[POV: Kessa]
The courier station housing block smelled of lye soap and old ambitions.
Kessa sat on the edge of her bed—a plank with blankets that passed for comfort only if you'd never known anything better. Stone walls. A narrow window facing the harbor. Crown-issue furniture: functional, joyless, exactly what someone in her position deserved.
Her signet ring pressed heavy on her finger. Gold band, laurel-and-guillotine crest. The symbol of everything she pretended to serve.
Outside the window, smoke still rose from the dock district. Thin columns now, not the thick black pillars from an hour ago. The cleanup crews had already started.
She didn't look at the smoke. She'd looked enough.
The bells had stopped ringing. The screaming had stopped too. The city was quiet now, in the way cities are quiet after violence—holding its breath, waiting for permission to exhale.
Sparkweave is dead.
The thought settled like a stone.
She didn't know how she knew—not for certain. No one had told her directly. But the courier station was buzzing with it: whispers in the hallways, nervous glances, guards talking too loudly about the "traitor" who died at the docks.
Official version: terrorist eliminated.
Unofficial version: something crushed him like paper.
The uprising is over. The network is ashes.
And Mora is...
She didn't finish the thought. Not yet.
I could have been in that crowd. I almost was.
I chose to watch instead. That's the difference between the dead and the living.
The question is: which one do I want to be?
She reached under her mattress and pulled out a small leather journal. Dog-eared pages. Notes in cramped handwriting. Observations. Times and dates.
Mora's schedule. Mora's habits. Mora's contacts.
A courier's job was to carry messages. A good courier remembered what was in them.
She flipped to the entry from three days ago. A single line, underlined twice.
"The eel vendor has a brother."
Six words. No signature. She'd slipped it onto Mora's desk when no one was watching.
A test.
I wanted to see what kind of man he was. Crown pawn or something else.
He rescued the brother. An actual rescue from the Pit. And he survived.
Test passed.
He could have ignored it. Could have decided the brother wasn't worth the risk.
He didn't. That wasn't orders. That was choice.
Whose side is he choosing?
If they find this journal, I'm dead. I keep it anyway.
Mora moved faster than I expected. He's not just a clerk.
Uprising failed. Mora survived. What does that tell me?
She closed the journal. Her hands were still for a moment. Then they weren't.
The memory came unbidden.
Her brother. Taller than her by a head. He had their mother's smile—wide and easy, the kind that made people trust him. He baked bread at the shop on River Street. Good bread. The kind the dock workers could afford.
I don't say his name anymore. It's easier that way.
The knock came on a Tuesday. Hawk-Crest soldiers at the door. "Dissident sympathizer."
He gave bread to the wrong people. Free loaves to hungry workers who happened to attend the wrong meetings. That was his crime.
They took him on a Tuesday. She got what was left of him back on a Friday.
The Regent's people didn't apologize. They didn't even send the body back whole.
Three years. I've been pretending to be neutral for three years.
I've been so good at it I almost believe it myself.
But neutral is just slow complicity. I knew that the day I buried what was left of him.
Varis Calder signed the execution order. One name among dozens that week. Just another page in the stack.
If Mora is a weapon... maybe he can do what I can't.
Outside, the smoke was thinning. She could hear the cleanup crews now—cart wheels on cobblestones, distant shouts of Crown guards establishing cordons.
She ran the numbers.
The uprising was crushed. Sparkweave was dead. Mora was alive. Has to be.
If Mora was Crown—or on the Regent's side—they would have arrested the rebels. Made examples in the Plaza. Controlled the narrative.
Instead, Varis slaughtered his own citizens. Open massacre. No trials, no charges, no theatre.
That's not control. That's fear. Or rage.
Mora's actions scared him. Or infuriated him.
Whatever the clerk did—the gate, the form, the distraction—it was enough to make Varis personally intervene.
Regents don't intervene. They delegate. They distance.
Varis Calder stepped out of his palace and crushed people with his own hands.
That means Mora is dangerous. Dangerous and useful.
I've been waiting three years for someone like that.
Mora didn't ask for my help. But I'm going to give it anyway.
If he fails, I disappear. If he succeeds... I want to be on the right side when it's over.
The window had gone grey. Afternoon sliding toward evening. She could smell rain coming—that particular ozone-and-salt smell Stoneveil gets before a storm.
She stood. Moved to the window. Watched the smoke fade into the gathering clouds.
He's a wildcard. That makes him valuable.
Her finger traced the laurel-and-guillotine crest on her ring.
He may be able to do what Sparkweave couldn't.
She started planning. What to tell him tomorrow. How to offer intel without exposing herself to the wrong people.
She knew things. Useful things. Caia was born Caia Voss—minor nobles, dead in a purge. Voss was probably already marked for removal.
If Mora kills Varis, I want to be on the right side when the dust settles.
She took off the ring. Dropped it in her pocket.
And if he fails... I'll be long gone.
Tomorrow, I find him. Tonight, I prepare to run.
That's the difference between a survivor and a martyr.
I buried one martyr already. I won't be another.
The smoke faded. The storm clouds gathered. Kessa closed the shutters.
In the darkness of her room, she allowed herself one thought she hadn't spoken in three years.
I'm going to watch Varis Calder die.
And I'm going to smile.
[POV: Halven Voss]
The riot was over. The city was silent.
Halven Voss sat at his desk, pretending to work. His hands shook as he held the quill; the ink pooled where his fingers trembled. The book in front of him was a meaningless blur of numbers. He hadn't turned a page in an hour.
Someone knocked at the door, and Voss flinched. His heart lurched sideways, then steadied into something that felt like resignation.
This is it.
A guard entered. Young. Nervous. He held a folded note like it might bite him.
"Director Voss." The guard's voice cracked. "The Regent wishes to speak with you."
Voss took the note. The paper felt heavier than it should. He didn't need to read it—he already knew what it meant.
He warned me—"The guillotine is hungry, Halven"—and I signed the form anyway. I got the gate open. I let this happen.
The guard's footsteps receded down the hall while the fire in the grate crackled on, indifferent to the dread settling in Voss's chest.
Voss's eyes drifted to the portrait on the wall. His brother. Same dark eyes as... someone else. A woman in black-and-gold armor. A woman who called another man "father."
He looked away.
I should have told her years ago. I should have done a lot of things.
Minutes passed. Each one felt like an eternity.
Voss poured himself wine, but he couldn't bring himself to drink it. The glass sat on the edge of his desk, untouched, the dark liquid trembling with each thump of his heart.
He rehearsed what he would say. What he would confess. What he would hide.
If I give him Mora, maybe he'll spare me.
The thought tasted like ash. He swallowed it anyway.
But Mora's probably dead—everyone at the riot is dead, and that street was full of bodies. What do I have left to trade?
He paced. Three steps to the window. Three steps back. The clock on the mantle ticked, each second louder than the last. His own breathing filled the silence like an accusation.
The fire crackled, and the man in the portrait seemed to stare back at him. Voss stopped pacing. He looked at the door.
He's coming. Any moment now.
The door opened without a knock.
Varis Calder strolled in like he owned the room, and the absence of pressure was striking. No weight on Voss's shoulders, no blood dripping from his nose, no ears popping. Just a man in a dark coat, walking calmly into his office.
That was worse. Varis only spared the pressure for enemies worth the effort.
He owned the city. He owned the docks. He owned every ounce of stillstone that passed through these walls. He owned Halven Voss.
"The city is quiet," Varis said, examining the wine on the desk. He picked up Voss's untouched glass, sniffed it, nodded approval, and poured some for himself. "I enjoy the quiet."
Voss's mouth was dry. "My lord, I can explain—"
Varis waved a hand. The gesture was gentle, almost paternal. "Sit, Halven. Have some wine. We're old friends."
He sat in Voss's chair, and Voss remained standing, displaced, sweating through his collar.
He's in a good mood. That's worse—when Varis is angry, you see it coming, you can prepare, you can beg. When he's pleased... he's already decided.
Varis's gaze swept the room and landed on the portrait. Something expression flickered in his face, gone before Voss could read it.
"Your brother," Varis said. "I'd forgotten you had one."
Voss said nothing. His heart pounded against his ribs.
"He had good taste in wine." Varis took a sip. "Unlike you."
The interrogation began with Varis asking questions in a methodical, patient rhythm that made Voss feel like the walls were closing in.
"Who approved the secondary inspection?"
"I—the form was—"
"Who opened the gate?"
"There was that clerk," Voss said, his voice hollow. "The one from the Capital. He had papers, documentation... and I signed them without looking too closely."
Varis waved it off. "The clerk is dead or irrelevant. I'm asking about you."
He doesn't care about Mora. He cares about the signature—my signature—the one that opened the gate and made him kill forty people.
"You signed the form, Halven." Varis's voice was soft. Almost kind. That was the worst part. "Form 77-B. Secondary inspection. Ten minutes at the gate."
"I let him trick me." Voss's voice cracked. "I didn't want to look too closely at his papers because then I'd have to refuse, and refusing meant questions, and questions meant you."
"I'm sure he did."
The fire had burned lower. The shadows were longer now. The walls felt closer with each question.
Voss opened his mouth. The name was right there.
Mora. The clerk. He did something on the rooftop. The night of the storm. I saw him through the window—him and that bird.
He could say it. He could save himself. Maybe.
If I give him Mora, what changes? I still signed the form, I still let it happen. Mora is probably dead anyway—everyone at the riot is dead. But if he's not dead, if he's still out there... maybe the one thing I do right is the last thing I do.
Shut up, Halven. Just this once, shut up.
He closed his mouth and said, "I don't know anything else."
Varis's eyes narrowed. Just for a moment. Then he smiled.
"Pity."
Varis set down his wine. He stood. Straightened his coat with the casual precision of a man who had just finished a pleasant dinner.
"You'll be on the Plaza schedule tomorrow. Noon."
The words hit Voss like a physical blow. His knees nearly buckled.
"My lord—please—I can still be useful—"
"You were useful." Varis adjusted his cuffs. "Past tense."
"Anything." Voss heard himself begging, heard the pathetic crack in his own voice. "I'll give you anything. Information—names—"
"I warned you, Halven." Varis walked toward the door. His footsteps were soft on the carpet. "I gave you every chance. I have not fed it a Director in ages." He paused at the threshold and looked back. "The guillotine is hungry."
He walked to the door and paused.
"A guard will collect you shortly."
The door clicked shut. The footsteps faded, leaving Voss alone.
Tomorrow. Noon. The Plaza. I'll be another body for the crowd to spit on, dying on my knees begging for mercy that won't come.
The room felt smaller. The fire burned low.
Voss sat motionless for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then his eyes found the portrait—his brother, with the same dark eyes and stubborn jaw.
I'm going to die anyway. Everything I've done—every compromise, every blind eye, every prisoner I pretended not to see—it was all for nothing. I'm still going to die.
But maybe... maybe it doesn't have to be for nothing.
He thought about the clerk. Mora. Wherever he was.
He got the gate open. He caused the riot. He's working with Sparkweave. He's trying to kill Varis. If he's still alive, he might actually do it—and if I'm going to die anyway, I can make it easier for him.
Voss moved to his desk. Opened a drawer. Pulled out files: Form 77-B copy. Mora's personnel file. Gate authorization logs.
He fed them to the fire one by one.
Watched them burn.
The paper curled, blackened, became ash. The fire hissed as it consumed the evidence. For the first time in years, his hands were steady.
Then he hesitated, pulled out paper and ink, and wrote quickly—a letter to Caia containing everything he should have told her.
Your father was my brother. Varis killed him and your mother. You were never supposed to survive.
He didn't sign it, just folded it and placed it in his desk drawer.
Maybe she'll find it. Maybe she won't. But someone should know the truth.
I never told her. I should have told her years ago, but she deserves to know who killed her parents, even if she never reads it.
Varis made her into a weapon when she was supposed to be a child. My brother would have hated what I've become. At least I can give him this.
The door opened.
Voss turned, expecting the guard.
It wasn't the guard.
Caia Calder stood in the doorway, black-and-gold armor gleaming in the firelight, sword at hip, face unreadable. The Hawk-Crest badge on her shoulder caught the light—the elite guard, the Regent's personal enforcer, the executioner.
"Commander," Voss's voice came out wrong—too hopeful, too surprised. "I was just—"
Caia drew her sword, and the steel rang as it exited the scabbard. The fire crackled behind him while ash from the burned files drifted near his feet.
Caia spoke two words: "Loose ends."
Not the Plaza, not the crowd, not the guillotine. This is faster, cleaner, more efficient. That's Caia—always efficient. He realized Varis hadn't just sentenced him to die; he'd chosen the executioner.
He looked at her face. Really looked.
She has his jaw. His stance. Even the way she holds her sword—like it's an extension of her arm.
Her face was blank. Professional. Cold.
But her eyes... her eyes were the same as the portrait.
My brother's daughter. Varis was making her kill her own uncle, and she didn't even know it. She couldn't know—she'd never do this if she knew. He didn't just sentence me to die; he chose the executioner, using her to kill family without telling her the truth.
If I tell her now, she'll hesitate, and then he'll kill her too. The letter is in the drawer. Maybe someday she'll find it. I'm sorry, brother. I should have been braver.
Caia stepped forward and raised the blade. Voss didn't flinch, and for the first time in his life, he didn't run.
The blade entered below his ribs, angled up in a strike that was professional and efficient—she'd done this a thousand times. He felt the steel slide between his bones, cold at first, then blazing hot, and his legs gave out beneath him.
His knees hit the stone floor, and the blood was warm against his stomach before it turned cold. But he looked up at her, and his face wasn't filled with hate or fear or rage. It was something softer—love, relief, a burden finally lifting.
"You have my brother's eyes."
Caia froze for half a second.
Her lips parted. "What—"
"You're not Caia Calder. You're Caia Voss."
His eyes went still. The last breath left him.
She has his eyes—my brother's eyes. I'm sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you sooner. The letter is in the drawer. Find it, please. Varis killed your parents and made you into this. You were never supposed to be a weapon. You were supposed to be loved.
[POV: Caia Calder]
She stood motionless with her sword still dripping red. Her face was still unreadable, but something had cracked behind it.
"You're not Caia Calder. You're Caia Voss."
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense.
Her gaze moved to the portrait behind the man she'd killed. The same dark eyes. A fragment of memory stirred—a blurry face from before, a man who held her hand, a voice she couldn't quite place.
Daddy?
No. That wasn't right. That wasn't—
The portrait. The dying man. The same eyes.
Her hand trembled once before she stilled it. She cleaned the blade slowly, methodically, then sheathed it. She walked to the door, paused, and looked back at the portrait just once before she left.