The sun had barely crested the eastern ridge when Brinna rapped sharply at the door, her cane thudding twice against the wood.

  “Well? Are you two planning to stay locked up forever, or will you get moving?” she called, voice brisk but lighter than it had been for days.

  Inside, Ilyari and Tazien exchanged a glance—nervous, but relieved.

  “Is that… a good sign?” Tazien whispered.

  “Sounds like it,” Ilyari said, crossing to unlatch the door.

  Brinna stepped inside, eyes scanning them both carefully, then gave a curt nod. “The streets have settled. The guards haven’t spotted any new… lurkers. You can head to Vaylen’s. But stay sharp.”

  “We will,” Ilyari promised, gathering her satchel. “Thank you, Brinna.”

  Brinna grumbled something about “reckless apprentices” but waved them out the door all the same.

  ???????

  Vaylen’s shop was a welcome sight—a patch of familiarity in a city that had been anything but safe.

  “Well, well,” Vaylen greeted, setting down a length of satin. “Decided to grace me with your presence again?”

  Ilyari smiled faintly. “Brinna finally let us out of the house.”

  “She’s got good sense,” Vaylen muttered, but his eyes twinkled. “And as luck would have it, your outfits are finished. Come on—let’s see how you look.”

  He led them to the back, where two carefully wrapped bundles waited on the fitting stands.

  They changed quickly behind the curtain, and when they stepped out, Vaylen let out a low whistle.

  “Not bad,” he said, circling them like a hawk inspecting prey. “Not bad at all.”

  Ilyari caught her reflection in the long mirror and felt her breath catch, her fingers brushing the rich fabric at her waist. She didn’t dare look too long—better to save the full effect for the ceremony—but even Tazien’s normally unimpressed face had softened into something close to wonder.

  “This’ll do,” Vaylen said gruffly, though there was a note of pride beneath the words. “You’ll knock them flat.”

  Tazien grinned. “Thank you, Master Vaylen. These are… incredible.”

  Vaylen waved them off, pretending indifference. “Go on, get changed before you ruin them.”

  They were back in their work clothes within minutes, and Tazien was already hurrying to his project—a sleek gown half-finished, pinned across the dress form.

  “This one’s important,” Tazien said, eyes gleaming with focus. “It’s for Lady Grellin—she’s high up, and she’ll be at the Ceremony.”

  “Then get to it,” Vaylen barked. “We need perfection.”

  The room filled with quiet concentration as they worked, the hum of needles and the soft swish of fabric soothing in its rhythm—until Tazien suddenly groaned.

  “Out of thread,” he muttered, holding up the empty spool like it was an insult.

  Vaylen cursed under his breath, rifling through the supply crates. “I could’ve sworn we had more… where in the blazes…?”

  Ilyari’s stomach growled softly, and Tazien grinned. “We haven’t even eaten yet today.”

  Vaylen paused, tapping his shears against the table, eyes narrowing in thought. Finally, with a grumble, he grabbed his coin purse—a heavy, worn leather pouch with his trade seal pressed into the waxy silk patch at the bottom—and tucked a folded slip of parchment deep inside.

  He handed it to Ilyari. “Take this to Orlen’s. You know the one—down by the east market. Ask for the fine spool, top shelf. Give him no lip. And—” his voice hardened, “—make sure he sees the seal at the bottom of the purse if there’s any fuss.”

  Ilyari and Tazien exchanged a wary glance. “Orlen?” Tazien said. “He hates us.”

  “Hates everyone who isn’t lining his pockets with gold,” Vaylen grunted. “Ignore him. Keep your heads high. Be quick.”

  Tazien grabbed his cloak and nodded. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Vaylen’s eyes gleamed sharp. “See that you are. And bring a meat pie back for me if you value your kneecaps.”

  They laughed, stepping out into the bustling afternoon.

  Ilyari and Tazien made their way through the midday crush of the market, weaving past carts loaded with vegetables and clusters of street performers vying for attention. The air was thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts, spiced meats, and freshly baked bread, but neither of them paused.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Tazien muttered, clutching Vaylen’s sealed purse tight.

  Ilyari nodded, her eyes scanning ahead. “There it is.”

  Orlen’s shop was wedged between a cobbler and a goldsmith—sleek and polished, with silk banners fluttering lazily outside the door. The windows gleamed, showcasing rich bolts of imported fabric, delicate lace, and shimmering threads. A sign above the door read in sweeping gold letters: Orlen’s Fine Textiles—Merchants to the Crown.

  They stepped inside, the bell chiming sharp and cold.

  The shop was immaculate: rows of silk and velvet, the scent of lavender sachets hanging heavy in the air. Behind the polished counter stood Orlen himself—tall, thin, with slicked-back hair and sharp eyes that glinted like polished glass. His lips curled the moment he saw them.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, leaning forward lazily. “If it isn’t Vaylen’s little gutter mice. Come to play dress-up?”

  Tazien’s jaw clenched, but Ilyari stepped forward smoothly, her voice polite but firm. “We’re here to collect thread for Master Vaylen. He sent his sealed purse and a note.” She held it out carefully.

  Orlen took it with a sniff of disdain, flipping the pouch in his hand as though it were diseased. He opened it, eyes flicking over the order. For a moment, something sharp flashed behind his gaze—but then his smile returned, all thin and nasty.

  “Fine,” he said, sliding the purse across the counter and stepping away with a bored wave. “Wait there. Don’t touch anything.”

  He disappeared into the back, leaving Ilyari and Tazien standing stiffly in the too-quiet shop. The minutes dragged.

  “Bet he’s doing this on purpose,” Tazien muttered under his breath.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ilyari whispered back. “We’re staying polite.”

  Orlen returned at last, carrying a slim spool of fine thread wrapped in tissue. He set it down with exaggerated care, eyes gleaming.

  “There,” he said smoothly. “Now, let’s see… payment.”

  Ilyari pointed calmly. “The purse—right there.”

  Orlen’s brow arched. “Purse? What purse?”

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  He gestured to the empty counter behind him. The pouch was gone.

  Tazien’s eyes narrowed. “You just had it. We saw you put it down.”

  Orlen’s smile sharpened, cold and cutting. “Oh? Did you? Well, I don’t see it now. Which means, of course… you must have stolen it.”

  Ilyari’s breath caught. “We—what? We didn’t—”

  The door slammed open behind them, and two guards strode in, their armor clinking ominously.

  “Problem here, Master Orlen?” one of them barked.

  Orlen folded his arms smoothly. “Indeed. These two thieves just tried to steal from my shop. Caught them red-handed.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Hand it over.”

  “We don’t have it!” Ilyari protested, heart hammering as she searched frantically through her cloak. “He—he took it behind the counter—check there!”

  The guard gave a scowl, barely glancing at the counter before grabbing Tazien’s arm roughly. “Enough. You’re both coming with us.”

  “Wait—please—look at the seal!” Ilyari begged, pointing desperately to the thread spool and the remaining scrap of the parchment that had fallen from Orlen’s hand. “Vaylen’s seal is right there—”

  But the guard was already hauling Tazien toward the door. The other grabbed Ilyari’s wrist in a hard grip.

  “Save it for your hearing,” he snapped.

  Orlen leaned back against the counter, eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction as the guards dragged them out into the street.

  And as the door shut behind them, he calmly turned to a wealthy customer browsing the silks and—with an easy, practiced hand—set Vaylen’s purse onto the shelf behind him, hidden among a row of gilt boxes.

  The trap was sprung.

  The guards dragged Ilyari and Tazien down the narrow, uneven streets, their grips iron-tight on their arms. People turned to stare as they passed, whispers and mutters rippling through the crowd like poison.

  “This is a mistake!” Tazien snapped, stumbling to keep up. “We didn’t steal anything—ask Master Vaylen! He sent us!”

  Ilyari’s voice was tight with panic. “Please—you have to check the shop! The purse is there, I swear it!”

  One of the guards snorted. “Heard it all before.”

  “But we need to be at the Academy in three days!” Ilyari blurted, her voice cracking. “The Acceptance Ceremony—we’re due to report—”

  “Yeah?” the second guard barked, tightening his grip. “Should’ve thought of that before you tried thieving. Magistrate’s out of town ‘til the week’s end, anyway. You’ll wait your turn like everyone else.”

  Ilyari’s heart plunged. “No—please—you don’t understand, if we miss it, we lose everything—”

  “Quiet,” the guard snapped. “You’ll get your say in front of the magistrate. Until then, you’re ours.”

  Tazien twisted around, eyes wild, searching the street for any familiar face—any chance of escape—but the crowds blurred together, indifferent and shifting like a tide that wouldn’t turn.

  The iron gates of the guardhouse loomed ahead, black and unyielding.

  Tazien’s shoulders sagged. Ilyari’s eyes filled with quiet dread.

  And the doors slammed shut behind them.

  ?????????

  Vaylen scowled as he stood by the cutting table, brushing off a length of fabric with impatient snaps of his fingers. The sun was dipping low, casting orange streaks across the windows.

  “No good little rats,” he muttered. “Off on a ten-minute errand, gone for hours. If they ran off with my coin—”

  His stomach growled loudly, interrupting the thought.

  “Bah.” He ripped off his apron, tossing it aside. “Figures. Hungry and robbed.”

  He locked the shop door behind him and made his way down the busy street, his eyes sharp, his pace brisk. At a corner stall, the scent of roasting meat snagged his attention, and his resolve wavered just enough.

  “One,” he barked, flipping a coin onto the counter.

  The vendor handed him a fat skewer of spiced meat, and Vaylen grabbed a warm roll from the next table, biting into both hungrily as he stalked toward Orlen’s shop.

  The textile merchant’s stall was quiet—too quiet for this time of evening. Vaylen narrowed his eyes, chewing slowly as he stepped inside.

  There was Orlen, leaning over the counter, greedily counting a thick stack of silver and copper coins. His eyes flicked up when he heard Vaylen enter, and just for a split second—too fast for most to catch—his hand darted to a shelf behind him, shoving the coins onto it and slamming a heavy ledger down on top.

  “Master Vaylen,” Orlen said smoothly, flashing a thin smile. “A pleasure. Can I interest you in some new imports? Finest weave in the district.”

  Vaylen’s eyes sharpened, chewing once more before swallowing hard. He flicked his gaze deliberately to the shelf—then back to Orlen.

  “No. I’m here for my apprentices. The boy and girl I sent hours ago. Where are they?”

  Orlen’s smile widened, oily and slow. “Ah… those two. A shame, really. I thought you trained them better. Tried to pass off some shabby story about a lost purse. Caught them red-handed.”

  Vaylen’s brows shot up, anger flashing bright. “What?”

  “Guards came quickly,” Orlen said, examining his nails. “Took them away, nice and clean.”

  Vaylen’s voice dropped, dangerous and dark. “You’re lying.”

  Orlen’s smile didn’t falter. “Am I? Perhaps you should visit the guardhouse, Master Vaylen. I’m sure your… apprentices will have plenty to say.”

  Vaylen’s jaw worked, teeth grinding, eyes still flicking to the shelf where the ledger sat, just a little too square, a little too hurried.

  He grunted sharply. “I just might.”

  And with a cold, cutting glare, he turned and strode out of the shop—his blood already beginning to boil.

  Vaylen stormed up the steps of the guardhouse, his boots echoing sharp against the stone. His eyes raked across the dim, grimy space as he pushed open the heavy door, the scent of sweat and sour ale thick in the air.

  “State your business,” a bored-looking guard grunted from behind the front desk, not even bothering to look up from his half-finished ledger.

  “I’m here for my apprentices,” Vaylen snapped, stepping up to the counter. “Ilyari Aierenbane and Tazien Aierenbane. They were arrested today—falsely.”

  The guard sighed, finally lifting his head, eyes dull. “If they were arrested, then they’re in holding. Can’t see ‘em. Come back when the magistrate’s in town.”

  Vaylen’s jaw clenched, but he leaned in, voice low and dangerous. “As their employer, I have the right to check on their wellbeing. I want eyes on them. Now.”

  The guard’s gaze sharpened, irritation flickering into something closer to wariness. He sucked his teeth, clearly unimpressed—but his eyes dropped instinctively to the signet ring on Vaylen’s finger. A lesser noble, maybe—but still a noble.

  “Tch.” The guard stood reluctantly, grabbing a key from the rack. “Two minutes. That’s all you get.”

  Vaylen said nothing, his face carved in stone as he followed down the narrow hall, the clank of keys and creak of rusted hinges filling the space.

  The cell came into view—and Vaylen’s stomach twisted.

  There, crumpled near the front of the cell, were Ilyari and Tazien—both battered and bruised. Tazien’s lip was split, his cheek swelling with an ugly purple mark, and he was curled slightly around Ilyari, shielding her as best he could. A few rough-looking adult prisoners loitered nearby, glaring down at them, clearly having enjoyed themselves.

  “Stars above,” Vaylen muttered, his fists balling.

  “Master Vaylen!” Ilyari gasped when she saw him, tears spilling freely as she scrambled up to the bars. “Please—they said we stole—we didn’t—”

  Tazien staggered up behind her, his breath ragged, one eye already starting to blacken. “It was Orlen,” he choked out. “We paid him—he kept the purse—he—he framed us—”

  “That’s time,” the guard barked, already reaching for the door.

  Vaylen’s eyes didn’t move from the kids, but his voice came out like a knife’s edge. “You’re not getting rid of me that fast.”

  He turned sharply. “I want to file a report. Theft. Against Orlen of the North Market district.”

  The guard scoffed. “We already caught the thieves,” he said lazily, jerking his thumb toward the cell. “You’re looking at ‘em.”

  Vaylen’s eyes blazed. “You’ll take my report. The merchant is the thief. He kept my purse—my funds—and accused my apprentices to cover his theft.”

  That made the guard shift uncomfortably. He glanced at his partner, exchanging a look that wasn’t quite as confident now.

  “Guild merchant,” the first guard muttered. “You can’t just toss around accusations like that. Not without a guild permit for formal complaint.”

  Vaylen’s voice dropped, every word like a blow to the ribs. “So you’re telling me this could take days.”

  “More like a week,” the guard said smugly, regaining some of his swagger. “You want to accuse a guild man? Gotta go through the proper channels. My hands are tied.”

  Vaylen stepped in close, his eyes like sharpened steel. “Let me make something clear. If anything happens to those two children—if they so much as lose a hair on their heads while in your custody—I’ll personally write to the Emperor. And I’ll make damn sure it says his guards allowed adults to improperly touch and harm minors under their watch.”

  The guard’s jaw tightened, color rising in his face—but his eyes flicked nervously to his partner.

  Vaylen turned on his heel, cold and furious, stalking back down the hallway without another word.

  The two guards stood in tense silence for a moment. Finally, the younger one muttered, “We, uh… we should move them.”

  The older one grunted but nodded, grabbing the keys with a scowl. “Fine. Get ‘em out of there. Put ‘em in the small cell up front. Away from the others.”

  Moments later, Ilyari and Tazien were hustled—gently this time—into a private holding cell, the door clanking shut behind them.

  Ilyari sat down hard on the narrow bench, her breath shuddering out in a sob, while Tazien leaned back against the wall, one arm slung protectively around her shoulders.

  “We’ll be okay,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but fierce. “Vaylen’s not letting this go.”

  Ilyari nodded, wiping her face roughly, her eyes burning with quiet determination now.

  “Three days,” she whispered. “We have to get out before then.”

  Tazien’s grip tightened. “We will.”

  And outside, in the growing darkness, Vaylen strode into the night—his mind already calculating the next move.