The streets were patrolled by a squad of night watchers. Despite that, Zephyr moved swiftly through the city, his steps light, his presence barely a whisper in the dark.
He had only been a Seeker for a year. Though his instincts had been sharpened by survival, his body and mind still bore the weight of exhaustion each time he wielded his power.
He knew he wouldn't be able to leave unnoticed. The only path forward was through the one place no one would look for him—the Entertainment District.
The scent of perfume, the glow of lanterns, the murmur of laughter—he slipped into the crowd, blending in with ease. He kept his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable, but beneath the surface, the strain gnawed at him.
Just when he thought he had lost any pursuers, a familiar voice echoes in his ears like a phantom whisper. Calling for him.
He didn't stop or hesitate. Instead he followed the voice, slipping between the crowds with practised ease.
The voice led him deeper into the district, where the air was thick with perfume and whispers. Laughter spilled from lavishly adorned establishments, some doors remained open, silent invitations lingering in the warm glow within.
Zephyr stepped past the onlookers and into a place known by many names—none of them spoken aloud. A house of pleasure, luxury, and secrets.
The doorman barely glanced at him before stepping aside. They knew him. Or rather, they knew who he was here for. He had been a regular since that lady had arrived.
Without hesitation, Zephyr moved through the velvet-draped corridors, where the distant notes of a stringed instrument hummed through the walls. He reached a door—one that was far more than it seemed.
He knocked once.
The door cracked open, just enough for wary eyes to peer through. No words were exchanged.
Zephyr rolled up his sleeve, revealing the inked silhouette of a flying beast on his left forearm.
A pause. Then, the door eased open, silent as a held breath. A familiar figure welcomed him inside. Blonde, perfectly groomed hair draped over a charming, soft-featured face.
Elyssa.
The young maiden who had sung at the tavern just hours ago—yet here, she was different. The warm, lively performer was gone. In her place stood someone far more composed, draped in an effortless allure that was both inviting and untouchable.
She was expecting him. Her gaze held no surprise, only quiet amusement, as if she had known he would come the moment he stepped into the district.
Zephyr hesitated for only a fraction of a second—a flicker of recognition. He had always known she was more than she appeared, but now, in the dim glow of the chamber, it was impossible to ignore.
"Is it the real one?" he asked, doubt threading his voice.
Elyssa tilted her head, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "What do you think?"
Zephyr's gaze flickered over her, searching for something—an inconsistency, a flaw. "I expected this to be your clone. You were supposed to accompany him tonight," he mused, exhaling sharply. "Who would've thought…"
His eyes settled on her fully now, taking in the woman before him—not just a singer, not just a seeker. The mistress of his brother, Dantes.
The door shut behind him with a soft click. The room was dimly lit, the scent of incense curling in the air. Elyssa leaned casually against a lacquered dresser, watching him with a half-lidded gaze, unreadable as ever.
"You always bring trouble with you, Zephyr." She gestured vaguely toward a cushioned chair. "Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."
Zephyr didn't move immediately. He studied her—dressed differently than before, more refined, more deliberate. There was an undeniable shift in her presence, something subtle yet unmistakable.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping further in. "Dantes's job is done." His tone was measured, watching her reaction.
She let out a soft laugh, walking past him, her fingers briefly trailing over the edge of a velvet curtain. "I don't need to be told everything."
Elyssa tilted her head and finally met his gaze directly. "But you already know that, don't you?"
Silence stretched between them. Zephyr considered pressing further, but he knew her too well. She wouldn't say more—not yet.
Instead, he let out a slow breath, stepping toward the chair and lowering himself onto it. "I need to leave this city."
Elyssa smiled again, this time softer, almost amused. "Then you've come to the right place."
She slipped her hands casually through the walls. Zephyr didn't react immediately. He had seen enough of the unnatural to not be surprised, but something in the way the walls shifted made the back of his neck prickle.
The shifted space gave way to reveal a descending staircase—narrow, steep, and swallowed in darkness. A damp, earthen scent drifted up, tinged with something metallic, something old.
Zephyr's fingers grazed the hilt of his dagger as he stepped closer. "You always have an escape route ready."
Elyssa's lips curled in a knowing smile. "Not an escape." Her voice was softer now, almost distant. "A passage."
Zephyr cast her a glance, but she had already started down, her figure vanishing into the dim glow of lanterns flickering below, her fingers trailing lightly along the rough walls.
The underground was a world of its own—chaotic, fractured, yet bound by an unspoken order. Unregistered Seekers, black-market traders, information brokers, and those with nowhere else to turn. The city above called it a myth.
As they descended, the air thickened with the weight of concealed dealings and quiet betrayals. Lanterns flickered in alcoves, revealing glimpses of masked figures, whispered exchanges, and hands slipping coins across tables.
He followed behind. Elyssa was one of the Silent Hands who kept balance in this underworld where no law dared to tread. His safety was guaranteed as long as he walked alongside her in this damn place.
Zephyr glanced at her, unreadable as ever. He might not question it too much—he's used to it. But it also raises the question: Does Elyssa ever act beyond Dantes' knowledge?
She stopped before a stall, its wooden counter scratched with years of unspoken deals. Behind it sat a man draped in a tattered cloak, his face partially hidden beneath a hood. A single ring gleamed on his finger, it's sigil marking him as one of the wayfarers—those who aren't seekers but were specialized in smuggling people in and out of the city. They are often known as the violent bunches among the normal people.
Elyssa placed a small, heavy pouch on the counter. The weight of gold inside was undeniable.
"One passenger. Discreet," she said, her tone smooth, yet firm.
The hooded man ran a gloved hand over the pouch, then tilted his head toward Zephyr. "Paperwork?"
Elyssa only smiled. "Handled."
A pause. The man's fingers lingered on the pouch, but he didn't take it. "Westward path?"
Elyssa nodded.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the counter. "It hasn't been as quiet as it used to be."
"What happened?"
"A runner had been spotted along the west two nights ago."
The streets had been restless since the incident. A runner—an old man who had spent 24 years in imprisonment—had been found stabbed, a night just after his release. Forcing the nightwatchers to double their sweeps across the west and so do the pay for the wayfarers.
Elyssa exhaled softly, not out of irritation but patience wearing thin. She leaned in just slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You've been paid more than enough for risk."
The man didn't move. A slow, calculating silence stretched between them. Zephyr drifted his hand toward his dagger, just resting near the hilt. He didn't grip it, didn't draw. Just enough for the tension to turn between them.
Another pause. The man considered for a moment before nodding. "Departure in a few minutes. Westward path." His fingers closed over the pouch, vanishing it into the folds of his cloak. "No trails. No questions."
Zephyr said nothing. This had been the routine with these guys. This was the way of wayfarers.
Elyssa turned to him, still smiling. "It's done."