Mara’s POV
The bells keep ringing—harsh and uneven, like the storm itself is panicking. The sound rattles through the old stones and iron beams, echoing down every hollow corridor. It’s the kind of sound that makes your blood forget its rhythm, that makes the air feel too tight to breathe.
The guards scramble, their armor clanging, voices tripping over one another in curses and orders. The one nearest to me shoves his sword into its sheath with trembling hands, fumbling for his cloak. Rain leaks through the cracks above, dripping onto the floor like ticking seconds.
“Stay here,” one snaps, his voice hard but uncertain. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
Absolutely not.
As soon as their footsteps thunder up the stairwell, I move. My hands shove the silver aside; a platter crashes and rolls into the shadows, but the storm covers the sound. I drop the polishing cloth, fingers slipping with sweat, and pull the coil of cord and Sira’s map from beneath my apron. They’re still damp from her hands. My heart slams so hard against my ribs it almost hurts.
Aster flares awake, hot and bright beneath my skin.
“Now. Now, Mara—run.”
Her voice feels like lightning trapped under my ribs. I swallow the panic trying to climb my throat.
“I know,” I whisper back. “Hold steady. No flares. Just breath.”
The lantern above the workbench flickers violently, shadows jumping across the walls like frightened ghosts. I slip through the narrow side corridor Sira once showed me—the one meant for servants and smugglers. My bare feet slap against the stone, puddles splashing cold water up my calves. The corridor smells of mildew, metal, and the faint sweetness of vinegar barrels stored nearby.
The storm deepens overhead, a roar of thunder that vibrates through the floor.
Up the first stairwell.
Left at the cracked arch.
Duck past the broken lantern hook.
I mouth Sira’s directions like prayer beads, each word a heartbeat of courage. The walls are slick; my palm slides against the cold stone as I climb. Somewhere above, the main bells overlap with smaller ones—a discordant clang that makes my ears ring.
When I reach the outer door, I hesitate just long enough to listen. Wind howls through the cracks. No voices. No boots. Just the endless surge of rain. I shove the door open.
Rain hits me like a wall—cold needles stabbing into my face, soaking my hair, plastering my cloak to my skin within seconds. The wind snatches my breath away, turning every gasp into a shiver.
Fireworks crackle overhead—the festival, still raging even as the sky unravels. I catch brief colors between flashes of lightning: blue, red, gold. They smear across the air like bruises. The scent of smoke and saltwater collides in my throat.
For a moment, I close my eyes and whisper the bond-break—a ritual I never thought I’d use. A severing of meaning, not mark.
“Let all ties dissolve,” I say softly, my voice trembling with both fear and conviction. “Let the tide wash me clean.”
The vow-ink along my wrists glows faintly, reacting, remembering. Then it fades—quiet, obedient, as if it, too, wants to be free.
Aster hums approval, low and fierce.
“Good. Now run.”
I bolt.
My boots slap through gutter water that’s already ankle-deep. The streets twist and writhe like veins, slick with runoff. I duck between walls that seem to close in tighter with every step. Water streams from the rooftops in silver sheets.
Shouts echo from behind me—guards, or maybe just drunken festival-goers who heard the bells. Lanterns bob through the fog, tiny orbs of gold swallowed by gray. I turn down an alley narrow enough that my shoulders brush both sides.
The ground slopes downward. Aster pulses against my ribs, guiding. I spot the faint shimmer of runoff pooling where the bricks meet the gutter. There—the storm channel Sira mentioned.
I drop down into it without thinking. Cold water surges up to my knees, biting. The stones are slick with moss. I half-slip, half-slide along the tunnel, keeping low. Sharp glass catches my hand. Pain flares bright and hot. I hiss through my teeth but keep moving.
“Breathe,” Aster murmurs. “Pain means you’re still here.”
My pulse steadies a little. I clutch the cord tighter in my bleeding hand. The rain drowns out everything else.
The tunnel opens near the east bridge—my intended escape. The mouth of the channel spits me out onto open stone. The wind howls like it’s angry I survived. Waves crash violently below, spraying salt high into the air. The taste of it coats my lips, sharp and metallic.
Almost.
Almost free.
A low growl cuts through the storm.
It isn’t human.
My blood freezes before I even look up.
A Drift stands at the bridge mouth—crouched low, muscles coiled like a spring. Its skin gleams wet and gray, veins faintly luminous beneath the surface. Eyes like broken emeralds catch the lightning. It’s not city-born. Not leashed. Not under command. A rogue, wild and lost to the tide’s madness.
Every instinct screams.
“Move,” I whisper, backing up slowly. “Just move aside…”
The creature’s nostrils flare. It tilts its head, inhaling the air between us. My scent. My fear. The faint thread of Aster’s resonance leaking through the cracks of my control.
Aster growls, low and warning.
“He smells me.”
The Drift snarls—a sound wet and guttural, half-animal, half-memory of a man. It steps forward, pawing broken lantern glass under its claws. The shards crunch, sparkling for a second before the rain kills their light.
“Aster,” I breathe, my heart pounding so hard it shakes my ribs.
Her answer is fire—pure, sharp, impossible to contain.
“Fight.”
My throat closes around the word that wants to be a scream.
No choice.