Seventeen's thoughts continued to grow worse as the cold slowly worked its way through his body. He sat hunched over the table, his hands tucked beneath his cloak in a useless attempt to preserve what little warmth remained. The voices surrounding him had begun to blur together again, becoming a distant, meaningless noise that he could barely distinguish from the thoughts circling inside his head.
The longer he sat there, the colder he seemed to become. Even the warmth coming from the nearby food stalls did little to help, and the smell of cooked meat and boiling broth only reminded him of how empty his stomach felt. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything substantial, although he could hardly remember the last time he'd felt properly full.
His gaze remained fixed on the scratched wooden surface before him.
Then something shifted to his left.
At first, it was little more than a faint scraping sound, almost completely drowned out by the surrounding chatter. Seventeen paid it no attention until the noise came again, followed by the uneven creaking of a chair.
He turned his head slightly.
Rheo was swaying.
The movement was barely noticeable at first, his upper body shifting gently from one side to the other as though he were struggling to remain awake. His head hung low beneath his hood, and each breath seemed to require more effort than the last. He attempted to straighten himself, but the movement only caused him to lean in the opposite direction.
Morgan immediately reached for his shoulder.
"Rheo?"
She steadied him with one hand, preventing him from tipping any farther.
"Hey. Stay with me."
Rheo gave a faint groan.
"I'm awake."
"You don't look awake."
"Just... tired."
"I know."
Morgan adjusted her grip, allowing him to lean slightly against her while she watched his breathing. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly, and every few breaths, he seemed to hesitate before drawing in another.
Seventeen watched them.
For some reason, the sound of Rheo struggling to breathe seemed louder than everything else in the chamber. The merchants, the footsteps, the endless conversations surrounding them all faded into the background as he watched Morgan carefully hold her younger brother upright.
His gaze drifted toward the nearby food stalls.
People sat hunched over steaming bowls, lifting them toward their mouths while others stood beside the counters waiting for their meals. The smell of boiling broth lingered in the air, occasionally growing stronger whenever someone passed their table carrying something warm.
Seventeen looked back at Rheo.
The boy's head had begun dipping forward again.
For a moment, Seventeen considered saying something, although he wasn't entirely sure what there was to say. Rheo was exhausted, and Morgan already knew that. Asking whether he was all right wouldn't change anything.
His eyes returned to the stalls.
Then he spoke.
"How much is a bowl of soup?"
Morgan glanced toward him.
"What?"
"The soup." Seventeen nodded toward the nearby stalls. "How much?"
Morgan looked confused for a moment.
"Why?"
"I'll get some for Rheo. How much is it?"
She looked toward the stalls before answering.
"Usually around three coppers. Depends on who's selling it."
Seventeen extended one hand across the table, palm facing upward.
Morgan stared at it.
"What?"
"The money."
She glanced between his outstretched hand and the nearby stalls.
"You're going to get it?"
Seventeen nodded.
Morgan hesitated before reaching beneath her cloak. She searched through a small pouch at her waist, her fingers moving carefully as she counted the remaining coins.
A moment later, she began dropping them into his palm.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Five small copper coins rested in his hand.
"That's all I have on me right now," she whispered. "Myers has the rest. It should be enough for a bowl, though."
Seventeen closed his fingers around the coins.
He pushed himself upright, feeling the familiar ache spread through his legs as his weight shifted onto them. Before leaving, he reached down and pulled his chair closer to the table, turning it sideways and sliding it beneath the edge directly in front of Rheo.
Morgan watched him.
"What are you doing?"
"Keeping the seat."
He pushed it a little farther beneath the table, making it difficult for anyone passing by to pull it away without disturbing Rheo.
Then he turned and walked toward the stalls.
The moment he stepped away from the table, the surrounding crowd seemed to swallow him.
People moved in every direction, their cloaks brushing against one another as they squeezed between the tables and narrow spaces left for walking. Most were considerably taller than Seventeen, and even those who appeared shorter than the others still stood well above him. Their shoulders and backs blocked much of his view, leaving him to navigate through small openings that appeared and disappeared whenever someone shifted.
He slipped between two figures arguing over a bowl of food, then turned sideways to avoid colliding with a man carrying a stack of wooden plates. Someone stepped backward without looking, forcing Seventeen to stop abruptly before squeezing around them.
His hand remained tightly closed around the coins.
Every movement sent another dull ache through his body, but he continued forward, occasionally rising onto his toes to see beyond the people standing ahead of him.
Eventually, he reached a stall near the chamber's far wall.
An enormous, round bellied cauldron sat upon a low stone platform. Its blackened metal surface was covered in dents and old scratches, with several patches where the original finish had worn away entirely. The handles on either side were thick and uneven, and the rim had been repaired in several places with crude strips of metal.
Beneath the cauldron, several pieces of firewood burned within a shallow opening in the stone platform. Their surfaces had blackened and begun breaking apart, leaving behind glowing embers that occasionally shifted beneath the weight of the remaining wood. Small orange flames flickered between the logs, licking against the underside of the cauldron while thin trails of smoke escaped through the gaps around its base.
Every so often, a piece of wood cracked beneath the heat, sending a few sparks scattering across the stone.
A thin stream of steam rose continuously from the cauldron's opening.
Seventeen stepped closer and peered inside.
A thick, light brown liquid bubbled sluggishly beneath the steam, its surface occasionally breaking apart as large bubbles rose from below and burst. Small pieces of something floated near the top, although he couldn't tell whether they were vegetables, meat, or something else entirely.
The smell wasn't particularly pleasant, but it was warm.
That alone made it appealing.
Behind the cauldron sat a large man with a dark cloth wrapped around his lower face. His hood hung low over his forehead, leaving only his eyes visible, while a stained apron covered the front of his cloak. Beside him rested a collection of small wooden bowls stacked unevenly upon one another.
The cook watched Seventeen approach.
"One bowl," Seventeen said.
"Six copper."
Seventeen stopped.
Six?
Morgan had given him five.
He opened his hand slightly, glancing at the coins resting against his palm before closing his fingers around them again.
I don't even have six.
"Four copper."
The cook's eyes narrowed.
"Eight."
Seventeen looked up.
Eight? He just said six.
"Four."
"Are you deaf, boy? Eight copper."
The cook leaned forward, resting one thick arm against the edge of the stone platform. Even sitting down, he was considerably larger than Seventeen, and the difference became more apparent as he shifted closer.
Seventeen didn't move.
"Four copper," he repeated.
The cook gave a short, irritated laugh.
"You think repeating yourself is going to make it cheaper?"
Seventeen remained silent.
"Eight copper. Pay or leave."
The man leaned back, apparently satisfied that the conversation was over.
Seventeen glanced toward the cauldron, then toward the bowls stacked beside it, before looking back at the cook.
"Why'd it go up?"
The cook looked at him.
"What?"
"You said six. Now it's eight."
"Because I said so."
Seventeen considered that answer for a moment.
Does he think I'm stupid?
Then he nodded.
"All right."
He turned slightly, as though preparing to leave.
The cook immediately looked away, reaching for the ladle resting against the cauldron.
But Seventeen didn't leave.
He stood there for another moment, his fingers tightening around the five copper coins in his palm.
His gaze wandered toward the surrounding tables, where hooded figures sat eating, talking, and occasionally glancing toward the nearby stalls. Most appeared completely uninterested in him, and those who happened to look in his direction quickly returned to whatever they had been doing.
He looked back at the cook.
The man had already turned his attention elsewhere.
Seventeen swallowed.
I hope this works.
Then he raised his voice.
"HOW MUCH FOR ONE BOWL?"
The cook froze.
Several nearby conversations faltered as a man seated at the neighboring table turned his head, followed by two hooded figures standing beside a stall selling dried meat.
The cook slowly looked back at Seventeen.
"Eight," he growled.
Seventeen tilted his head.
"EIGHT? YOU SAID SIX BEFORE!"
More people turned toward them.
The cook's eyes widened slightly before narrowing again.
"Keep your voice down."
Seventeen noticed.
He hadn't expected the man to react quite so quickly, and for a moment, he wondered whether he'd made a mistake.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.
He hadn't noticed how hot he'd become until then. Only moments earlier, he had been shivering beneath his cloak, struggling to preserve what little warmth remained in his body. Now, despite the cold air surrounding him, sweat had begun gathering along his forehead and beneath the fabric covering his back.
His heartbeat grew faster.
He could feel it pounding against his ribs, each beat seemingly stronger than the last, while a strange tightness spread through his arms and shoulders.
The cook's hand tightened around the ladle.
"I said eight copper," the man repeated, his voice considerably lower. "Now either pay me or get out of here."
Seventeen heard him, but his attention had begun shifting elsewhere.
The conversations surrounding the stall seemed clearer than they had only moments earlier. He could distinguish the scraping of a chair behind him, the clinking of bowls against a nearby table, and the faint rustling of fabric as someone turned in his direction.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Several people were watching.
They're all looking at me.
A man seated at the neighboring table had stopped eating, while two hooded figures standing beside another stall had turned toward the argument. Farther behind them, someone leaned slightly to the side, apparently trying to see what was happening.
Great. Now everyone's watching.
Seventeen swallowed.
He could feel sweat gathering against his palms, making the copper coins slippery between his fingers.
For a moment, he wondered whether everyone was looking at him because he had made a fool of himself.
Then his gaze shifted back toward the cook.
The man wasn't looking at Seventeen anymore.
He was looking past him.
Toward the people watching.
Wait.
Seventeen noticed the way the cook's eyes moved between the surrounding figures, lingering on those whose faces remained concealed beneath their hoods.
He's looking at them too.
Something occurred to him.
The cook didn't know who they were.
Neither did Seventeen.
And beneath those cloaks, there was no way of knowing whether any of them had come together.
Does he think I know them?
Seventeen looked toward the strangers once more before returning his attention to the cook.
His heart was still pounding, and his fingers trembled slightly around the coins.
But he had an idea.
"Four copper."
The cook stared.
Then he stood.
The sudden movement made Seventeen's shoulders tighten.
The man was enormous. His broad frame rose above the cauldron, and for a moment, Seventeen could see little more than the dark cloth covering his face and the heavy arms resting against the stone platform.
"You little shit," the cook muttered. "You think you can come here and tell me what to charge?"
Seventeen's fingers tightened around the coins.
Shit.
He had pushed too far.
The thought came immediately, followed by the uncomfortable realization that he had no idea what to do if the cook reached across the counter and grabbed him.
He could barely stand without his legs aching, and running would be difficult enough without someone twice his size trying to stop him.
The cook leaned closer.
"Get lost."
Seventeen took a small step backward.
The man noticed.
A faint satisfaction appeared in his eyes.
"That's what I thought."
Seventeen lowered his gaze.
For a moment, he considered leaving. He still had the five coins, and he could return to Morgan and explain that the soup was too expensive.
But Rheo was still sitting at the table, struggling to remain awake, and Seventeen had already come all this way.
His eyes wandered toward the surrounding figures again.
Several were still watching.
One stood near the neighboring stall with their arms crossed, while another had stopped eating entirely, their bowl resting forgotten between their hands. Farther behind them, two hooded figures appeared to be whispering to one another.
Seventeen couldn't see their faces.
Neither could the cook.
He looked toward the man again.
Then, slowly, he placed four copper coins on the edge of the stone platform.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The cook looked down.
Then back at Seventeen.
"Are you stupid?"
Seventeen didn't answer.
Instead, he glanced over his shoulder toward the hooded figures watching them before returning his attention to the cook.
"Four copper."
The cook's eyes followed his glance.
For a brief moment, neither moved.
Seventeen could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath his ribs. He didn't know who those people were, and he certainly didn't know whether any of them would involve themselves in an argument over a bowl of soup.
But the cook didn't know that either.
The man looked toward the figures again.
One of them shifted slightly.
His gaze immediately returned to Seventeen.
"Who are they?"
Seventeen blinked.
"Who?"
The cook's expression darkened.
"Don't play games with me, boy."
Seventeen glanced behind himself again.
Then he shrugged.
The cook stared at him.
Seventeen had no idea whether the man believed the strangers were with him, but he could see that the possibility had entered his mind.
And for the moment, that was enough.
"Four copper," Seventeen repeated, this time barely above a whisper.
The cook's fingers curled against the edge of the platform.
"You trying to threaten me?"
Seventeen shook his head.
"No."
"Then what's with all the looking around?"
Seventeen hesitated.
He hadn't thought that far ahead.
The cook leaned closer.
"Well?"
Seventeen looked toward the people watching them once more, then back at the cook.
"They're looking at us."
The man remained silent.
Seventeen continued.
"You said eight copper."
The cook's eyes narrowed.
"And?"
Seventeen glanced toward the surrounding spectators.
"Everyone heard."
As he spoke, Seventeen slowly slipped his free hand beneath his cloak, keeping his eyes fixed on the cook as his fingers disappeared somewhere near his waist.
The man's gaze immediately dropped.
There.
Seventeen kept his hand perfectly still.
Now just believe it.
He could feel sweat trickling down his temple, following the edge of his jaw before disappearing beneath his collar. His back had become uncomfortably damp, and although he tried to remain motionless, his fingers were trembling beneath the fabric.
His heartbeat pounded against his ribs.
Every part of his body felt ready to move. His legs remained weak and aching, but the exhaustion that had weighed on him earlier seemed to have disappeared beneath the sudden rush of adrenaline.
Just keep looking at him.
Then someone behind him shifted.
A chair scraped against the stone, followed by the faint rustling of fabric.
Seventeen glanced toward the movement.
One of the hooded men standing beside the neighboring stall had lowered his hand toward his waist. Another figure seated nearby was doing the same, while someone farther behind them adjusted their cloak, briefly exposing the handle of a short blade.
What?
Seventeen's eyes moved between them.
Why are they...
His stomach tightened.
OH, SHIT.
They thought he was reaching for a weapon.
And now they were preparing to draw their own.
I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THAT TO HAPPEN.
He forced himself to look back at the cook, trying desperately to keep his expression from changing.
The cook had noticed as well. His gaze shifted between Seventeen's concealed hand and the surrounding strangers, lingering on the man whose fingers now rested suspiciously close to his waist.
"What's under there?"
Seventeen looked at him.
Nothing.
He swallowed.
I've got absolutely nothing.
The cook's expression hardened.
"I asked you a question."
Seventeen remained silent, although his breathing had become increasingly difficult to control. Sweat continued gathering beneath his cloak, and the muscles in his thighs tightened as though preparing to run.
Don't move.
The cook leaned closer.
"Well? What've you got under there?"
Seventeen's eyes briefly shifted toward the man's enormous hands.
If he grabs me, I'm done.
He could feel his fingers trembling against his side.
COME ON.
Seventeen slowly extended his other hand, placing two fingers against the four copper coins resting on the stone.
Just take it.
He pushed them forward.
Please.
The coins scraped against the rough surface.
TAKE THE DAMN COINS.
For several long seconds, nobody moved.
Then, with an irritated grunt, the cook reached forward and swept the four coins into his palm.
"Take your damn soup."
Seventeen stared at him.
He took it.
For a moment, he almost couldn't believe it.
HE ACTUALLY TOOK IT.
The cook pointed toward the cauldron.
"And don't come back."
Only then did Seventeen slowly withdraw his empty hand from beneath his cloak.
The cook's eyes followed it.
Nothing was there.
For a moment, the two stared at one another.
Then the cook looked away with a low, irritated mutter.
Around them, the tension began to dissolve. The hooded man near the neighboring stall lowered his hand from his waist, while the seated figure who had been reaching beneath the table returned to their meal. Others turned away, their conversations gradually resuming as though nothing particularly unusual had happened.
Seventeen allowed his empty hand to fall against his side.
His fingers were trembling.
I actually did it.
But the relief was quickly followed by another thought.
That could've gone so badly.
The cook snatched a small wooden bowl from the uneven stack beside him, its surface darkened and worn smooth from years of use. He then reached for an old ladle resting against the cauldron's rim, its long handle blackened near the end and its metal scoop chipped along one side.
With an irritated motion, he plunged the ladle into the thick liquid, stirred once, and lifted out a portion of the light brown sludge.
The soup poured sluggishly into the bowl.
The cook gave the ladle another sharp shake before dropping it back against the rim of the cauldron.
Then, without saying another word, he thrust the small bowl toward Seventeen.
The sudden movement sent some of the soup spilling over its edge, splashing onto the stone platform before dripping onto the floor between them.
Seventeen instinctively drew his hands back to avoid the hot liquid.
The cook glared at him.
"Take it."
Seventeen reached forward.
Only then did he notice how badly his hands were shaking.
His fingers trembled as he tried to position them around the bowl, forcing him to hesitate before taking hold of it. Even after he managed to secure both hands against the thin wood, the trembling continued, sending small ripples across the surface of the soup.
Stop.
He tightened his grip.
Come on, stop shaking.
The heat seeped through the bowl almost immediately, making his cold fingers ache, but it did little to steady them.
Seventeen kept his eyes on the liquid, concentrating on holding the bowl level.
He could still feel sweat running down his back beneath the cloak, and his heart continued pounding as though the cook might change his mind at any moment.
He's still watching.
For a brief moment, he looked toward the man.
The cook was still glaring at him.
Seventeen said nothing.
He turned carefully and began making his way back through the crowd, keeping both hands firmly around the bowl.
Behind him, the cook muttered something beneath his breath before returning to the cauldron, while the surrounding conversations gradually grew louder as the people who had been watching resumed their meals or continued walking through the chamber.
Only after putting several tables between himself and the stall did Seventeen allow his shoulders to relax.
But the feeling didn't disappear.
His heart was still pounding, and although his breathing had begun to slow, the strange alertness that had taken hold of him during the negotiation remained.
He could feel the sweat cooling against his skin beneath the cloak, making the already cold air seem even colder. His hands continued trembling around the wooden bowl, forcing him to keep his fingers tightly pressed against its sides to prevent the soup from spilling.
He glanced down at the steaming liquid.
He had gotten it.
Four copper.
He had somehow convinced a man twice his size to accept less money than he originally demanded, despite having nothing to threaten him with.
The thought should have been reassuring.
Instead, Seventeen remembered the way the surrounding strangers had begun reaching beneath their cloaks.
His grip tightened.
He had no idea what would have happened if someone had drawn a weapon.
Even now, with the cook several tables behind him, his body seemed unwilling to relax.
As he continued through the chamber, he found himself noticing things he would normally have ignored.
A man shifting his weight as Seventeen approached.
The scrape of a wooden chair somewhere behind him.
A hooded woman turning her head as he passed.
Every movement seemed to catch his attention, and he occasionally glanced toward people who hadn't even been looking at him.
The crowd was still moving in every direction, their cloaks brushing against one another as they squeezed between the tables. Most stood considerably taller than Seventeen, their shoulders and backs forming an almost continuous wall of dark fabric around him.
He had become accustomed to looking upward whenever someone approached.
So when something interrupted that familiar pattern, his attention shifted toward it almost immediately.
Near the far corner of the chamber, partially concealed behind a group of people standing beside another stall, was a figure considerably smaller than the others.
Seventeen slowed.
That one's short.
The stranger was still slightly taller than him, but only by a small amount. Compared to the surrounding adults, however, they appeared unusually short, their hood barely reaching the shoulders of the person standing beside them.
Not as short as me, though.
It was an unusual sight among so many towering figures.
And in his current state, Seventeen couldn't help noticing it.
The stranger appeared to be speaking with another hooded individual, their body turned slightly away from the crowd.
Seventeen continued walking, although his gaze lingered on them.
Then the figure's head shifted.
Only a little.
Their hood turned just enough for Seventeen to catch the impression that they were looking directly toward him.
He slowed again.
Is he looking at me?
For a brief moment, neither seemed to move.
Why?
Then the smaller figure turned back toward the person beside them.
Seventeen watched for another moment, but nothing else happened. The stranger appeared to continue their conversation, and the crowd gradually moved between them, obscuring his view.
Did he see what happened back there?
He turned away.
Whatever. I'm probably just nervous.
He continued toward the table, although the image of the unusually small figure lingered in his mind.
By the time he reached their table, Morgan was still supporting Rheo with one hand, occasionally speaking to him in a low voice.
Seventeen approached quietly and lowered the bowl onto the table directly in front of Rheo.
Morgan looked up.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"You actually got some?"
Seventeen nodded.
She looked at the steaming bowl, then toward the distant stall where the earlier argument had taken place.
For a moment, her expression softened.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
There was something unusually sincere in her voice, enough that Seventeen briefly looked toward her.
Morgan reached toward the bowl before pausing.
"But next time, be careful, all right?" she whispered. "We can't afford to draw attention to ourselves down here."
Seventeen gave a small nod.
He looked at the bowl again.
Only then did he realize something.
There was no spoon.
He had watched the cook scoop the soup into the bowl, taken it, and walked away without thinking to ask for anything Rheo could use to eat it.
Seventeen stared at the steaming liquid for a moment.
Morgan followed his gaze.
Then she seemed to understand.
"It's fine," she whispered. "I'll help him."
Seventeen looked down toward the table.
His chair was still tucked beneath it, exactly where he had left it.
He reached down, pulled it free from the narrow space in front of Rheo, and carefully lowered himself into it. The moment his weight settled, a familiar pain spread through his legs, and he allowed his shoulders to slump beneath the cloak.
Morgan pulled the bowl closer.
"Rheo, sit up a little."
He groaned.
"Don't want to."
"I know, but you need something warm. Come on."
She slipped one arm behind his back and gently helped him straighten. With her other hand, she lifted the bowl, bringing its rim toward his mouth.
"Slowly. It's hot."
Rheo leaned forward.
The first mouthful seemed to require more effort than it should have. He drew in a strained breath, pressed his lips against the edge of the bowl, and swallowed a small amount before pulling away.
Morgan waited.
"Again?"
Rheo nodded.
She tilted the bowl toward him once more.
This time, he drank more eagerly.
Seventeen could hear every breath.
The rough inhalations between mouthfuls, the hurried swallowing, and the occasional small gasp when Rheo pulled away from the hot liquid. He seemed almost desperate to get it down, despite how much difficulty he was having.
"Slow down," Morgan whispered. "There's no rush."
Rheo barely acknowledged her.
Morgan lowered the bowl slightly.
"Rheo."
He stopped.
"Breathe first."
He obeyed, taking several uneven breaths before leaning toward the bowl again.
After another mouthful, Rheo pulled away and glanced toward Seventeen.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Seventeen looked at him.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say.
Then he gave a small nod.
Rheo returned his attention to the bowl, and Morgan carefully lifted it toward his mouth again.
Seventeen watched for another moment before turning his attention toward the surrounding chamber.
The market had returned to its usual rhythm.
Merchants shouted over one another, customers moved between tables, and the constant chatter filled the room as though nothing unusual had happened.
He leaned back slightly.
His fingers brushed against the remaining copper coin beneath the table.
The cook had asked for six, then eight, and somehow Seventeen had walked away with a bowl of soup for four.
He hadn't threatened the man with a weapon.
He hadn't even known whether the people watching would react.
Yet they had.
And the cook had believed him.
Seventeen closed his fingers around the coin.
What if he hadn't?
The thought made him uncomfortable.
He remembered the enormous man standing over him, demanding to know what he was hiding beneath his cloak. Had the cook reached across the platform and grabbed him, Seventeen would have had nothing to defend himself with.
He could barely walk through the market without his legs aching.
Fighting someone that large was out of the question.
And yet, despite knowing that, he had continued.
His heartbeat had finally begun to slow, although he could still feel a faint tension lingering in his shoulders.
He looked toward the distant stall.
The cook had already returned to serving customers.
Seventeen lowered his gaze.
For once, something had gone the way he wanted.
Then a shout rose from somewhere to his left.
Seventeen turned his head slightly.
At first, it sounded like another argument.
Two figures stood near one of the crowded tables, gesturing angrily at one another while several others attempted to squeeze past them. Their voices rose above the surrounding conversations, but most people paid them little attention.
Arguments weren't exactly unusual down here.
Then one of the men shoved the other.
The movement was sudden enough that the second man stumbled backward, colliding with someone carrying a wooden bowl.
The bowl slipped from their hands.
It struck the stone floor with a hollow clatter, sending its contents spilling across the narrow walkway.
"Watch it!"
The person who had dropped the bowl shoved the stumbling man away, sending him crashing into a nearby chair.
Its legs scraped violently against the stone before tipping sideways.
Someone attempted to step around it, only to slip against the spilled food and collide with another figure standing beside the table.
Within moments, several people were shouting.
The original argument had been forgotten as those caught in the disturbance began pushing against one another, each trying to avoid falling or being dragged into the commotion.
A man attempting to squeeze past the overturned chair caught his foot against one of its legs and stumbled into the person ahead of him.
That person turned angrily, shoving him backward.
Someone else shouted for them to stop.
But the narrow spaces between the tables left little room to move, and every person attempting to escape the disturbance seemed to push someone else farther into it.
A woman cried out as someone stepped on her foot.
A nearby cook began shouting for people to stay away from his fire.
Several figures abandoned their seats, attempting to move toward the edges of the chamber, while others remained where they were, watching the disturbance unfold.
Seventeen leaned forward slightly.
The commotion wasn't particularly close to their table, but it was spreading through the crowded walkway between them and the surrounding stalls.
Morgan barely looked up.
She was still helping Rheo drink, carefully tilting the bowl toward his mouth as he struggled to swallow another mouthful.
"Slowly," she whispered. "Don't rush."
Then a man stumbled toward their table.
He had been attempting to move around the disturbance when someone collided with his shoulder, sending him sideways into a chair.
The chair shifted beneath his weight.
He lost his balance.
His arms shot outward, searching desperately for something to grab.
Morgan was leaning forward, one hand supporting Rheo's back while the other held the bowl near his mouth.
The man stumbled against the back of her chair.
Morgan jerked slightly.
Before she could turn, the man's hand caught the loose fabric of her cloak.
He grabbed it instinctively, trying to stop himself from falling.
His fingers slid upward.
Then caught the edge of her hood.
The fabric tightened.
Morgan's head jerked backward as the man pulled against it, and the hood slipped from her head.
For a brief moment, the cloth that had concealed her face was pulled away, exposing her features beneath the dim lantern light.
Morgan immediately lowered the bowl.
Her hand shot upward, catching the edge of her hood and dragging it back into place.
The man lost his grip and fell against the stone floor beside them, groaning as he attempted to push himself upright.
"Watch what you're grabbing!" Morgan hissed.
She glanced toward the surrounding figures, quickly checking whether anyone had noticed.
But Seventeen was no longer looking at the man.
His attention had shifted toward the far side of the chamber.
Toward the corner where he had noticed the unusually small figure.
Through the shifting crowd, he caught sight of the smaller figure again.
They were standing.
Completely still.
While people stumbled and shouted around them, the smaller figure remained motionless, their body turned directly toward Seventeen's table.
Their hood was no longer angled toward the person they had been speaking with.
It was facing Morgan.
Seventeen narrowed his eyes slightly.
He recognized the stranger from earlier, the unusually small figure he'd noticed standing among the taller people near the far corner of the chamber.
His gaze shifted toward Morgan.
She was still adjusting her hood, pulling the fabric farther over her face while glancing nervously at the people surrounding their table. Rheo remained slumped against her side, his attention fixed on the bowl resting between them.
Seventeen looked back toward the stranger.
The figure hadn't moved.
Their hood remained pointed directly toward Morgan, even as the people around them continued shouting and pushing against one another.
Seventeen glanced toward Morgan again, his eyes lingering briefly on the edge of her hood.
Then back toward the stranger.
For a moment, he simply watched.
The stranger's head shifted slightly.
Their hood turned toward him.
For one brief moment, the two seemed to be looking directly at one another through the crowded chamber.
Then the smaller figure turned.
And ran.
What?
Seventeen stared after him.
Wait.
The figure slipped between two people, heading toward one of the passages leading away from the chamber.
Why's he running?
Seventeen's heartbeat quickened.
Did he recognize her?
He remembered Myers.
Not the conversation they had just had at the table, but something Myers had said back at Morgan's house.
People sold information.
It didn't always matter whether that information was true. A rumor, a familiar face, or even the possibility of finding someone could be enough to earn a few coins. And if the information was valuable enough, there were people willing to hire thugs to act on it.
Seventeen's stomach dropped.
He saw her.
His eyes returned to the disappearing figure.
HE SAW HER.
He didn't know who the stranger was.
He didn't know whether he had actually recognized Morgan.
He didn't even know whether he was running because of what he'd seen or because of the disturbance spreading through the chamber.
But the way he'd stood there...
The way he'd watched Morgan...
And then immediately run.
He's going to tell someone.
Seventeen felt his chest tighten.
He's going to tell someone about us.
If someone recognized Morgan, it wouldn't matter whether Seventeen had anything to do with whatever trouble she and Rheo were in.
He was sitting beside them.
He had been traveling with them.
And if the people searching for them came back, there was no reason to believe they would leave him alone.
If they find us...
Seventeen stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
Morgan looked toward him.
"Seventeen?"
He barely heard her.
The smaller figure was already approaching the passage.
WE'RE GOING TO DIE.
Seventeen pushed away from the table.
"Seventeen, where are you going?"
He didn't answer.
His legs protested almost immediately as he began moving, the sudden effort sending pain through his knees and thighs. He forced himself between two people attempting to stand, then twisted sideways to avoid colliding with a man carrying a wooden bowl.
The figure was getting farther away.
No.
Seventeen pushed harder.
DON'T YOU DARE.
A woman stumbled directly into his path, forcing him to change direction. Someone grabbed the edge of a table to keep themselves upright, blocking the narrow opening he had been aiming for.
Seventeen climbed over the fallen chair beside them.
His foot struck the floor awkwardly.
Pain shot through his leg.
He nearly fell.
Shit!
But he kept moving.
The crowd thickened near the center of the disturbance.
Several people were still attempting to move away from the argument, while others pushed and shouted at those blocking their path. The narrow spaces between the tables had become nearly impossible to navigate, and Seventeen could see the smaller figure slipping toward the passage beyond.
He's getting away.
He didn't have time to go around.
So he went over.
His foot landed against the back of a fallen man's cloak.
"Hey!"
Seventeen pushed off, stepping over another person who was struggling to get up.
A hand shot toward his ankle.
"Watch where you're going!"
He twisted away before the fingers could close around him.
Someone shouted as his foot struck their shoulder, while another person cursed when he used the edge of an overturned chair to propel himself forward.
His breathing grew ragged.
Every step sent another jolt through his exhausted body, and the pounding in his chest had become so loud that he could barely hear the voices surrounding him.
The smaller figure was still ahead.
Still moving.
Still getting away.
STOP.
Seventeen leaped over the legs of another fallen person, landed awkwardly, and stumbled forward several steps before catching himself against the wall.
For a moment, his vision blurred.
Not now.
He forced himself upright.
NOT NOW!
The figure reached the passage.
Seventeen pushed away from the wall, ignoring the pain spreading through his legs as he forced himself through the final stretch of the crowd.
I CAN'T LET HIM GET AWAY.
He reached the edge of the disturbance just as the figure disappeared into the hallway.
Seventeen followed.
Behind him, Morgan's voice rose above the commotion.
"Seventeen!"
But he was already running.
His shoes struck the cold stone in uneven, desperate steps as he plunged into the narrow passage, leaving the crowded chamber and its shouting occupants behind.
His lungs burned.
His legs trembled.
And despite the pain spreading through nearly every part of his body, he forced himself to keep moving.
If he tells them...
Seventeen's jaw tightened.
If they come back...
He remembered the helplessness he'd felt before. The inability to fight back, the knowledge that someone stronger could do whatever they wanted to him, and the sickening realization that there was nothing he could do to stop them.
His breathing grew sharper.
NO.
He forced his aching legs to move faster.
I'M NOT GOING BACK.
Then Seventeen disappeared into the darkness of the passage.