The upper city is a boiling cauldron of life, every corner pouring out sound and scent and motion. The festival is in full swing: banners flap overhead, strings of blue and white linen ripple between the rooftops, and all along the terraces, vendors hawk everything from candied plums to half-legal fireworks that spit smoke and scream until the city’s stray cats vanish for good. The crowd is dense, full of families with sticky-faced children, and here and there, clusters of off-duty guards letting the holiday turn their discipline loose.

  Gai marches at Elle’s left shoulder, eyes never at rest. It’s an old habit: check the rooftops, scan the windows, watch the faces of everyone who gets within striking distance. But he’s never done it with the weight of a thousand eyes on him—not just the risk of danger, but the constant hum of curiosity from the public. His uniform draws stares; Elle, wrapped in a lighter gown of festival blue, draws outright adoration. She meets every smile, every bowed head, with an easy nod that is somehow regal and warm at once.

  Raimondis stalks at Elle’s right, a pace back. He’s made no attempt to hide his mood—every footstep is a protest, every scan of the crowd another silent accusation. If Sheh’zar is with them, Gai can’t spot her; likely she’s shadowing the party at a distance, or else she trusts the guards to do their jobs and is busy rooting out threats they’ll never see.

  They pass beneath an arch strung with beads, the sun slicing through it to throw spinning patches of colour over Elle’s hair. She laughs—genuine, unchecked—and Gai has to catch himself before he smiles back in full view of a hundred onlookers.

  “You know,” Elle murmurs, leaning closer under the ruckus, “I didn’t expect so many people. Or that I’d actually enjoy being out here.”

  Gai keeps his eyes ahead, but lets his voice drop. “I thought you grew up with festivals twice this size.”

  “We did,” she says, “but ours were always…formal. Dances, speeches, the parade of worthies.” She plucks a sugar-dipped berry from a passing vendor’s tray and pops it in her mouth, offering the rest to Gai without ceremony. “This is better. More alive.”

  He takes one, then wipes the juice on his sleeve. “You have a gift for blending in,” he says, meaning it as a compliment.

  She gives him a sideways glance, sly as a fox. “So do you, Gai. At least, when you’re not dressed like a flag.”

  He’s about to respond when a knot of children bursts into the avenue ahead, all waving miniature pennants and shouting the city’s old war chant—half patriotism, half dare to the nobles to take notice. Elle doesn’t hesitate: she ducks among them, stooping to return a salute from a girl missing her two front teeth, then kneels to tie a loose sandal for a shy boy who can’t look her in the eye. Gai holds back, scanning for pickpockets, but finds only the usual mischief: a quick-fingered brat trying to filch a coin from a merchant, a skinny teen sizing up Raimondis’s sword, then thinking better of it.

  When Elle stands, she tugs Gai down the avenue by the wrist. “Come on,” she says, voice ringing with energy. “Show me the famous south market.”

  He lets himself be pulled, ignoring the heat in his ears. Raimondis trudges after, muttering something about decorum, but is instantly lost in the crowd.

  The market is a crush of bodies, the stalls packed tight with baskets of peppers, dried fish, and loaves of bread still hot enough to fog the air. Elle navigates it with a dancer’s ease, twisting through the traffic and dragging Gai behind her. Every few steps, she stops to point out something absurd—a painter offering portraits in a minute or less (all of them terrible), a juggler tossing live eels, a woman with a pet raccoon perched on her shoulder. Gai watches her, memorizes the way her face brightens with each new marvel, and for a heartbeat forgets to be afraid.

  They reach the far end of the market and find a quiet patch of shade beneath a drooping willow. Elle slides onto a low bench, tugging Gai down beside her. She leans back, eyes closed, and lets the world wash over them.

  “You can relax,” she says after a while. “We’re safe here.”

  “I never relax,” he says, but his voice is softer now.

  She cracks one eye open. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

  They sit that way for a few minutes, listening to the clamour of the festival and the lazy hiss of wind in the branches. Gai is aware of every heartbeat, every pulse of blood in his veins. He tries not to think about the hundred ways this day could go wrong; instead, he just lets the warmth of Elle’s arm against his own settle his nerves.

  “You meant what you said earlier,” he asks at last, voice pitched low. “About needing me here.”

  She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she pulls her feet up on the bench and hugs her knees, watching the crowd through the fringe of willow leaves. "There's something about you that grounds me, Gai," she says, then laughs softly. "I don't know why, but I've felt that way since we met. And now it's official. You're the only one I feel like I can trust in this city."

  He lets that hang, not knowing what to say.

  She bumps his arm lightly. “You know, you handled Cedric better than I could have. And in the library—you actually helped.” She looks over, a quick spark in her eye. “If you hadn’t wandered in, I never would’ve found that book. We’d both still be clueless about whatever mess is brewing.”

  He shifts, embarrassed. “You would have managed.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Not the point.” She leans in, voice dropping to a conspirator’s whisper. “I wanted you beside me, so nobody would question our searches. No one suspects the princess’s personal guard of anything but blind loyalty.” She lifts a hand, brushes his jaw with the backs of her fingers. “Turns out, you’re a better actor than I thought.”

  He can’t help it; he grins. “I’ve had good teachers.”

  Her face is so close he can smell the berry juice on her breath. “Gai?”

  “Yeah?”

  She studies him, searching for a sign he might bolt, then kisses him on the cheek—quick, but not hesitant. “Thank you,” she says, and means it.

  He sits there, dumbstruck, as she stands and smooths her skirt. “Time to go,” she says, her old authority slipping back on like a second skin. “People will start talking if we’re gone too long.”

  She doesn’t have to say what kind of talking; he already hears the rumours bouncing around in his head. But for the first time, he doesn’t mind.

  They work their way back through the market, this time walking side by side. Elle keeps her hand on Gai’s arm, not caring who notices. The crowd parts for her, then closes up behind, hiding them from sight. At the far end of the avenue, Raimondis waits, scowl deep enough to split stone.

  “Highness,” he says stiffly, bowing just enough to be correct. “If you are finished with the common amusements, the next event on your schedule is—”

  “Postponed,” Elle says, cutting him off. “We’ll finishing exploring at sunset, not before.”

  Raimondis blinks, thrown off, but recovers quickly. “Of course, Princess.”

  He turns to Gai, expression poisonous. “If you’re done playing tour guide, we should start heading back.”

  Gai shrugs, feigning indifference. “You lead, I’ll watch our backs.”

  Raimondis opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He steps ahead, leaving Elle and Gai to fall into step behind.

  As they walk, Elle leans close enough for only Gai to hear. “He’ll tell everyone we’re—well. You know.”

  He snorts. “They’d believe it no matter what.”

  “Let them,” she says, voice edged with defiance. “It gives us cover.”

  The festival has shifted with the sun; the crowd is wilder now, the music rawer, the jokes lewder. At one point a half-drunk acrobat tumbles past, scattering petals and curses, and nearly bowls Gai over. Elle laughs and grabs his hand to steady him, and for a second, the whole city feels like it’s spinning around them alone.

  By the time they reach the palace gates, dusk has pooled in every low place and the first torches have been lit. The guards at the entrance snap to attention; Elle waves them off, guiding Gai up the steps. The moment they’re inside, the clamour of the city drops away, replaced by the cool, measured hush of the royal wing.

  She stops in a quiet alcove, waits for Raimondis to disappear down the hall, then turns to Gai. “You did well,” she repeats, softer this time.

  He looks at her, not sure what’s allowed anymore. “So did you.”

  She grins, then does something unexpected: she takes his hand and holds it, just for a moment, before releasing it and stepping away. “I have to go. There’s a council meeting, and you’re not allowed in.” She rolls her eyes. “Protocol.”

  Gai follows her gaze down the corridor. Marble floors, oil lamps guttering in their sconces, and not a whiff of festival left in the air. The farther from the outer gates, the more the real world—the raw, unvarnished city—fell away, until only the hush and order of the palace remained. Elle masks her expression as she glides away, leaving Gai and Raimondis flanking her like mismatched bookends. They escort her in silence to the council chamber’s antechamber, where guards and courtiers already crowd the entryway, waiting for their moment to be useful or remembered.

  Elle disappears through the carved doors, her back the only thing left of her in the cool light. The instant she’s out of earshot, Raimondis lets the mask slip.

  “You have a fine talent for grovelling,” Raimondis says, voice pitched low, but not low enough to be missed by the two green-liveried pages waiting to one side. “I hope you’re not planning to leverage that for favours.”

  Gai lets the words slide off, but the irritation knots up behind his ribs. “Don’t think she’s the one handing out favours,” he says, careful to keep his own voice neutral. He leans against the wall, arms folded, and fixes his gaze on a distant point—a tapestry showing a king, dead or possibly sleeping, with his guts artfully rearranged by a dragon. “Besides, you’re here too, so what does that say?”

  Raimondis’s mouth curves up, lips thin and white. “It says some of us were born for it. Not every street rat gets a uniform, Squid.”

  Gai feels the urge to answer in the only way Raimondis might understand, but he’s too tired, and besides, violence in a hall lined with the king’s own men is a poor career move. He opts for silence and lets the seconds drag on.

  A shifting in the hallway—a ripple of cloth, a new scent (leather, old and oiled)—and Gai recognizes the approach before the figure rounds the corner. Yami moves with the same predatory grace as always, eyes bright under the hood, her presence bending the attention of even the most self-important courtier. She doesn’t look at Gai, not directly, but lifts her chin in his direction, a flicker of recognition that’s all the greeting he’ll get.

  She stands between the two guards, hands clasped behind her back. For a long, stretched-out moment, nobody speaks. Then Yami tips her head toward the council doors.

  “Do the councillors intend to keep the General’s courier waiting all night?” Yami asks, loud enough to silence the shuffling of the pages and the low hum of court gossip. Her tone is light, but it sours the air, holds the focus of every guard within the vicinity. She fixes her stare on the sentinel nearest the council chamber, lips twitching as if daring him to make her repeat herself.

  The older guard—Medrin, Gai thinks, a stickler for protocol—snaps to a perfect half-bow. “Apologies, Captain. The council is deep in deliberations.”

  Yami doesn’t bother with a bow. She sweeps a hand toward the doors, palm open, as though inviting the entire room to witness the council’s inertia. “Deep in their own importance, more likely. I’ve seen faster deliberation from a hungover mule.”

  Medrin’s face twitches, but he doesn’t engage. He signals a page to hustle inside, and Gai catches a glimpse of the boy’s awed expression before the doors swallow him up.

  For a moment, Yami stands perfectly still, eyes scanning the absurd theatre of the palace corridor—sunlight pooling on the gold scrollwork, courtiers huddled in false intimacy, even the tapestry of that king with his heroic entrails looped out and braided like a parade banner. Her gaze jumps to Gai. She doesn’t smile, not exactly, but her face pulls into a shape that’s almost familiar.

  She walks over, the heels of her boots muting against the inlaid stone. “You made it,” she says, the words soft but edged.

  Gai doesn’t know if she means the guard post, or just being upright in the uniform, but the way she looks at him makes it clear she’s been keeping tabs.

  Raimondis dries up, all the venom gone, replaced by a stiff, pained curiosity. He shifts his weight, then seems to struggle to decide if he should stand at attention or melt into the wall.

  Yami’s attention is all for Gai, though. She tilts her head, taking him in. “Festivals don’t suit you. But you wear the bruises well.” She flicks a finger at the raw patch on his neck. “That fresh?”

  Gai's shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. He touches the bruise, wincing slightly when his fingers find the tender edge. "Old Town ambush. Three weeks ago. Looked like a woman needing help after we'd had a few at the Boars Hat. Said something was following her." His jaw tightens at the memory. "Turned out she wasn't a helpless woman at all—Animatrix. High-Tier. She summoned a shadow beast right there in the alley, all teeth, claws, and darkness. Came straight for us, no warning. No reports of similar attacks before or after, either. Like we were the only ones worth the trouble."

  Yami’s eyes flicker, sharp and birdlike. She leans in, crowding his personal space, voice pitched so only he can hear. “Did she get a good look at you, or were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  He resists the urge to check over his own shoulder. “I was with Anders and Edgar. We all made it out, but not by much. I think it was after something. Someone, maybe.” He risks a glance at Raimondis, who stands nearby pretending not to eavesdrop but failing spectacularly. Gai lowers his voice further, barely a breath. “There was more to it. I can tell you later.”

  Yami’s mouth quirks, not a smile—something hungrier, as if she’s already dissecting the implications. She nods once, then steps back, speaking at a normal volume. “Well, that explains the limp in your step. Next time, try not to let the city’s worst take you by surprise. Some of them aren’t as forgiving as I am.”

  Raimondis scoffs. “You can’t seriously believe the Animatrix was after the squid. He’s barely worth the price of a mugging.”

  Yami’s face goes flat. “You’d be amazed what a determined Animatrix will settle for, if the coditions are right.” She flicks her eyes up and down Raimondis, then adds, “Some people aren’t even worth that. Luckily, you can’t teach taste.”

  Raimondis colours, but Gai is already miles ahead, watching Yami for any hint of what she knows. She gives him nothing, only the faintest tilt of her head, the message clear: later.

  The council doors crack open. The page who’d been sent in emerges, flushed and clearly anxious. “Captain Yami. The council will see you now.”