Cassian kept to the shadows of the leaves, his shoes striking the cobblestones without making a single sound.
He felt like a criminal. Like some cheap, low-life stalker as he watched her walk home through the fading glow of the festival lanterns.
She wasn't very aware of her surroundings. Most people weren't, of course. Common folk lived out their lives under the absurd impression that they weren't being watched, wrapped in a blanket of peace. Why wouldn't they? For the most part, it was true.
But Cassian had assumed she would be at least a little more watchful—especially after someone had looked her dead in the eye and said what he had said to her back in the shop. If a stranger gave him a line like that, his hand would never leave the hilt of his blade, and he'd be tracking every silhouette within fifty paces.
She didn't need to be as sharp as a hawk, but she should have had enough sense to notice the faces trailing behind her in the dark.
He had expected it to be harder to follow her. He had prepared for clever detours, sharp turns, or maybe even an ambush in an alleyway. But tracking her was easy. Almost too easy.
It was so straightforward that a cold wave of suspicion had settled in his chest halfway down the path. Was she leading him into a trap?
Did she know he was there?
Maybe she was baiting him toward a dead end where her friends or guards were waiting.
He had halted in the shadows from time to time, slipping into recessed doorways and waiting for the trap to spring.
But she never looked back. Not once.
She wasn't leading him anywhere. She actually had no idea he was following her.
And as much as he hated to admit it, that worried him. Very much, even. The thought that someone who was supposed to be a crucial ally—someone Materdea insisted he needed if he was going to survive what was coming—could be this completely sluggish with her own life was infuriating. If she was this oblivious, how had she survived for so long? A skilled assassin could have cut her throat three times over between the tavern door and the edge of her yard.
"She is still a civilian boy," Dea's voice drifted through the back of his mind, smooth as oil. "She does not share your blood-stained eyes."
"She's a liability," Cassian snapped back in his thoughts, pulling his hood lower over his brow as the girl turned down a quieter, dustier lane away from the main festival drag. "She's soft. She doesn't even check her own backstep."
"And yet, here you are, following her into the dark."
Cassian didn't respond. What choice did he have? He was already here, stranded in this city, and he needed whatever edge he could get. If Dea said this girl held the key to his next move, then he was going to take her with him—whether she was ready for it or not.
The noise of Ferendal began to thin out as they reached the outer rim of the district. The rowdy drinking songs and the thumping of the war drums shrank into a distant, muffled hum. Up ahead, the girl stopped at the edge of a modest farm plot.
Cassian melted into the deep shadow cast by a massive, dry haystack at the edge of the property, pulling his cloak tightly against his chest to break his frame. He kept his breathing slow, shallow, and even.
The house before them was small, constructed of weathered timber and uneven stone, but a warm light still burned brightly inside the room window. The girl stood on the porch for a long, agonizing moment. Cassian watched the rise and fall of her shoulders as she took a heavy breath, her small hand hovering over the door latch with clear hesitation.
She doesn't want to go inside, his eyes narrowing. Interesting.
She finally turned the latch and slipped indoors.
Cassian stayed pinned to the side of the haystack, his eyes fixed on the illuminated window pane. The glass was old and distorted, but he could see three figures moving around the room. An older woman was sitting at the table, gesturing sharply with her hands, her face twisted in obvious anger. An older man stepped into view a moment later, looking weary and defeated.
The girl stood between them, her head bowed, looking smaller than she had behind the tavern counter.
"what could they be talking about," Dea observed, her tone carrying a faint thread of dark amusement.
"They're arguing," Cassian said, watching the silent drama unfold through the glass.
Cassian watched as the older woman snapped her jaw shut, slammed something down on the wood, and marched out of the frame. The older man sat down, his lips moving as he began to talk. The girl stayed standing for a moment, her expression distant, completely unengaged with whatever the man was saying.
Then, unexpectedly, her head turned.
She looked straight out the window—straight past the glass, straight across the dark, cold yard, and directly toward the shadow of the haystack where he stood.
Cassian didn't move a muscle. He didn't blink. He knew the ambient light inside the room would turn the window pane into a partial mirror for her, making it nearly impossible to see out into the pitch-black night. Yet, for one sharp, suspended second, her bright blue eyes locked right onto his position.
It was probably just a coincidence. A tired girl staring blindly into the night while her guardian rambled on about nothing.
But as Cassian met her gaze through the dark, a cold spark of intrigue flared in his chest. Maybe she wasn't entirely blind to the world after all.
He didn't wait to find out if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Before she could blink or press her face closer to the glass, Cassian shifted his weight, turned silently on his heel, and melted back into the shadows of the treeline, vanishing into the night.