Liora made her way through Vessport’s narrow back alleys, shadows clinging to her heels as though vying for her favor. Dusk had long since given way to full night, leaving the bustling city beneath a canopy of stars and the glow of scattered lanterns. She skirted past a dilapidated warehouse and clambered over a short stone wall, making for the tall silhouette that rose like a silent sentinel from the neighboring square: the old bell tower.

  Once, a grand bell had tolled in its heights, calling sailors to port or warning the city of approaching storms. Now, the bronze giant lay dormant, partially corroded with age. The tower’s doors, long sealed, were blocked with heavy planks and corroded iron braces. But Liora never bothered with doors anyway.

  A grin touched her lips as she slipped around to the side facing the docks. Unfamiliar eyes would see only a blank, windowless expanse of ancient masonry. Liora, however, knew exactly where the gaps between the stones were wide enough for a handhold. She pressed her fingers into the crevices, boots seeking the chipped edges that time and wind had left behind. With slow, precise movements, she began her ascent.

  She recalled the countless times she’d made this journey with her brother. He was far more devoted to the city’s well-being, and would often scale the interior ladders to perform maintenance. But nowadays, Liora had discovered a new purpose for this relic.

  The chill wind whipped her hair, but her grip stayed firm. She ascended meter by meter, the night sky opening around her in a canvas of stars. By the time she reached the narrow ledge near the top, her muscles burned from exertion. Yet a calm satisfaction glimmered in her eyes; this was her domain.

  Slipping in through a half-collapsed window, Liora found herself inside what had once been the belfry’s service chamber. Dust mottled the moonlight, drifting through the open gaps in the walls. A ring of rope-lashed columns supported the upper platform where the old bell hung, silent as a grave marker. In the center, a jumble of timbers framed the walkway. But her real home was a level below, down a winding spiral of half-broken steps.

  She descended carefully, the weathered stone groaning underfoot. The air smelled faintly of mold and old wood, with a tang of sea salt borne on the wind from Vessport’s docks. At the bottom of the steps lay home, an open space where leftover gears and pulleys mingled with her meager belongings. A mass of pillows—half of them pilfered from noble guesthouses—formed a makeshift bed in one corner.

  Liora sighed, dropping her cloak over a splintered wooden chair. Exhaustion tugged at every sinew, her mind still abuzz with everything she had learned. She fell onto the cushions with a low groan, savoring the momentary comfort.

  But sleep wouldn’t come yet. Not with so many pieces still in motion.

  Rolling onto her side, she reached under the largest pillow and pulled out a small chest. Within its worn hinges lay several sheets of parchment, each line covered in cryptic markings and sly codes only she could decipher. The city, she’d learned, thrived on secrets—and she was nothing if not a careful keeper of them.

  By the single flickering lantern, she penned a new series of missives, lines of precise code weaving her instructions for various underworld contacts scattered throughout Vessport. A sly grin tugged her lips as she shaped each sentence—some instructions to watch the eastern warehouse at dawn, others to apprehend a merchant named Brom who she believed harbored stolen artifacts. Every letter was a chess move, each contact a potential pawn or ally.

  When she finished, ink smudged her fingertips, but the set of her shoulders looked lighter. She tucked the pages to her side and rose. Crossing to the broken archway that opened onto the tower’s ledge, she peered out at the sleeping city. Lantern-glows dotted the harbor, fishing boats bobbing in the dim distance. High overhead, stars glittered.

  Liora pressed a hand to her collarbone, calling on the subtle Hydra’s power. The night air thickened momentarily, and from above, threads of starlight dripped like silvery rain. She shaped them with deft gestures—small, celestial snakes unfurling in pale luminescence. Each serpent-like wisp glided around her, slithering through the air with silent curiosity.

  One by one, she tied her coded messages to the serpents’ glinting bodies, the soft glow illuminating the runes and ciphers she’d carefully composed. The creatures hissed in quiet acknowledgment, then sprang into the night sky, weaving around the crumbling spire of the bell tower before darting off across the rooftops of Vessport.

  She watched them go, a swell of pride sparking in her chest. In the hush that followed, the harbor’s distant waves lapped at the city’s edges, and far below, a cat yowled in some dimly lit street. Liora exhaled, leaning her elbows on the battered stone ledge.

  As her gaze drifted from the shimmering serpents to the starlit ocean, she allowed a brief moment of quiet wonder to settle in. This bell tower had served as her private domain for years now. And, despite all the memories it held, she felt at peace. Was she wrong for that?

  Hydra's gentle pulse of warmth seeped through her mind, reassuring her wordlessly. Liora let herself relax, if only for this moment

  Tomorrow, she thought, the preparations would continue. But for tonight, she had done her part. And in that small pocket of silence, she allowed herself to feel content.

  ***

  She was small again—ten years old, crouched in the hallway’s shadows, eyes fixed on the narrow crack in the door. An older figure stood in the center of a glowing circle, hands trembling as they reached for something bright and powerful. At first, it was all radiance and wonder.

  But then the light warped, deepening into a searing whiteness. A rasping, inhuman sound tore from the figure’s throat, echoing down the halls like a siren’s wail. Limbs jerked at wrong angles; skin crackled with wild starlight. A low roar of agony seemed to shake the walls themselves.

  She wanted to scream—wanted to stop whatever dreadful ritual was devouring the person in that circle—but terror turned her voice into silent tears. She watched as that body twisted into a monstrous form, features elongating into something that no longer resembled the human who had once whispered, “I’ll protect you.”

  And then it lunged for a second figure—the shape of someone else in the room, though every detail blurred behind the bright, awful flash of magic gone wrong. There was a struggle, a strangled cry, and the smell of something bitter and acrid seared her nostrils. She heard tearing, growling, the crush of stone as everything collapsed into chaos.

  When silence fell, it was deafening.

  Liora’s eyes fluttered open to the dull gray of dawn creeping through the gaps in the bell tower’s broken stone. A damp chill hung in the air, wrapping around her like a cold, clammy sheet. She groaned, raising a hand to her forehead as a dull ache pulsed behind her eyes.

  Hydra’s familiar warmth stirred in her mind, a gentle ripple of comfort. “You’re safe,” the constellation’s voice whispered, equal parts motherly and stern. “Though your dreams may say otherwise.”

  Liora swallowed hard, her mouth dry. The taste of bile soured her tongue; without warning, a wave of dizziness seized her. She barely had time to scramble off her makeshift bed of pillows, stumbling to a corner where the remnants of last night’s dinner forced their way up. She retched, shaky limbs braced against the stone wall.

  “Take a moment,” the constellation urged softly. “You can’t deal with anything on an empty stomach—or if you’re losing what little you have.”

  With a shaky exhalation, Liora spat, trying to rid her mouth of the bitter taste. It was never easy to wake from those memories unscathed. Standing, she caught her reflection in a scrap of cracked mirror propped on a crate: shadows under her eyes, hair sticking in every direction, sweat beading at her temples. Get it together, girl, she thought, running a hand through her tangled strands.

  A flicker of unease prickled at the edge of her awareness. Hydra’s voice chimed in her mind: “Something’s off.”

  Immediately alert, Liora’s eyes swept the cramped confines of her tower hideout. On one side, her pillows and blankets lay rumpled; on the other, a rough wooden crate served as a makeshift table. Her cloak was still draped over a broken chair, its folds untouched since last night. It looked like everything was in place… except a pale envelope resting ominously atop the crate.

  A jolt of anxiety shot through her. Her hideout was sealed from the outside—only she could climb up here. And even if someone managed to scale the bell tower, Hydra’s watchful presence should have warned her of the intrusion. Yet a letter lay there, stark and silent.

  Liora’s heart hammered in her chest. Only one person could slip past her defenses like that, and do it without her realizing.

  Tristian

  She swallowed, lips thinning, as her hand trembled toward the letter. She paused just shy of touching it, as though it might bite. A humorless laugh escaped her at the absurdity of it.

  She forced a calming breath, steeling herself, then picked up the envelope. The parchment crackled under her fingertips. Part of her wanted to tear it open immediately, to see what new task or sly remark he had penned. Another part wanted to fling it out the window, scorning his intrusion into her space and her life.

  In the end, curiosity won. The same curiosity that had dragged her through these streets since she was a child. She turned the envelope over, checking for a wax seal or a sign of who truly sent it. Nothing. Just the faint aroma of old ink.

  Her mind spiraled with questions. She’d been running things on her own for a while now. Sending out coded messages, and building alliances with those in the lower districts. Why would Tristian choose now to meddle? Or was this something bigger—something from someone else?

  “There’s no point guessing,” Hydra reminded her gently. “Open it.”

  Breathing in the stale air of the tower, Liora slid her fingernail beneath the envelope’s flap, every sense on high alert. She steadied her hands, bracing for the worst—and perhaps hoping for the best, all at once.

  ***

  Liora took a winding route through Vessport’s underbelly that afternoon, slipping along narrow alleys and crumbling side streets while Hydra’s shadowy essence cloaked her movements in subtle darkness. The midday bustle carried on around her—merchants pushing carts of produce, dockworkers heading for their break, a wandering minstrel strumming a battered lute—yet none paid her a second glance.

  She drew on Hydra’s power, sensing how the constellation’s presence softened the light around her, making her footsteps blend more seamlessly into the city’s noise. It was a small boon, but enough to ensure that curious eyes wouldn’t linger. The din of rowdy taverns and drunken sailors drifted behind her as she pressed on, heart steady, with a dagger at her hip. She stuck to the shadows, navigating those claustrophobic pathways with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly where she was going—and wanted no one following in her wake.

  If she was going to step into Tristian Gallows’ den, she needed to do it without attracting a trail of curious onlookers. And with Hydra’s help, she all but vanished from notice, merging into the city’s midday clamor like a silent wisp in a crowd of noise.

  A biting breeze carrying the smell of brine drifted in from the docks. Liora pulled her cloak tighter, Hydra’s familiar presence a calm murmur in her mind. “Is this really necessary?” the constellation seemed to ask, though Liora could sense the rhetorical disapproval in Hydra’s words.

  “Absolutely,” she thought back. Tristian had left that letter—slipping it into her tower hideout as if he owned the place. It was short and simple: We need to talk. You know the place. To anyone else, it might have meant nothing. But to her, it wasn’t something she could just brush aside.

  Eventually, she came to a low archway that opened onto a cramped courtyard lit by a single lantern. A hulking guard leaned against the wall, cigar smoke curling around him in a lazy spiral. The smell of whiskey and something sickly sweet tinged the cool air. She tensed, expecting a confrontation, but the guard only glanced her over once before nodding and stepping aside, as though he’d been expecting her all evening.

  “Go on in,” he muttered, hardly meeting her eyes.

  She felt her irritation grow. Of course Tristian would have told them she was coming. It was so like him—knowing her next move before she’d even decided to make it. She pushed through the door, scowling to herself, and stepped into a narrow corridor lit by tinted lamps that cast garish colors over the cracked plaster walls.

  The smell of stale tobacco deepened, mingled with the low hum of conversation and the clink of glass. A sour wave of memory rolled in her gut. She hated the place—always had—but it was the best spot for Tristian to conduct his “business.”

  “This place reeks of arrogance,” Hydra’s voice muttered softly in Liora’s mind, the constellation’s presence curling with distaste. Liora couldn’t help but agree.

  She could hear the faint clamor of laughter and the ring of glass. A coat clerk, surprisingly prim despite the establishment’s rough ambiance, stood by a gilded rack. Liora shrugged off her cloak and thrust it at him. He bowed in silence, leaving her in her usual dark attire—fitted trousers, sturdy boots, and a black tunic cinched at the waist.

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  Bracing herself, Liora moved on, the corridor opening into a sprawling lounge. Low-hanging chandeliers dripped with counterfeit crystals, casting smoky shadows across mismatched couches and polished tables littered with half-empty bottles. A haze hovered near the ceiling, a mix of tobacco and who knew what else, weighing heavily on the senses. Men and women hunched over piles of cards or dice, arguing in hushed or drunken tones. Somewhere in the back, a single piano note plinked out, then stopped abruptly.

  Noble in appearance, the lounge was anything but refined. Typical Tristian, she mused. She’d been here a few times, mostly under duress, to broker shady deals or pry info from his crooked network. It never failed to grate on her nerves how comfortably he thrived amid the city’s seedier elements.

  She advanced toward the rear, ignoring the curious glances tossed her way. Her starless nature was something she usually concealed among criminals, but in this den, people preferred not to poke at personal mysteries. Better to keep your head down than to question the woman who glided through like she owned the place.

  A pair of ornate doors marked the entrance to the VIP section, each door emblazoned with gaudy metal filigree in the shape of a fox—Tristian’s personal symbol. The guard stationed there gave Liora a curt bow, then opened the door without a word. Again, she thought, he was expecting me. And it irked her that he was right.

  Inside, the hush felt heavier. Plush velvet drapes lined the walls, and a rich carpet muffled every step. Dim lamps lit the center of the room, where a few tables were set up for high-stakes card games. Smoke curled in languid coils above gamblers clutching half-finished drinks. But Liora’s focus zeroed in on the far table. Tristian lounged in a high-backed chair, leg draped over the arm, playing a hand of cards with a trio of tense-looking men.

  Her eyes locked on him; his flicked upward to meet hers. The moment he recognized her, a slow, insolent grin stretched across his face. Sandy hair brushed his forehead, and he arched a brow as if to say, Finally. One of his cronies noticed her next, nearly spilling his whiskey in alarm.

  Around them, empty bottles and half-drunk glasses of whiskey clustered like monuments to indulgence. He nudged his neighbor, who followed the first man’s gaze until both averted their eyes in quick acknowledgment. They stood and mumbled excuses, drifting to the side like anxious specters.

  Tristian, however, still looked up at her, his gaze locked with hers, and that insufferable grin never wavering. He was the picture of arrogance and complete nonchalance. Slippery bastard, Liora thought, recalling Hydra’s earlier opinions. And though she hid her Starbonded status from anyone else in the city, she’d never bothered with Tristian. Why pretend? He was Starbonded too—he’d known from the start.

  “Well, Starlight,” he drawled, emphasizing the pet name. “Fancy seeing you in my humble establishment.”

  She felt Hydra bristle in her mind, the constellation’s distaste echoing her own. Her jaw tightened. She strode up to the table, ignoring the men who hovered at its edges. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, voice low with irritation. “You summoned me here. Now talk.”

  Tristian motioned with a flick of two fingers, and the remaining onlookers scattered as if the devil himself had commanded them. Another wave of cigar smoke curled through the air. “Come now,” he said lightly, gesturing at the empty seat across from him. “Sit. Play a round or two. We haven’t shared a table in ages.”

  “Pass,” she spat, remaining on her feet, arms crossed. “I’m here for business, not your games.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek, but he gave no other sign of annoyance. His grin never wavered. “Consider it part of the meeting, then. You can hardly call me out for a chat and not indulge me a little.” He reached for a deck of cards, shuffling them with practiced ease. “Sit, or I’ll take it as a sign you’re losing your edge.”

  Liora cast him a withering glare but slid into the chair nonetheless. “Get on with it.”

  Tristian dealt out a few cards, eyes glinting with amusement as passed her a stack of coins. She knew he relished these little power plays—turning the tables, making her dance to his tune. Liora’s fury simmered beneath the surface, but she forced herself to remain calm. Hydra’s presence coiled in the back of her mind, quietly fuming at the sight of Vulpecula’s bonded mark flickering across Tristian’s exposed bicep.

  She picked up her cards. The game was a form of poker, but the rules had been twisted to favor unpredictability—Tristian’s hallmark. “So,” she demanded, flicking her gaze up from the battered hand, “why am I here? What urgent message did you have to slip into my bell tower?”

  Tristian smirked, leaning in conspiratorially, as though the entire den weren’t half within earshot. “You know me, Liora. It’s never urgent. Not in the kingdom’s sense, anyway.”

  Frustration flared. “Stop dancing around it, Gallows. I have better things to do.”

  His grin softened at the edges, if only slightly. He thumbed a coin chip, rolling it across his knuckles. “I missed you. Thought I’d see how you’ve been. Rumor has it you’re stepping up your game. More messages flying around than usual. Everything all right?”

  She clenched her jaw, suspecting he was eavesdropping on her operations somehow—again. “I’m fine,” she said coldly, discarding two cards. The less information she could give him, the better.

  Tristian dealt new cards, glancing up every so often with that smug half-smile. “You always did have a knack for picking interesting allies, Starlight. Are they treating you well? Any trouble on the horizon?”

  Her knuckles went white around the cards. “This is a waste of time,” she muttered, flicking a sidelong look at the pitted tabletop. Why is he always like this?

  “I’d suggest otherwise.” Tristian shrugged, tossing another chip into the center of the table. “Sometimes, a simple conversation is all it takes to see where your head’s at. Hydra whispering any sweet nothings these days?” His tone was so offhanded it made her blood boil.

  At the mention of Hydra, she felt the constellation stir. “He’s only baiting you,” Hydra warned, her voice taut with disapproval. Across from her, Tristian’s grin broadened at the sight of Liora’s markings flaring, as if every bit of her frustration only confirmed his smug self-assurance.

  Liora took a steadying breath. “Oh yes, and I’m sure Vulpecula’s been a peach. How is the vixen doing nowadays, still helping you scam nobility out of their well earned pocket change?” She sneered sarcastically.

  His eyes flashed with amusement at her calling out his patron by name. “Testy today,” he mused, leaning closer across the table. “I’ll have you know, I actually have news. But I wanted to see how you’re faring first. You look…” He paused, his gaze raking over her. “…tired.”

  She tensed, darting a look at her reflection in a dusty glass set to the side. She hated that he might see the dark circles under her eyes. “I’ve been busy,” she said curtly.

  Tristian nodded, easing back in his seat as the flickering glow of Vulpecula’s markings pulsing faintly along his bicep. Then, casually, he revealed his hand, scooping up the small pot of coins. She realized with a stab of annoyance that she hadn’t even paid attention to the cards. He’s playing me, she realized, scowling.

  Hydra grumbled in Liora’s thoughts, a soft undercurrent of irritation. “I said it before, this one’s as slippery as his patron,” the constellation muttered unimpressed.

  Liora forced herself to ignore Hydra’s commentary. She had come here to extract information, not let Tristian’s exasperating attitude derail her. Crossing her arms, she kept her voice cool. “If we’re done with the sweet talk, mind getting to the point?”

  Tristian arched a brow. “All right, Starlight. Let’s cut to it then.” He braced a forearm on the table, flicking off an imaginary speck of dust. “Lord Harrick split from the main forces at Cobalt Pass a day or so back, heading straight toward Vessport.”

  Liora’s spine went rigid. Harrick; she’d heard his name more than once in the undercurrents of her deals, and was one of those lords who seemed to ‘tolerate’ the Starbonded. “Why?” she demanded, carefully keeping the tremor out of her voice. “He’s known for biding his time, not taking action unless he has to.”

  Tristian offered a thin smile, full of private amusement. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His gaze roamed her expression, as if searching for the truth she kept hidden. “You’d think I would know his motives. After all, my ‘closest informant’ in this corner of the city”—he gestured at her with a flourish—“was apparently making moves without me.”

  A hiss of frustration fluttered at the back of Liora’s mind. “Closest informant,” Hydra echoed with distaste. The constellation’s bitterness toward Vulpecula’s Starbonded clearly amplified Liora’s own loathing. And yet, she was trapped in this exchange, forced to reveal something if she wanted to stay on top.

  She pressed her lips into a line, then grudgingly spoke. “It’s the Starless. They’re pushing closer to Vessport than ever before, but now they’ve veered toward Ashfall.” Her eyes flicked over Tristian’s face, searching for signs of mockery. “Something there must be drawing them in.”

  Tristian tapped a finger on the table, taking that in with a slow nod. “Interesting. So Harrick’s not just taking a stroll; he’s marching with intent, probably to intercept whatever threat is heading that way.” He leaned forward, voice gone softer—too casual, too smooth. “And you knew about it all along.”

  Her jaw clenched. “You’re not the only one with connections, Gallows. I had a plan—”

  He cut her off with a dismissive wave. “And I assume Harrick’s motives slipped your mind when you were making those moves?”

  Hydra growled in Liora’s head, “He’s enjoying watching you squirm.”

  She forced a low scoff. “Believe what you want. The Starless are a problem, and if they’re congregating near Ashfall, that puts everyone in danger—Vessport included.”

  Tristian’s brow furrowed, the easy grin slipping a notch. “And you really think these rumors are true? That the Starless are gathering near Ashfall?” he murmured, skepticism thick in his tone. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors, and half of them turn out to be gutter gossip.”

  Liora met his gaze without flinching. “It’s not gutter gossip. I’m certain.” Her voice was firm, though her jaw remained clenched. “You think I’d drag myself here if I wasn’t?”

  Hydra stirred in her mind, the constellation humming with quiet approval. Tristian exhaled, fingers tapping restlessly on the tabletop. Despite himself, his expression lost another layer of its cavalier fa?ade.

  “All right,” he said, lowering his tone. “So you’re telling me the Starless are massing near Ashfall. Then why keep it from me?” His eyes narrowed, a spark of wounded pride glinting there. “If it’s this serious, why shut me out?”

  Liora felt a surge of exasperation, biting back the retort ready on her tongue. “Because we don’t exactly share the same agenda,” she replied tersely. “Last time I checked, you were more interested in your smuggling rings and gambling dens than in the safety of this city.”

  “Maybe I just prefer to know what I’m up against.” Tristian’s eyes flicked to the faint glow of Vulpecula’s mark on his bicep, then back to hers. “We’re Starbonded, Liora. We both know what that means—wherever we go, trouble follows.”

  She shrugged, refusing to show how much his words resonated. “Hydra and I handle our own messes.”

  He ignored that jab and straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “If the Starless really are gathering, then maybe we should get out while we still can. Pack up, move on.” The suggestion fell from his lips casually, but tension rippled through his posture. “It’s not like we don’t know why they’re here, right?”

  Liora’s gaze darted aside, and for a moment, an unspoken understanding thick in the air: Starbonded. Or at least, that was the title given to those who managed to emerge intact from their pact—before things went wrong, before they became something else entirely. And it wasn’t just the two of them; far more Starbonded hid behind bolted doors and quiet lives in this city than either wanted to acknowledge.

  “You’re saying we should just—flee?” she whispered, hating the word and all it implied. “Leave Vessport to fend for itself, and the people who actually need help to rot under a Starless invasion?”

  Tristian winced, a rare hint of genuine conflict in his gaze. “I’m saying I’m not keen on facing another horde if we can help it. And maybe there are others,” he added, “People like us need to stay on the move. We draw them in like moths to a flame.”

  Liora shook her head fiercely, a hand curling into the edge of the table. “I’m not abandoning them—my people, my city—to the Starless. I won’t. If you think you can skip town and leave the rest of us in the lurch, that’s on you.”

  Tristian’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he was silent. Hydra growled softly in Liora’s thoughts, urging caution even as she felt her anger spike. He’s always so ready to bail, she thought bitterly. That’s how he’s survived: cunning, running, never standing still.

  “You’re being stubborn,” he said at last, glancing away like he didn’t want to lock eyes. “If you stick around, the Starless will tear this place apart.”

  “Then let them try,” Liora replied, voice steeled with a grim edge. “I’m not afraid of them.”

  Suddenly, a piercing scream rattled through the smoky den, cutting clean across the tension between them. Liora and Tristian halted mid-argument, eyes snapping toward the source of the cry. For an instant, they just stood there, hearts pounding.

  Then they both bolted for the exit, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtains and sprinting into the corridor. Their feet pounded on the floor until they burst into the midday light. Crowds had scattered from a spot near the far end of the street, leaving only horrified onlookers who pointed and gasped.

  Liora’s stomach twisted with dread as she caught sight of three bodies hanging from a building’s overhang. Even at a distance, she could see the way their limbs dangled, the gruesome slackness that spoke of death. As she and Tristian drew closer, the full horror set in: each victim bore constellation markings on their bodies, half-hidden by torn garments.

  All Starbonded.

  The ropes bit deep into their necks, and someone—some sick mind—had cut or burned the starry sigils onto their flesh. Blood streaked the once-proud markings; the sight made Liora’s knees threaten to buckle. She swallowed hard, Hydra’s presence roiling in her mind like a shadowy tide.

  Tristian, pale beneath his usual bravado, took in the scene grimly. Around them, a small knot of townsfolk stood at a safe distance, whispering and shuddering. A few retched in the gutter. The stench of fear mingled with the midday heat.

  “Gods,” Liora managed, her voice hoarse. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.

  “L-look!” one of the onlookers stammered, pointing at a message daubed in thick red paint—or possibly blood—across the building’s wall.

  Tristian inhaled sharply. “The Starless are only the beginning.” He read the words aloud, his tone hollow, eyes flicking to Liora in apprehension.

  Every nerve in Liora’s body tensed at once. She tore her gaze from the hanging bodies, turning to see the same statement repeated crudely across the plaster—like a warning. The hush that settled over the street was almost suffocating.

  Tristian let out a shuddering breath. His earlier argument about fleeing the city seemed more tempting by the minute. “Do you believe me now?” he asked, voice low with accusation.

  She couldn’t tear her gaze from the hanging forms, her breath catching in her throat. “We’re not Starless”, Hydra reminded her tensely, but Starbonded or Starless, it scarcely mattered to those who despised their kind. Fear swelled within her. She tasted bile again.

  Instead of replying, she took a shaky step back. The crowd began murmuring in rising panic, someone calling for the guards, someone else cursing the Starbonded for bringing doom upon them. Tension crackled in the air, and Liora felt danger curling at the edges of the onlookers’ stunned faces—fury, or fear, or both.

  Tristian drew a plain gray cloak from beneath his own coat and draped it around her shoulders—uncharacteristically gentle. “Come on,” he murmured. “It’s not safe here.” His voice cautious, yet calm.

  Only then did she realize she’d fled the den without her usual cover up. A pang of alarm shot through her—anyone in the crowd might have seen those telltale lines of cosmic scarring snaking over her skin. She swallowed hard, angry at herself for being careless, mixing with the shame of needing his help.

  Tristian turned her gently away from the gruesome scene, his grip firm but not harsh. “Better hide those markings for now,” he said quietly.

  For once, Liora couldn’t muster a retort. She let him guide her away, her eyes stinging from the harsh glare of sunlight on that awful display. Hydra, she pleaded silently, but the constellation offered only a slow, steady pulse of shared dismay.