The moment the shimmering archway collapsed behind them, sealing the portal, an irritated female voice drifted from the back room of the express salon.
Ethan Kane immediately braced himself. Beside him, Dean Brennan drew his dagger, sliding into a low, defensive stance as his eyes swept the dimly lit shop.
The door swung open, and a woman stepped out.
She looked to be in her late thirties, sporting a wild, messy mop of dyed-blonde curls and a pair of sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. Leaning lazily against the doorframe in a loose camisole and cotton shorts, she was clearly a victim of a rude awakening.
Flint Voss took one look at her and waved Dean down. "Relax, she’s one of us."
Dean kept his hand on the hilt of his blade, his gaze wary. "Someone actually lives here?"
"Beggars can't be choosers, kid," the woman shot back, her voice dripping with irritation as she glared at Dean. She turned her eyes to Flint. "Flint, where do you find these mannerless punks?"
"Just friends," Flint said with a placating smile. "Were you asleep?"
"Obviously. It’s the middle of the night, you idiot," she muttered, clearly having no interest in playing nice. "I thought you said you wouldn't need this place anymore."
"A minor complication," Flint said, brushing off her attitude. "Don't worry, the agreed price stands. You'll get every cent."
The woman grunted, apparently satisfied enough not to press for details. She turned back toward her room. "Don't touch my things. I open at nine tomorrow morning. Be up and out of the main room by then. Don't ruin my business."
Bam.
The door slammed shut.
Dean turned his head, staring at Flint. "Can we trust her?"
"Completely," Flint said with absolute certainty.
Dean stared at him for a beat, his expression unreadable. "Are you screwing her?"
"Screw your mother," Flint snapped, waving him off impatiently. "Go find a corner and shut up. You heard her—nine o'clock. We need to be settled and out of sight before she opens."
Seeing Flint so relaxed, Dean let some of the tension drain from his shoulders. "Is this dump really safe? An active business with people coming and going..."
"Hiding in plain sight," Flint grunted.
He walked into the bathroom with practiced familiarity, retrieved a broom, and swept up the loose hair clippings left on the floor before tossing himself down to sleep.
Dean watched the closed door of the back room for a moment longer before sliding down against the wall. He kept his eyes locked on Ethan.
"Sleep if you want. If you don't, sit there and don't make a sound. I am in a spectacular mood right now, and the first person to annoy me dies."
It was a blatant warning. The sudden appearance of the Lampbearer, combined with Ethan's unexpected survival, had clearly pushed Dean to his limit.
Ethan nodded cooperatively. "Understood. I won't cause any trouble."
Without missing a beat, Ethan grabbed Petra Marlowe by the wrist and dragged her to the opposite corner of the room. Dean watched them go, assuming Ethan was simply keeping his hostage close in case things turned sideways.
"Hungry?" Ethan asked quietly.
Once they reached the corner, Ethan opened his crate of supplies and pulled out a vacuum-sealed, soy-marinated egg. He held it out to Petra.
Ever since her world had shattered earlier that night, Petra had been acting like a hollow shell. She let herself be led, showing no resistance when Ethan pulled her by the wrist. But when she saw the food in his hand, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed her blank eyes.
It was just surprise, though. Certainly not gratitude.
When she didn't reach for it, Ethan forced the egg into her hand. "Eat."
Petra’s eyes welled with tears. The sheer, suffocating weight of her humiliation and misery finally broke through her shock.
"You can see how close Dean is to the edge," Ethan whispered, his voice barely audible. "If you push him, he will kill you. You don't want to die, do you?"
Petra quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling a sob as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"See? You don't want to die," Ethan murmured. "Neither do I."
In her state of total emotional exhaustion, Petra couldn't begin to comprehend why Ethan was suddenly acting so gentle, let alone why he was sharing his food.
"Just eat," Ethan urged, nudging the egg closer.
Petra was starving. The sheer trauma of the past twenty-four hours had temporarily numbed her body's demands, but with Ethan's prompting, the gnawing pit in her stomach flared back to life. She bit her lip, tore open the packaging, and stuffed the egg into her mouth.
It tasted cheap and processed, but to a girl who felt entirely abandoned by the world, she no longer had the luxury of being picky.
"Can I... have another?" she whispered.
Asking him for food still felt degrading, but the single egg had done nothing to satisfy her. If anything, it had only awakened her appetite, leaving her hungrier than before.
"Sure," Ethan replied. But he didn't reach back into the crate.
Petra stared at him, confused.
"Answer one question first," Ethan said, his face deadpan.
Petra had no idea that the first egg was what Ethan considered "seed capital."
Ethan knew hunger better than anyone. When you starved for long enough, the pain eventually dulled into a numb, hollow ache. But if you fed that starvation just a tiny morsel of food, it acted like a match thrown onto dry tinder. The stomach woke up, and the hunger returned twice as fierce.
Petra was a sheltered mayor's daughter. She didn't understand the physiological torture of starvation. But Ethan had survived on the streets; he knew how to play her hunger like an instrument.
"What question?" Petra asked defensively.
Ethan leaned in, keeping his voice low. "The guy on the phone. You know him?"
At the mention of Felix Grayson, Petra’s eyes went dark.
Ethan didn't let her sink back into her depression. "Do you know what a Lampbearer actually does?"
This was the information he needed. He couldn't risk asking Dean or Flint without raising suspicions, but Petra was different. She was the mayor's daughter. She had lived a life of privilege and likely knew things the average slum-dweller could only guess at. More importantly, she was far easier to manipulate than the two killers sleeping across the room.
A single cheap egg to unlock a vault of secrets. It was a massive profit.
"I... I don't know what a Lampbearer is," Petra stammered.
Ethan’s expression hardened. He stared at her for a long, silent moment, his brow furrowing.
"Are you sure you don't want to eat, Bandit?"
Petra froze.
The tiny spark of warmth she had felt when Ethan offered her food vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp shock.
"What... did you call me?"
"Nothing," Ethan said, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes, ignoring her completely.
Petra glared at him, her chest heaving.
Bandit.
That was her dog's name.
A wave of intense humiliation washed over her, sparking a sudden, reckless fury. Forgetting the filth on his clothes, she lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar. Ethan didn't fight back. He simply opened his eyes and stared at her with a chillingly calm expression.
Across the room, Dean opened one eye, watching the scuffle with mild amusement.
"What did you call me?" Petra demanded, her voice trembling as she struggled to keep her anger whispered.
"Bandit," Ethan said flatly. "A stray bandit."
He reached up, gripped her wrist, and forced her hand off his collar with a slow, crushing strength that made her wince. He shoved her back. She stumbled, but immediately tried to lunge at him again.
"If Dean called you that, would you have the guts to react like this?" Ethan asked.
Petra’s hand froze mid-air.
There was no mockery in Ethan's eyes, only a cold, analytical detachment. "You're only screaming at me because you think we're the same. You think because my life is just as worthless as yours right now, you have the right to vent your anger on me."
Petra lowered her head, her shoulders shaking.
"In your eyes, I'm just a stray dog too," Ethan continued, pulling the supply crate closer to himself. "But I'm not going to starve you out of spite. I'm offering a fair trade."
He tapped the box. "I have food. You have information. You give me something valuable, and I feed you. We're both pawns who can't control our own fates. We might as well use each other."
Ethan forced a thin, mirthless smile. "Doesn't that make sense, Miss Marlowe?"
A few tears escaped Petra’s eyes, splashing onto the dusty floorboards. The title "Miss Marlowe" felt like a cruel slap in the face.
"Don't... don't call me that," she choked out.
"Fine. Bandit it is." Ethan reached into the crate and pulled out a package of vacuum-sealed spiced beef—the best thing in the box. "Shall we start the trade?"
This time, Petra didn't fight the name. She stared at the beef. "What do you want to know? I really don't know what a Lampbearer is..."
"Fair enough. But you know the guy on the phone," Ethan said, placing the beef on the floor between them. "Tell me about him."
Petra’s eyes locked onto the meat. "He's... exceptional."
"Great. What else?"
"He's very handsome."
"A pretty face isn't going to keep us alive. Next."
"He's powerful."
Ethan sighed and picked up the beef, pulling it back toward his chest.
Petra panicked. "I really don't know much! I just know he's from Dawnspire! His family is incredibly influential there!"
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. "Dawnspire?"
Across the room, Dean’s eyes cracked open at the sudden rise in Petra’s volume. He cast a sharp glance toward their corner before closing them again.
"What is Dawnspire?" Ethan asked, his curiosity piqued.
Petra stared at him in disbelief. "You've never heard of Dawnspire?"
Ethan didn't answer, waiting silently for her to explain. He didn't just not know about Dawnspire; he barely knew his way around Northridge City.
Realizing she had no leverage, Petra quickly explained, "I've only heard people talk about it. They say Dawnspire is a city where the night never falls. If you live there, you never have to fear the Voidstriders."
Ethan’s brow furrowed. If this Felix Grayson came from a paradise like that, why would he ever come to a run-down dump like Northridge City? Who would leave a safe haven to hunt in the dark?
Petra quickly poured out everything else she knew about Felix Grayson, though most of it was useless gossip.
He was twenty-one, a senior at the Luminarch Academy in Northridge City. His status as a Lampbearer wasn't public knowledge, but rumors had leaked among the student body. He was wealthy, brilliant, and handsome, making him the target of intense obsession. Students actually compiled dossiers on his favorite foods, his habits, and his schedule, selling them for high prices on campus. That was how the rumor of him being a Lampbearer had spread.
Ethan found the concept baffling. People actually paid money for information about someone else's daily routine? It was entirely beyond his comprehension.
Still, it was enough to earn her the spiced beef. Ethan tossed the package to her, though he felt he had overpaid.
Petra tore into the plastic. Having actually worked for her meal, she found the cheap beef tasted better than anything she had ever eaten in her life. She ate too fast, choking slightly.
Ethan watched her for a moment, then pulled a bottle of water from the crate and held it out. "When you're done, I have another question."
Petra swallowed hard, clearing her throat, but she didn't reach for the bottle. Instead, she pointed toward Dean.
"Water doesn't count as food," she said, her voice shaking but determined. "He said the food belongs to you. He didn't say anything about the water. I can drink that whenever I want."
Ethan stared at her, dumbfounded.
It took him a moment to process. He couldn't help but chuckle softly.
This little bandit adapts fast, he thought. She's already learning how to negotiate for her survival.