The North was nothing like Amy had expected.
She hadn't even made it three streets past the gate before everything went wrong. A heavy hand had grabbed her from behind, shoving her hard onto the stone floor. Before she could even scramble to her feet, a hoard of strangers had formed a wall around her—screaming profanities, pointing fingers, and shouting accusations.
She wanted to explain. She wanted to tell them that she hadn't done anything wrong on purpose—that she was just trying to understand their strange coin—but between the deafening screams and the violent energy of the crowd, she knew nobody cared to listen.
"Please!" she pleaded, pushing herself back against the cobblestones, but the circle only grew tighter.
The shop owners large, greasy hand lung forward and hauled her up by her wrist, hauling her off the ground.
"We should call the Archon's guard!" someone in the back yelled. "Have her tried!"
Tried? What were they talking about? What was happening
"No—don't do that, please, no!" Amy gasped, trying to pull her hand free from the man's iron grip.
The crowd hooted in cruel support. They liked the idea of a trial far more than they cared about the truth. They hadn't listened to a single word she'd said; they were just tossing her around like a piece of trash. Her feet slipped on the stone, and she nearly went down again.
"Stop! Stop!"
A sharp, authoritative voice cut straight through the deafening noise. A tall figure shoved his way aggressively through the outer edge of the mob.
"I said stop!"
The command echoed off the white walls, and the crowd instantly fell silent.
"What are you doing?" the shop owner barked, his face twisting in annoyance.
"What has this girl done?" the stranger asked,
"She tried to dupe me!" the shop owner said "She didn't pay me all my money! She was already wasting my time with useless questions, and then when it's time to pay, she doesn't give me enough!"
The crowd jeered in agreement, hungry for a fight.
"I didn't know," Amy spoke up, her voice small, shaky, and swallowed by the cold air.
"You filthy liar!" The shop owner raised his heavy hand.
"No need for that," the stranger said, stepping between them. He reached into his coat pocket then, he held his hand out. "Is this enough?"
"You're one short!" the shop owner barked. "And I don't want your money anyway! I want justice!"
"Yes!" avoice in the crowd screamed. "She has to be punished as directed by the scriptures!"
Amy's heart hammered against her ribs. It was terrifying how quickly these people wanted to hurt her. They didn't want justice or fairness; they just wanted an excuse to see someone bleed under the guise of their holy laws.
"I will pay you three Korvi," the stranger said plainly, "plus another three if you unhand her and let her go."
The people began to murmur.
"Didn't you hear him?" someone yelled. "He wants justice!" Others shouted in agreement.
The shop owner stared at stranger, his eyes locking onto his hands.
"Fine," He said, "I'll take the money." He thrust his broad palm forward, and the stranger dropped the coins into his hand.
Several townsfolk hissed in disappointment, throwing dirty looks at the man, snd some at Amy as they walked away.
Amy stumbled backward, her back hitting the cold stone wall of a building. She stared up at her savior, her breath coming in rapid hitches.
He was unlike anyone she had ever seen. He had long, dark hair that flowed smoothly over his shoulders with every precise movement he made. He wore a high-collared black coat—a shade so deep it seemed to absorb the light around it, like the sky on a moonless night.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice smooth and clear, echoing strangely in her ears.
"Yes," she managed to nod.
He offered a clean, pale hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her up. She quickly brushed the dirt and grit from her skirt. Now that she was standing close to him, she could see the tiny details she had missed from the ground: a faint, neat stubble along his jawline, and eyes as sharp and ash-gray as the smoke from a dying flame.
"Thank you," she said softly, suddenly realizing she had been staring at his face.
"No need," he replied, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
"I don't know what it is you did to those men, but no one should be judged by common men. Only Korvus can do that."
Amy simply nodded
He studied her face, his gray eyes scanning her features "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Is it that obvious?" she asked, self-consciously pulling her cloak around her shoulders.
A tiny, stiff smile appeared on his face—so small it was barely there. "No. I just have good eyes, is all."
An awkward silence stretched between them. He made no move to conversation, and Amy knew it was her cue to go. She bowed her head politely and turned down the nearest alleyway.
The moment she turned the corner out of his sight, her knees buckled.
She slammed her palms against the stone wall, gasping for air as her stomach churned. The world spun around her. She gagged, clutching her chest as the terrifying reality of what had just happened settled into her bones. These northern people were vicious. They had been ready to kill her—to execute her in the street—over a misunderstanding about a single coin.
Not one person in that mob had looked at her with an ounce of pity.
If that dark-haired man hadn't stepped in, she would be dead right now. And she hadn't even thought to ask his name. He had spent his own coin to buy her life, and she had just walked away without knowing who he was.
She forced herself to stand upright, wiping her cold sweat on her sleeve. Panic set in. What was she supposed to do now? She had essentially run away from Cassian, leaving him behind while she wandered blindly into a city of monsters. He was probably back at the camp right now, or maybe he had already left her behind. He had made it abundantly clear back at Solmere: her choices were her own. For the first time in her life, she had complete freedom to make her own decisions—and she was utterly, terrifyingly lost.
I have to go back.
She yanked the strap of her bag over her shoulder and began marching back toward the southern gates. She had no choice. She couldn't survive here alone without money or protection. Her only hope was that Cassian hadn't abandoned her yet.
It didn't take long to reach the forest path outside the city walls. She searched the trees, but the trail was empty. Panic flared hot in her throat. Did he leave? What would she do if he was gone? She'd be trapped on the border with no coin and no idea where to go.
It didn't take long to reach the forest path outside the city walls. She searched the tree line, but the trail was completely empty. Panic flared hot in her throat. Did he leave? What would she do if he was gone? She'd be trapped on the border with no coin and no idea where to go.
Then, from deep within the thick canopy, a sharp, rhythmic sound echoed through the woods—a stone striking wood, pounding over and over.
She picked her way toward the noise, her boots stepping quietly over the damp earth. Pushing through a cluster of dense brush, she spotted a familiar silhouette.
Cassian.
He was crouched beside a small clearing, working to pitch a canvas tent between two pine trunks. A wave of intense relief washed over her, and her lips curled upward in a faint, involuntary smile. She opened her mouth to call out his name, but stopped herself. Memory flooded back—the way he had spied on her at her window, the cold, calculating way he spoke about her life. She took a tentative step backward. Did she really want to tie herself to him?
CRACK.
Her boot came down directly on a dry pine branch.
Cassian's head snapped around instantly, his right hand dropping to the pommel of his sword in a blur of movement. His dark eyes locked onto hers, holding her gaze for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, seeing it was only her, he slowly let go of his hilt, turned his back to her, and returned to his work on the canvas.
Amy stood there awkward, unsure of how to bridge the gap. With the Fitzgeralds, conflict was simple: Mrs. Fitz would scream at the top of her lungs, and Amy would shrink inward and apologize. But this quiet indifference was far worse.
She picked her way over the exposed roots, sat down on a fallen log a few paces behind his back, and remained silent.
He didn't acknowledge her for several minutes, the rhythmic thump of his stone on wood filling the silence.
"Hand me that rock," he finally said, his voice flat.
"What?"
"The rock beside your foot."
She reached down, picked up the smooth, heavy stone, and handed it to him. He took it without meeting her eyes and used it to drive the final wooden peg deep into the earth. Once the corner line was taut, he tossed the stone aside and turned around to face her.
Cassian raised his left hand, turning his palm inward so she could see the back of it. Stamped into his skin was a faint, glowing mark—an inverted diamond shape almost identical to the burn on her own skin, except his had intricate, chain-like linework wrapped around the edges.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
Amy stared at his hand, then looked down at her own skin, shaking her head.
"It's a mark," Cassian said, his voice quiet and serious. "It's power. And if you're going to survive out here, you need to learn how to use it."