POV: Cael
Midnight under the chimes is a different city—quieter, sharper, stretched thin like skin over bone. The bells sleep in their ropes, heavy and dreaming, the wind nudging them like a bored cat that wants trouble but not responsibility. The stones glisten with old rain. The air tastes like iron and mint—the kind of cold that settles behind the teeth.
Jax and I take the shadow by the old spice stall, the one that still smells like cardamom even though the vendor retired three winters ago. Lorre floats near the arch pretending to flirt with a drunk who is not drunk enough to enjoy it. Two more plain-clothes Shields browse imaginary goods at an empty booth, muttering about prices like they’re bored. Bored is good. Bored means predators step closer.
The broker arrives late. Always a bad sign. He’s neat—too neat for someone doing business at midnight. Neutral coat, soft gloves, shoes too clean for these stones. He hums under his breath to keep brave. I already want to break his nose for pretending bravery he didn’t earn.
He pauses right under the chime frame and does the classic idiot move—checks both sides like paranoia ever helps amateurs. It just lights them up like a lantern.
A second man slips from the dark. Moonfell cut. Their coats always look like someone stitched arrogance into the lining. Smooth voice. “Payment,” he says, “then product.”
The broker lifts the pouch. “Half now.”
“Half later,” Moonfell replies, hand half-hidden. “Show me.”
The broker fumbles out a folded paper with a library stamp we don’t use anymore. Perfect. He bought trash. I still taste bile.
Before the words can rot further, Jax moves—silent, deadly. A ghost with a knife. I move too—broad, deliberate. A wall. A stone door slammed shut.
We have them pinned before they finish inhaling for their next lie.
“Easy,” the broker squeaks, going pale. “I’m just a courier.”
“You’re a leak,” Jax says, pushing him into the chime frame hard enough to wake one bell. It rings once—low, soft, mean.
Moonfell tries a smile. Mistake. “My lord,” he says to me. “We were about to return this to the library.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, twisting his wrist just enough to make the point sharp. The paper crinkles. His breath stutters. “Names.”
He gives three. Two useless. One Jax recognizes—his eyebrow twitches. That name goes straight on the quiet board.
“Plan,” I say.
Moonfell shrugs like a man bored at a party. “Noise at the Chime Fair. Smoke. Push. A lift of a girl in a kitchen dress. Quick in, quick out. Regret before anyone chooses to be brave.”
My vision goes red for one blink. I breathe slow so I don’t do something that feels too good. “Who takes her?”
“Not me,” he says, trying for charm. “Someone who doesn’t mind soup.”
Jax looks at me. It’s the look that says: we expected it. It still hurts.
He flips the broker neatly, binds him. Lorre ghosts in, gags moon-coat before he can spit poison.
“What do we do with them?” she asks, tying knots like she’s crocheting doom.
“Break the net,” I say. “Not the water. Take their lists. Strip their routes. Feed them the wrong air until they like us better than red wax.”
We move them to a room that makes men talk. Ropes. Walls. Nothing cruel. Just truth with a locked door.
I send the names to the Regent stamped urgent three times so she knows I’m overreacting on purpose.
I don’t tell Mara any of the details. I tell myself it’s to keep her safe. The truth sits heavy: I can’t say the word snatch to her face without feeling something in my chest tear a little.
But the next day, in the corridor outside Hearthworks, two cooks whisper just loud enough for the gods to hear.
“They’ll try to snatch her,” one says.
Snatch. The word scrapes metal against bone.
Mara turns her head slowly. She doesn’t look at me, even though I’m right there. Her jaw tightens. Her shoulders square. Aster flickers across her skin like invisible heat.
I step forward. “We’re ready,” I say. “It won’t happen.”
She looks at me then—really looks. It feels like being seen by something that doesn’t miss.
“You should have told me,” she says, quiet. “I hate silence.”
“I know.” The words scrape out of me. “I’ll do better.”
“Do it now,” she says. “What’s the plan?”
I tell her the half she needs. I slice out the worst of it—the parts about nets and choke points and how many men would come for her if they thought the world would look away.
She listens with her chin high, her eyes dark, her hands steady. “Fine,” she says. “Then I’ll do my part.”
“What’s your part?” I ask.
She lifts the rolling pin like it’s a promise. “Being very loud if anyone touches my apron.”
Something in my chest clenches and opens at the same time.
God, I love her.
God, I’m terrified.