Twilight fell upon the city. Sheah meandered down the empty street along the great bridge’s edge, her mind still roiling with unease. Eyes glued to her feet, she worked to remind herself that her uncle’s plan was necessary, perhaps even moral, and that it was, assuredly, the only way out. This was her last chance—one big score, and she would surmount this temporary hurdle. She could get back on course, and go on to finally prove to the world that she had what it took to be an enterprising adventurer. All she needed to do was follow Karsten’s instructions, and pray that she would not get caught.

  Just then, her thoughts were interrupted by the distant cry of the drawbridge sirens as they performed their nightly ritual. She heard the rumble of the chains as the northern tip of the bridge was lifted upright, retracting to protect the city, and all of the Southlands, from the dangers of the Unbound lurking in the dark. As the drawbridge squealed to a stop, rows of electric streetlamps hummed to life in succession, traveling down the length of the city. In a matter of seconds, Bruckhaven had completed its transition into night.

  Sheah wandered over to a streetlamp and stood beneath it, comforted by its warming glow. She gazed wistfully at the darkened sky, the first few stars breaking through the haze of the city lights. Between them, sewn into the canvas of the cosmos, was the full moon—Uhr Illagria, land of the gods, its azure glow shimmering across the evening air, sumptuous and bright.

  Squinting, Sheah scanned the moon’s swirling surface, searching high and low for the lights of Emris Xiarra, the holy city of the Angels. Ever since her youth, she liked to gaze upon the gods, and if she closed her eyes and opened her heart, she could feel them looking back at her—the Angels: sowers of the Archmother and creators of humanity, guides of all destinies, lords of all souls. And even on nights such as this, where the lunar glare masked their city from sight, she felt soothed all the same, for she knew they were still there.

  Sheah raised her eyes to the heavens and clasped her hands together. She prayed. She prayed for the guidance of the Angels. She prayed for their strength, their wisdom. And, as was tradition, she prayed that they would one day return to the earth which they had left so long ago.

  Sheah unfurled her hands and took a long breath. Her melancholy faded, supplanted by a shred of hope, and then stalwart determination. Digging into her pocket, she removed the collection of gifted coins and counted them again, calculating what supplies she might be able to acquire. With a plan in place, she resolvedly clenched her fist. The shops were all closed now, so she would have to resupply at first light. In the meantime, there were courses to chart, logs to balance—work to be done for the journey ahead. She stood upright, head held high, and marched purposefully down the road back to her ship.

  Jira sat in the back of the Hop Spot, secluded at an unlit table. It was fortunate for her that the owner of the club was another of Dez’s old friends, and as such was always willing to provide her with a special spot away from prying eyes. Sinking into her seat, she bowed her head and soaked in the rush of music flowing from the neon-drenched stage.

  It was a tapestry of sound, as Dez was fond of calling it—piano and bass and drums interlaced, calling and responding to one another in a dance of explosive energy. Jira swayed pleasantly to the tune. She hadn’t much been a fan of jazz before she’d met Dez—or music at all, for that matter—but during their twenty-odd years of working together he had taught her to appreciate its many complexities and joys.

  The song simmered. The trio of musicians laid low, transitioning to a rhythmic loop as the lights began to dim. A moment later, the shape of Dez stepped forward, lit from behind with dramatic flair. He brought his instrument to his mouth and waited for his cue, appearing completely relaxed and in control, as if there were no audience there at all.

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  Suddenly, a spotlight crashed on with the beat. Dez instantly burst to life, swinging the bell of his saxophone high. He began to belt a sweltering solo, blanketing the bar in a shroud of stylish improv. The crowd of the club savored the sounds, bobbing their heads in time to the infectious rhythm.

  Jira watched Dez as he played, a slight smile curling on her face. He looked so happy when on stage, so at ease. Unlike most expeditioners she’d known, always chasing fame and riches, Dez always seemed more taken with the simple things in life. She closed her eyes and let his music soar through her. Hearing him play, it always gave her a sense of peace. For the briefest of moments, she forgot all about the horror and pain she had caused.

  Just then, Jira heard a timid voice whispering into her ear. Her eyes snapped open, her concentration derailed. She swung her head over to find a bookish woman standing over her shoulder. Squirming with excitement, the woman asked Jira if she was indeed ‘The Knife’. Without waiting for an answer, the woman presented a small, worn book with a printed image on the cover. Jira recognized the picture in an instant: the famous crew photo she had seen a thousand times over—the one with her, far younger but just as stern-looking, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her companions of the Rezna Expeditions.

  Jira clenched her eyes and jaw. She glanced away, her chest shriveling at the sight of her old team. Even here, even now, she could not escape their shadow. No matter where she went, someone was always there to remind her of her past.

  Taking out a pen, the woman cracked open the cover. Scattered across the title page were a dozen signatures from the members of the old team, including Captain Ordif Rezna himself, which was no easy feat. Faking a smile, Jira grabbed the book and pen from the woman’s hands. She hastily scrawled her name at the bottom of the page before returning the woman’s things to her. Inspecting the signature, the woman bowed graciously and giddily hopped back into her seat across the club.

  Jira buried her eyes in her hands. Silently growling, she tamped down her turmoil, attempting to clear her mind and find her way back to enjoying her companion’s show. She couldn’t let a single interruption ruin her night. But as she looked back to the stage, she found that Dez’s solo had already finished.

  “Gimme another. Double cherries, if you please,” said Kaelis with a wink, sliding her empty glass across the bar towards a slick, besuited bartender. The bartender graciously took the glass and got to work. Leaning her back against the bar, Kaelis plucked off her stylish new hat and brushed the tangled hair from her eyes. She let out a spent breath, just beginning to feel the toll of the night wearing on her. It had been a boisterous evening, full of drinks and dancing and more drinks, but it was looking about time to turn in. This bar was probably the end of the line.

  The Avant Garden was a mid-class gin joint, quality in every category and affordably priced, at least compared to some of the city’s other offerings. It was a warm space, paneled in wood and brass, with a few potted plants scattered about to give it some added class. A quintet of musicians played on a short stage at the back of the club, crooning out a soulful, low-energy melody as the night began its slow wind down. Packed in around the floor were throngs of spirited people: couples, absorbed in dance, swayed gracefully on the dance floor; teams of young adventurers stood around the tables and engaged each other in raucous, drunken debate; groups of old friends sat in their booths, swapping stories and laughing the night away. Kaelis tried her best not to stare.

  The loud clink of glass shook Kaelis from her trance. She wheeled around to see the bartender pushing her cocktail towards her. Thanking the man with a shiny new saeble, she began to nurse her newest confection.

  Just then, a glamorous gentleman emerged from the crowd—tall, with thick hair and rugged stubble, attired in an elegantly embroidered three piece suit and scented with rosewater. He slid up to the bar enticingly close to Kaelis. Keeping sly, she eyed the man up as he ordered his drink, studying his many alluring features. With his order placed, the man then turned to face her. The two locked eyes. The man silently complimented her dress, sealing it with a seductive wink.

  Bingo.

  Kaelis threw back the rest of her cocktail in one gulp and scooted over. She flashed the man her brightest eyes and her most charming grin.

  “So,” she purred, “are you gonna tell me your name?”