Weight

Lior sat still.

Raquin's words echoed in his head, sinking deep like stones dropped into dark water.

A man wanted in three wards and seven cities.

A name he didn't know yet. A path he hadn't walked before.

But it didn't matter.

Lior's fingers curled against the rough wood of the bench.

This was it.

The only way forward.

There was no fear, no hesitation—only the cold, hollow weight pressing against his ribs, the quiet understanding that this was what he had to do.

The market buzzed around him, but he barely heard it.

Somewhere nearby, a merchant barked at a beggar to get lost. A woman haggled over the price of dried fish. The sound of boots scuffing against dirt, of a dog whining as it was kicked aside, of voices rising and falling like the tide.

But Lior didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't doubt.

Because doubt was a luxury, and he couldn't afford it.

He had tried. He had stolen. He had counted coins, rationed meals, clung to scraps of hope like they were enough to build a future.

But it was never enough.

Cass still slept on the cold, hard floor. Their mother still ate only after they did, pretending she wasn't hungry. Tally was still too young to understand the world she had been born into, still small enough to believe in warmth and kindness and safety.

But one day, she wouldn't be.

One day, she would wake up and see the truth of it all.

That there was no mercy in Blackmire.

That the world did not care for them.

And Lior refused to let her wake up to nothing.

This was the only way.

He had to do this.

For Cass, who would hate him for it.

For Tally, who might never understand it.

For their mother, who had long since stopped dreaming of anything better.

He had to.

Lior inhaled slowly, feeling the weight settle deeper in his chest.

Raquin was watching him, waiting, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

Lior met his gaze, steady.

"I am ready."

***

Lior followed Raquin without a word.

The underbelly of Blackmire was familiar to him—the winding alleys that stank of rot and piss, the broken cobblestone paths where rats scurried in the gutters, the dark doorways where men whispered secrets and exchanged bloodied coins.

But this time, they weren't just wandering. They weren't just moving from one street to another in search of scraps or easy marks.

They were leaving.

Not the slums. Not the filth-streaked markets where desperate hands snatched at what little they could.

They were going to Blackmire.

The real Blackmire.

Raquin led him through the maze of backstreets with ease, slipping between shadows, moving like he had done this a hundred times before. Lior kept close behind, his fingers twitching at his sides, his ears open to every sound around them.

He had never been this far.

He had never left the undercity.

Not like this.

They passed beneath an old archway where the bricks were cracked and moss curled in the seams, where the scent of damp stone clung thick to the air. It was a hidden path—one that twisted through forgotten passageways and led them beyond the walls of the slums.

Lior barely breathed as he stepped through.

And when they emerged—

He stopped.

Blackmire stretched before him.

And it was nothing like what he had known.

The sky was still a dull, lifeless gray, but the streets were wider here, lined with towering buildings of dark stone and iron, their sharp edges cutting into the skyline. Lamps flickered behind glass enclosures, casting eerie golden glows onto the damp pavement. Smoke curled from chimneys, mixing with the fog that never seemed to leave the city.

It was a place of power, of industry, of wealth that loomed high above the filth Lior had crawled through his whole life.

Men in long coats strode past, their boots polished, their hands gloved in fine leather. Women in dark dresses walked with purpose, their hats tipped low, their gazes unreadable.

Carriages rolled over the stone roads, drawn by sleek black horses that looked too well-fed for this city. The scent of coal, of burning oil and damp paper, filled the air.

But beneath it all—

Beneath the grandeur, beneath the gaslights and the shining brass fixtures—

It was still Blackmire.

Still rotten at its core.

Lior could see it in the way the beggars were shoved aside without a glance. In the way the watchmen lingered near the alleyways, their hands never far from the batons at their belts. In the way a child—no older than Tally—stood on a street corner, barefoot and shivering, eyes hollow as a man in a fine coat walked right past her.

This place was built on power. On money.

And the people in it?

They only survived if they knew how to play the game.

Raquin barely slowed as they moved deeper into the heart of the city. Lior forced himself to follow, forced himself to keep his feet moving even as his chest tightened.

This was where the real thieves played.

Not the desperate, starving boys who ran through the market stalls, snatching bread from distracted vendors.

Not the ones like him.

But the ones who walked these streets with their heads high, with their coats pressed and their boots shining. The ones who never had to run because they never got caught.

The ones who knew the game.

And if Lior wanted to stand a chance—if he wanted to do more than scrape by, more than survive—

Then he had to learn.

They turned a corner.

And there, waiting in the shadows of an old banking house, stood the man Raquin had spoken of.

The man wanted in three wards and seven cities.

The man who was about to change everything.

***

Raquin never did anything just for pleasure.

The gambling stall had been a diversion, but not the kind most would assume. He hadn't been there simply to throw dice and test his luck—Raquin had no interest in relying on fortune when he could twist the odds in his favor.

No, he had been there for a different reason entirely.

The market was always the best place to watch. It was where desperate men spent their last coins, hoping for miracles. Where rich fools flaunted their wealth, never once thinking they could lose it all in an instant. And more importantly—it was where opportunity lurked.

He had heard whispers of a new trick being played at the gambling stalls—some cocksure bastard running a con under the nose of the city watch. Raquin wanted to see it firsthand, wanted to study the man running the stall, see if he was clever enough to be useful… or stupid enough to be profitable.

But what he hadn't expected to find was a street rat who saw the con faster than he did.

That had made him pause.

Lior—this scrawny little kid—had caught onto the trick before the gamblers did, before the city watch, before half the idiots in the market who were bleeding their pockets dry. And he hadn't just noticed—he had used it. Had turned it into his own little game, testing if he could sell knowledge he didn't even have.

It had been a test, one Raquin had recognized instantly.

How far can I push this?How much will they believe?How much power can I hold over someone without lifting a finger?

And the kid had done it well.

Raquin had watched with amusement as the gambler dismissed the boy, only to later look back and realize, shit—maybe the kid knew something after all. That tiny seed of doubt had been enough to lure him back, enough to make him desperate enough to pay for a secret Lior still didn't have.

And it had worked.

Lior had walked away with money for nothing but a trick of the mind.

And that? That was something worth noticing.

That was why Raquin had paid attention.

That was why he had followed the boy after, why he had decided to see just how sharp this street rat really was.

And that was why he had taken him to Serren.

Because a kid like that? A kid with instincts sharper than a thief's blade?

Now that was a rare find.

The old banking house loomed over them like a corpse of a forgotten era—its stone façade cracked, its once-grand columns eaten away by time and neglect. The gargoyle heads that lined the roof had long since lost their fangs, worn smooth by years of rain and soot, but they still stared down at the streets with empty, watching eyes.

It was a ruin, a place abandoned by the respectable world.

Which made it the perfect place for men like him.

Raquin led Lior through a side entrance, slipping past broken iron gates and stepping over shattered floor tiles that once gleamed with polish. The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and damp wood, of ink that had dried decades ago but still clung to the walls like ghosts of forgotten transactions.

Lior kept close, his footfalls barely making a sound as they moved through the hollowed-out ribs of what had once been a vault for fortunes. Now, it was something else.

A kingdom, perhaps.

Or a lair.

And then—

A voice, smooth as velvet, cut through the dim silence.

"You're late."

Lior turned.

At the far end of the room, where moonlight filtered through broken glass and cast long, jagged shadows, a figure stood against an old desk.

He was tall but not imposing, lean but not starved—every inch of him was precise, deliberate. His coat was tailored, black as the space between stars, unbuttoned just enough to show a dark vest beneath. A single silver chain glinted at his waist, vanishing into his pocket.

His hands—slim, deft—rested against the desk like a man who had never once needed to raise them in violence.

And his face—

Sharp, foxlike, the kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was smirking or merely thinking of something amusing. His hair was dark, curling slightly at the ends as if it couldn't quite decide whether to be unruly or refined. His eyes, though—those were the real trick.

Lior had seen men with sharp eyes before. Had seen Cass's, cold and tired, had seen Raquin's, amused and calculating. But this man's?

This man's eyes were pure understanding.

Like he had already figured out everything Lior was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

Raquin exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. "You're always in such a rush, Veyne."

Veyne.

The name curled through the air like a slow-burning fuse.

Lior had never heard it before, but somehow, he had. Not in sound, not in memory, but in weight. Like it was one of those names whispered between the desperate and the damned. A name that carried a story long before the man himself ever stepped into a room.

Winston tilted his head, finally letting his gaze shift to Lior.

"And this is?"

Lior swallowed.

Raquin grinned. "A little rat I found at the market."

"Charming," Veyne mused, fingers drumming lightly against the desk. "Does the rat have a name?"

Lior straightened his shoulders, pushing past the unease curling in his gut.

"Lior."

Veyne studied him.

Not just his face, but him. The way he stood, the way he held his hands, the way his breath had just barely quickened when their eyes met.

And then, he smiled.

"Well, Lior, I am Winston Veyne," Veyne said, voice smooth, almost amused. "Let's see if you're worth the trouble."