“Hey, Prim?

  Do you remember the first time we met?

  Back then… I never believed in things like fate.”

  Light crashes into my vision, sharp and white, tearing me out of a dream that vanishes the instant I reach for it.

  The carriage jolts hard as a wheel strikes uneven stone. I sit upright with a startled inhale, spine stiff, ears flicking in reflex. For a brief, mortifying second, I wonder who noticed—but the other passengers are as exhausted as I am, slumped and swaying with the motion. No one looks my way as I discreetly wipe the corner of my mouth, cheeks warming despite myself.

  Outside, the walls of Vellaris rise into view.

  Majestic doesn’t quite cover it.

  I’ve seen the paintings. Heard the stories. Listened to travelers embellish every detail until the city became a myth. But seeing it up close—staring up at stone that seems to swallow the sky itself—is something else entirely. The scale of it settles in my chest, heavy and thrilling all at once.

  We won’t reach the city proper for a while yet. The line of carriages creeps forward in an unbroken chain, metal and wood groaning beneath the weight of people arriving to begin something—or escape something else.

  I let my eyes drift shut again.

  Only for a moment.

  When I open them, my attention snags on the luggage rack.

  There it is.

  My case stands out immediately—faded red leather, worn soft at the edges, stuffed far beyond what it was ever meant to hold. Belts cinched tight, buckles straining, as if stubbornness alone might keep it from spilling open.

  Everything I own is in there.

  Everything I used to be.

  My hand drops to the pack in my lap. I pat it once, letting the weight remind me where I am—who I am, now.

  There’s nothing waiting for me anymore.

  And instead of panic—

  My heart races.

  Fear, sharp and real, coils through me—but threaded through it is excitement so bright it almost hurts. My thoughts surge forward, chasing possibilities faster than I can catch them. For a breathless instant, it feels like I’m keeping pace with myself.

  Then something slips.

  Not a thought—more like a feeling settling into place before I can name it.

  The knock against the carriage wall is sharp enough to snap everything back into place.

  “Papers! Ready your papers!”

  Customs is exhausting. Forms pass back and forth, paper rasping under tired fingers. Ink stamps thud down in dull rhythm as questions are asked with polite suspicion. Glances that weigh and measure. I’ve crossed borders before, but never like this—never where my entire future seemed to hinge on a single nod.

  When I finally pass through the gates, shoulders aching from tension I hadn’t realized I was holding, the space beyond feels impossibly wide.

  I step into Vellaris with my luggage in hand, pack over my shoulder—

  —and nothing left behind me.

  “This time,” I whisper, barely louder than breath. “This time I won’t mess it up.”

  I walk as I say it, repeating the words until they feel solid enough to lean on.

  “I’ll be better. Careful. The version of myself people deserve to see.”

  And maybe—just maybe—

  “I’ll stop searching.”

  The streets blur around me, bodies and sound pressing in from all sides. I clutch the address slip, squinting at street signs half-hidden behind crowds, tail flicking in irritation.

  “The tower…” I murmur.

  When I finally find it, I stop short.

  It is a tower—technically—but compared to the surrounding buildings, it’s plain. Clean stone. Narrow windows. No banners, no ornamentation. Almost deliberately unremarkable.

  A single sign swings gently by the door.

  The Valiants.

  That’s all.

  I hesitate only a moment before pushing the unlocked door open.

  Warmth greets me instantly.

  The interior feels lived-in—wood polished by years of use, soft lighting, decorations chosen for comfort rather than display. It smells faintly of paper, oil, and something warm I can’t quite place. A small front desk sits near the entrance, a brass bell resting neatly atop it.

  I ring it once.

  Nothing.

  Seconds stretch. I ring it again, more firmly this time, excitement beginning to fray at the edges.

  “…Wha— is Tessa out?”

  The voice comes from deeper inside. Footsteps follow.

  A man steps into view, a book still open in one hand.

  And my careful composure wavers.

  He’s—

  Oh.

  Broad-shouldered without being bulky, posture relaxed in a way that suggests long familiarity with shared spaces. His hands are worn, calloused, but the way he holds the book is gentle—respectful. His shirt hangs open at the collar, as if fastening it fully never seemed worth the effort.

  When his gaze lands on me, his feline ears twitch faintly.

  My thoughts immediately derail.

  Gods, focus—

  I straighten, forcing my breathing even. This is exactly how I get into trouble.

  I smile—measured, practiced.

  “Hello there,” I say brightly. “I’m a new recruit. Just arrived in Vellaris. You should be expecting me.”

  He looks me over, brow creasing slightly, then crosses the room. He marks his page, sets the book aside with care.

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  “Can’t say I knew Lucius were recruitin’ again,” he says easily. “Been a while since we had new blood.”

  He grins, toothy. “Veil,” he adds, extending a hand. “Welcome.”

  “Imone,” I reply, shaking it.

  His grip is firm, confident, but careful—someone used to strength without needing to display it.

  “I was recommended,” I continue. “Needed a change. Uprooted everything and came here. I was told I’d fit in.”

  I hope I do.

  And if I don’t… well. Everything I own already fits in one case.

  Veil lets out a low whistle. “That’s a leap, that is. Pickin’ up and leavin’ everythin’ behind.” He leans back against the desk, casual, weight settling onto one hip. “Either you’re runnin’ from summat nasty, or you’re aimin’ high—”

  “Veil!”

  The sharp call cuts him off.

  We both turn.

  And my heart stumbles.

  She’s small, neat, and impossibly put together—a Caprelli woman with brown horns spiraling elegantly through glossy black hair. Ribbons are woven through it with careful intent, too many to be practical, arranged with loving precision. Her clothes are immaculate, every fold considered.

  She crosses the room and hooks herself around Veil’s arm with a familiarity that leaves no room for doubt.

  Her eyes flick to my ears. Then my tail.

  “…Who is she?” she asks, polite but cautious.

  A pause. Her head tilts, reassessing.

  “…Family?”

  Heat floods my ears.

  Veil snorts softly. “You can’t go askin’ that about every Vesfel we meet, Ci.”

  The way his tone softens—the way her grip tightens just a fraction before easing—

  I see it.

  The shared glance. The ease. The quiet alignment.

  “Imone,” I say, extending my hand, smile warm and ready. “New recruit.”

  This is good. This is safe.

  She releases Veil’s arm to take my hand properly. Her grip is gentle, posture straightening instinctively.

  “Cinnatoria Solenne,” she says, inclining her head. “But please—call me Cinna. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  She smooths one ribbon, then another, before continuing.

  “We don’t often receive new recruits,” she says, voice clear and carefully enunciated. “Veil and I are on Ulric’s squad, so there’s a fair chance we’ll work together. I’m the team healer—please don’t hesitate to seek me out if you need assistance.”

  Her smile is earnest. Practiced.

  Something in my chest softens dangerously.

  I have to stop myself from doing something deeply inappropriate—like patting her head.

  “She’s a rec, Ci,” Veil adds. “Lucius’ll want to see her first. Likes to place ’em hisself.”

  Cinna’s brows lift slightly as she studies me again, curiosity sharpening into something more deliberate.

  “Haha… I was just lucky to—”

  The front door slams open.

  The sound cracks through the lobby like a challenge thrown onto stone.

  A Vesfel woman stands framed in the doorway, posture loose and unapologetic. Her purple hair is cropped short, sharp lines accentuating a face balanced between boyish boldness and undeniable femininity. Black leather armor clings to her frame, torn and gouged, darkened with old blood—

  —and worn like a trophy.

  Her expression is all triumph.

  She strides in without hesitation, eyes locking onto Veil immediately. A small group follows, moving with the easy cohesion of people who trust one another completely. One woman stays close at her side—another Vesfel, blonde, gentler in presence, hands already half-raised as if prepared to tend wounds that no longer bleed.

  “Where’s my party?” the purple-haired woman asks, bright with amusement. “I was expectin’ a reception.”

  She stops in front of Veil, sparing the rest of us only the briefest glance.

  Veil blinks—then his face lights up.

  “Party?” he echoes, laughing. “Hells—Cove, don’t tell me my intel were right.”

  She grins wider. “See for yourself.”

  The burlap sack hits his chest with a dull, wet thump.

  Dark stains mar the fabric—rusted reds, deep browns.

  That’s… that’s a head, isn’t it?

  My breath catches painfully.

  Veil doesn’t flinch. He loosens the sack just enough to peer inside.

  “—Hells above,” he mutters. “Cove, what’d you do to the poor sod, tenderize ’im with a wagon?”

  He snaps it shut and barks out a laugh, disgust already giving way to exhilaration.

  “Still,” he adds, eyes bright, “that’s the right bastard. No mistakin’ it. Three moons we’ve been chasin’ that lead.”

  She doesn’t answer. Just reaches out and pokes a finger against his chest.

  “Get that to boss, aye? Pretty boy,” she says lightly. “That way you get your share o’ the credit.”

  Her gaze lingers—knowing, playful—before she turns and heads deeper into the tower, boots heavy on the stairs.

  “Saria,” the blonde murmurs softly as she follows, voice gentle but firm. “That was rude. We had a guest…”

  “I’ll see you at the party later!” Saria calls back, already halfway up, waving without looking.

  Then they’re gone.

  The lobby feels quieter for it.

  I glance at Cinna. She doesn’t say anything, but the faint tension in her shoulders—and the way her hands clasp together—speaks volumes.

  Veil, meanwhile, looks ecstatic, carefully holding the sack at arm’s length.

  “Three moons,” he says again, shaking his head. “Knew she’d pull it off. Told Ulric not to give up on that trail.”

  “Well,” he adds brightly, “looks like we’re havin’ a proper party tonight!”

  Warmth creeps up my cheeks before I can stop it.

  Veil pulls a small device from his pocket and snaps it open. It resembles a cigar case, its interior lined with softly glowing crystals. He flicks a switch and raises it toward his mouth.

  “Hey Lu—”

  He clears his throat. “Ahem. Boss. This is Veil. Saria bagged our bounty. We got the bastard.”

  He tries—really tries—to sound formal.

  It doesn’t last.

  “Aye. Aye, I know.” His grin widens. “Worth the mess, though.”

  A pause.

  “Oh—also got a rec at reception. Name’s Imone.” He glances my way. “—Aye. Right.”

  He snaps the case shut.

  “I’m gonna go find Ulric,” he says, already moving for the exit. “See you later, aye? Bar’s in the basement—stairs are right down there.”

  As he gestures, Cinna steps closer to him without thinking, falling naturally into his space.

  “If Lucius is coming,” she adds politely, turning back to me, “he’ll be able to show you to your room and introduce you properly. He should be with you shortly.”

  There’s a flicker of guilt in her eyes—for leaving me alone.

  I wave it off with a small laugh. “First day here and I’m already being thrown into a party? You’re spoiling me.”

  Their smiles linger as they leave.

  When the door closes behind them, the exhaustion finally catches up with me. I slump against the counter, shoulders sagging.

  Footsteps echo from above.

  A man descends the stairs at an unhurried pace.

  Altari. Tall. Pointed ears jut from long, smooth brown hair. His beard is slightly unkempt, as though grooming simply isn’t a priority. He wears richly embroidered robes paired with loose trousers, wealth worn like an afterthought.

  I catalog it automatically.

  “Imone?” he asks.

  My ears snap upright.

  “Ah—yes,” I reply, straightening.

  Cold realization settles in.

  Oh.

  “Lucius Fein,” he says. “Commander.”

  He tilts his head, studying me—not dismissively, but with precise interest.

  “Heard good things,” he says mildly. “Enough to make me curious. Mind walking while we talk?”

  No handshake. No ceremony.

  Just motion.

  I follow.

  We climb past rooms that speak of purpose—strategy, healing, learning. By the fifth floor, the space shifts. Hallways. Doors. Privacy.

  “I won’t question your recommendation,” Lucius says casually, glancing back. “But one thing caught my attention. An academic.”

  I tense.

  “Not common in this line of work.”

  “Haha—yes, sir!” The words spill out, practiced and bright. “I started as an academic, but I realized that reinterpreting others’ work wasn’t what I wanted. I want to make a difference with my own hands. To uncover things no one has before and share them—”

  He waves a hand, cutting me off.

  “Ambition tempered with patience,” he says. “Dangerous, if mishandled. Useful, if not.”

  We reach the seventh floor.

  He stops at a door.

  “I just expect honesty,” he adds, voice sharpening. “I don’t dislike surprises. I dislike being unprepared for them.”

  He unlocks the door marked 707, swings it open, and leaves the keys in the frame.

  The room is simple. Bed. Dresser. Nightstand.

  The window steals my breath—Vellaris sprawls beneath it, the tower looming above the city.

  “No surprises,” I say quickly. “I won’t blindside you.”

  “Good.” A nod. “We assign squads after tonight. People work better once they’ve shared a drink.”

  Then he’s gone.

  I stand there, heart pounding.

  “This is good,” I whisper again.

  “This will work.”