Shit. Not the first time I've woken up cuffed to a bed in some Order hole. They like their restraints clean and efficient, like everything else about them. Metal bites just enough to remind you who's in control. I've danced this before—back in the warrens, when a job went sideways and their patrols decided I looked like an answer to a question they hadn't asked yet.

  I didn't give them my name. Not out of principle. Just habit. Names are coins down there, or up here, wherever the fuck this is. But that won't hold. They have professionals for that—sniffers with spells or serums that peel secrets like old paint. They'll get it eventually. Everyone talks when the right pressure's applied.

  The cuffs were standard: iron with a faint hum, meant to ground magic like a boot on a spark. But they're not perfect. If your skin doesn't touch the metal—if you can keep a scrap of cloth or air between—there's a gap. A small one. Enough for a desperate man.

  Blinking through them would cost. Not memory this time. Worse: one week or ten days off the ability. A blackout. No hops, no slips, just feet like everyone else. I'd be grounded, vulnerable as a ledger left open in the rain.

  I could pay that now. Had to. Staying meant questions turning into needles, and needles into confessions I couldn't afford.

  Visualizing was the hard part. First time in the upper city. No maps in my head, no anchors . The room had a window—high, barred, but enough to tease a view. Through it: rooftops tiled red like fresh wounds, spires reaching like fingers accusing the sky. One roof caught my eye—flat, shadowed by a taller building, close enough to guess at without burning too much brain an anchor.

  I shifted, tugged the sheet just enough to pad the cuffs. Deep breath. Counted to sixty in my head, not out loud. No need to announce the exit.

  Blink.

  The world yanked like a bad handshake. Metal scraped, burned where the sheet slipped, but it worked. Fuck yeah. One second chained to their mercy; the next sprawled on sun-baked tile, free as a fool with no plan.

  The sun hit like a hammer. Not the soft glow from stories—the real thing, raw and relentless. My skin screamed, bullshit flaring up like I'd pissed off a lantern. Blisters rising already, heat chewing at the edges. I needed shade. Fast.

  But damn, the capital was beautiful from up here. Spires gleaming, streets wide and clean like they swept sins under marble. Gardens spilling green over walls, fountains laughing water nobody earned. Had to be the rich part of town. Figures. The Order doesn't keep their prizes in the gutters, even if that's where they found them.

  Great. No coin in my pockets—whatever I'd had got lifted or left behind. Clothes torn, bloodstained, smelling like smoke and bad decisions. Couldn't jump home; the blackout was already settling in, a dull ache behind my eyes promising two weeks of walking like a mortal. Officially homeless. Up here, that meant invisible or arrested, depending on who noticed first.

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  I scrambled off the roof, dropped to a ledge, then to the street below. Legs complained, but they moved. Found a dark alley—narrow, stinking of overripe fruit and forgotten deliveries, but shaded. Away from the sun's teeth.

  I slumped against cool stone, breath ragged. Collected thoughts like scattered coins: Order pissed, probably hunting already. Don Cinder's job a setup? The shadow still out there? Girl alive, maybe talking.

  Fuck. Needed a plan. But first, rest. Just a bit.

  The sun finally started to drop, which was the only good news I’d had all day. My skin stopped screaming, and the blisters decided to settle for a dull throb instead of an active fire. Night was coming, and in Aethelgard, that meant the Golden Order usually tucked themselves into their high-backed chairs to count their sins.

  There are only a few places in this gilded cage where the Order’s authority hits a wall. The Royal Palace territory is one—the King doesn't like the smell of incense and fanatical near his breakfast. Then there’s Kingsmoor Arcane College. That place is international territory, a law unto itself. You don’t just walk in; you need a fancy invitation or you're just another piece of scenery for the mages to ignore.

  I had neither. What I did have was a stomach that felt like it was trying to eat my spine.

  I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Time to go back to basics. You might think a man like me—a mover, a jumper, a guy who’s survived the Warrens—would be above begging. You’d be wrong. I was a master of the craft when I was a boy. Back in the undercity, I was a professional. I could look at a man, widen my eyes just enough to show the "innocent" whites, and melt a heart made of literal slag. It wasn't just begging; it was practically stealing. I could take coin from the toughest bastards in Blackcairn just by looking pathetic.

  Problem is, I’m not that kid anymore. I’m a grown-ass man of eighteen, almost nineteen, and I look more like a threat than a charity case.

  I spotted a noble coming down the street, draped in silk that probably cost more than a whole block of the Warrens. I put on my best "broken but humble" face.

  "Mister... can u spare a coin?" I tried to make my voice sound like it was filtered through gravel and tears. "A noble coin for a fellow human?"

  The noble didn't even slow down. He looked at me like I was a pile of fresh horse shit. "Get out of my sight, scum," he spat.

  My hand twitched. I couldn't get in trouble here, not in the upper city with my magic on a two-week vacation. I had to play the part.

  "Yes, yes... sir, sorry," I mumbled, dropping my head.

  The noble decided to add an exclamation point to his insult. He wound up and kicked me. Honestly? He couldn't even kick for damn. I’ve been hit by falling masonry and Mafia enforcers; this guy’s leg had the structural integrity of an overcooked noodle.

  As his boot connected with my side, I doubled over dramatically, gasping in pain. In that same motion my right hand slipped smoothly under his cloak and lifted the heavy coin purse from his belt. The bastard was too busy enjoying his “victory” to notice a thing.

  I let out a sharp, pathetic groan and clutched my ribs like he’d broken them. It worked perfectly.

  He gave a self-satisfied huff, adjusted his cloak, and strutted off, probably feeling like a big man for “disciplining” the help.

  I waited until he was a good twenty paces away before straightening up. The weight of the stolen purse felt deliciously heavy in my palm.

  I brushed the expensive dust off my rags, a small smirk pulling at my mouth. The sun was finally gone, replaced by the soft amber glow of the capital’s streetlamps.

  Now I was homeless, hunted… and no longer completely penniless.

  Time to take a stroll.

  Eymire