttural—and yanks me sideways, ducking under a low archway into what looks like an abandoned stable. The air shifts, heavy with the stench of moldy hay and stale horse dung, and he shoves me into the shadows behind a crumbling stall. "Stay down," he whispers, pressing me against the wall, his body shielding mine. His breath's ragged, his chest heaving, and I can feel the heat of him, the damp of his blood seeping through his cloak where it brushes my arm. My hands shake, itching with that awful heat again, and I clench them tight, praying it doesn't flare, doesn't give us away.

Boots stomp past the archway, voices barking orders—"Check the roofs!" "She can't have gone far!"—and I hold my breath, my pulse thundering in my ears. He is close, too close, his face inches from mine, those storm-gray eyes locked on the entrance, his jaw clenched tight. The scar on his cheek catches the faint torchlight filtering in, and I realize his hand's still on my arm, steadying me—or holding me in place. I can't tell which, and it makes my skin prickle, a mix of fear and something I don't want to name.

They pass. The boots fade, the shouts growing distant, and I let out a shaky breath, my knees wobbling like they might give out. He doesn't move, not yet, just stays there, listening, his grip loosening but not letting go. "Who are you?" I whisper, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the drip of water somewhere in the dark. "Why are you doing this?"

He pulls back then, just enough to look at me, his eyes narrowing like he's deciding how much to give away. "Call me Kael," he says finally, low and clipped, like it's a name he doesn't toss around lightly. "And I'm doing this because you're worth more alive than dead. For now." His words hang there, sharp-edged, and I don't know if it's a promise or a threat. My chest tightens, my mind racing—worth more to who? To him? To someone else?—but before I can demand answers, he winces, his hand flying to his shoulder, blood slicking his fingers.

"You're hurt," I say, stupidly, because it's obvious, but I don't know what else to do. I reach out, then stop, my hand hovering, afraid to touch him, afraid of what I might spark. He smirks, faint and bitter, and leans against the stall, sliding down to sit in the muck. "I've had worse," he mutters, peeling back his cloak to check the wound. It's deep, a ragged gash oozing red, and my stomach twists—he took that for me, and I don't even know why.

"We can't stay here," I say, glancing at the archway, half-expecting the guards to double back. "They'll find us. They'll—" My voice cracks, and I hate it, hate how small I sound, how helpless. I'm not helpless. I've survived Veyris's streets alone for three years since Nan died coughing blood in our tiny room. But this—fire bursting from my hands, guards hunting me like a rabid dog—this is something else.

"They won't," Kael says, his tone flat but certain, like he's already mapped every alley in this rotting city. He pulls a strip of cloth from somewhere under his cloak—gods know how it's even clean—and starts wrapping his shoulder, his movements quick despite the pain etching lines into his face. "But you're right. We need to move. Soon."

I open my mouth to ask where, how, *why*, when a shadow flickers at the archway—not a guard, not armor, but something else, something softer. An old woman steps into the stable, her hunched frame draped in a tattered shawl, her hair a wild tangle of white spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes find me instantly, sharp and bright despite the wrinkles carving her face, and my breath catches. She's not just some beggar. There's something about her, something that makes the air feel heavier, like she's carrying secrets older than the stones under my feet.

"You," she says, her voice a rasp that sends a chill down my spine. She shuffles closer, her gnarled hand clutching a stick for support, and Kael tenses beside me, his dagger glinting as he shifts to his knees. "Stay back," he warns, but she ignores him, her gaze locked on me, unblinking, like she can see right through my skin to the fire simmering inside.

"I knew you'd come," she says, and I blink, my mouth dry. "What?" I croak, my hands curling into fists, the heat prickling again, sharper now, like it's waking up to her words. She stops a few feet away, her head tilting as she studies me, and then she smiles—a crooked, knowing thing that sends my heart racing. "The ember in the dark," she murmurs, almost to herself. "The one they couldn't snuff out."

"What are you talking about?" I snap, my voice louder than I mean it to be, echoing off the stable's walls. Kael's hand brushes my arm—stay calm, it says—but I shake him off, stepping toward her. "Who are you? How do you know me?" My mind's spinning, grasping for sense, but there's none to find. I'm nobody, a seamstress with no family, no past worth mentioning. Yet she's looking at me like I'm something more, something I don't want to be.

She doesn't answer, not directly. Instead, she reaches into her shawl, her fingers trembling as she pulls out something small, something that glints faintly in the dim light—a pendant, like mine but different, its edges sharper, its center a dull red stone that seems to pulse when her eyes meet mine. "Take it," she says, thrusting it toward me. "Before they find you again."

"Who?" I demand, but my hand's already moving, drawn to it like it's calling me. My fingers close around the cold metal, and the moment I touch it, a jolt shoots through me—hot, electric, like the fire in my hands has found a voice. The stable blurs, my vision swimming, and then I'm somewhere else.

Flames everywhere, a throne of ash and bone, a woman with my eyes screaming as steel bites her throat—blood, so much blood, pooling on a marble floor—and a crown, burning bright, falling into shadow. I gasp, staggering back, the stable snapping into focus again, the pendant heavy in my hand. Kael's on his feet now, gripping my shoulders, his face pale. "What did you see?" he demands, his voice urgent, but I can't speak, can't breathe, the images searing into me like a brand.

The old woman nods, like she knows, like she *saw* it too. "They're coming," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The Nightveil. The king's dogs. They've scented you now, girl, and they won't stop." She glances at Kael then, her eyes narrowing, and something passes between them—an understanding, a warning—that makes my skin crawl. "Keep her safe," she tells him, sharp and commanding, before turning back to me. "The ember must rise, or all falls to ash."

I open my mouth to ask what she means, to demand answers, but a sound cuts me off—a low, guttural howl, not human, not animal, echoing from the streets beyond. The woman's face tightens, fear flashing in her eyes for the first time, and she backs toward the archway. "Run," she hisses, then vanishes into the dark, her shawl fluttering like a ghost.

Kael's hand tightens on my arm, pulling me toward the stable's far end, where a rickety door hangs half-off its hinges. "What was that?" I choke out, clutching the new pendant, my mind reeling—the vision, her words, that howl. He doesn't answer, just kicks the door open, revealing a shadowed courtyard beyond, the air thick with mist and the stink of the river nearby.

"We're out of time," he says, his voice grim, his wounded shoulder hunched as he steps into the night. The howl comes again, closer now, joined by others, a chorus of something dark, something hunting. My hands burn, the heat surging, and I stumble after him, the pendants—one old, one new—clinking together against my chest. I don't know what's chasing us, don't know who Kael really is, don't know what I have become.