The microscopic twitch of the black thread was enough to send a jolt of raw adrenaline through Ethan Kane. But the moment his focus slipped in that burst of excitement, the thread went dead again, settling back into its inert, stubborn state.
A faint wave of disappointment washed over him, but it was instantly swallowed by a surge of grim determination.
At the very least, he had proof. His method was correct.
Since the moment he had first harbored the Voidseep, this was the first tangible progress he could actually grasp. As long as he had a direction, the rest was merely a matter of grinding down the hours, chipping away at the mystery bit by bit.
When it came to sheer, stubborn patience, Ethan feared no one.
His entire life had been a grueling endurance test. There wasn’t a pampered bone in his body, nor a single cell that demanded comfort. If a task promised to keep him alive, he would endure whatever misery, pain, or exhaustion it took to see it through.
Shaking off the fatigue, Ethan locked his focus back onto the invisible threads. This time, it took him even less time to make the darkness stir.
Dawn was beginning to bleed through the cracks of the shuttered windows, and Petra Marlowe’s eyelids felt like lead. Still, she kept her word, her eyes fixed on the sleeping Ethan.
Honestly, there was nothing appealing about him.
Petra had grown up surrounded by the groomed, handsome heirs of the city’s elite, and Ethan possessed none of their charms. He was average, standing barely five-foot-nine, with a frame so scrawny he couldn't even fill out Warren Calloway’s oversized clothes. The stolen threads hung off him like a sack, stripped of any aesthetic appeal. Worse, he was caked in dried mud and grime. You didn’t even need to use your nose to know he reeked.
His face was equally unremarkable—a sallow, washed-out complexion, flat features, and a scattering of sunspots from years of harsh exposure.
Petra wasn't watching him out of appreciation. She was trying to determine if his warning about sleepwalking was a genuine affliction or merely a pathetic excuse to try something inappropriate in the dark.
At first, Ethan’s sleep was quiet—certainly quieter than Flint Voss, whose snores currently rattled the floorboards on the other side of the room. But around three in the morning, the silence broke.
Ethan, who had been slumped limply against the wall, sat bolt upright.
Petra’s hand flew up, ready to strike if he lunged.
But she froze. He wasn’t coming for her. His eyes were wide shut, his head tilted down as if he were staring blindly at his own wrist.
He stayed in that exact, rigid posture for a solid hour.
Petra’s skepticism began to melt into genuine unease. And then, the silence was shattered by a soft, raspy giggle.
In the dim, shadow-drenched room, the sudden sound of a sleeping man giggling sent a violent shiver down Petra’s spine. She fought a rising urge to shake him awake, but she forced herself to stay still. He had given her two packs of beef; she would pay her dues.
Thankfully, the laughter subsided quickly, and Ethan returned to "staring" at his wrist. Forty minutes later, he giggled again—silently this time, his chest shaking.
Then came the next bizarre display. He raised his right hand into the air, flicking his fingers and pinching the empty space as if unraveling an invisible spool of thread.
The display was deeply unsettling.
By the time the last remnants of the night were chased away by the pale morning light, Petra was wide awake, her nerves shot. She let out a long, exhausted yawn.
"You really stayed up all night?"
Ethan’s voice startled her. He was looking at her, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Good dog, Bandit. You kept your word."
Petra snapped her mouth shut, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "Stop calling me Bandit!"
Ethan ignored her, stretching his limbs with a satisfying pop.
Petra could feel the sheer, unbothered lightness in his mood. How can someone wake up that happy after sleeping on a dirty floor?
Ethan stood, shook out his stiff legs, and walked toward the bathroom.
Soon, the sound of rushing tap water echoed through the small apartment. Petra cover her ears, embarrassed by the lack of privacy, and thus missed the faint, high-frequency fwoosh-fwoosh of invisible threads cutting through the air over the sound of the pipes.
By eight in the morning, Petra had barely drifted off when a hand tapped her shoulder.
"Get up," Ethan said, his tone brisk. "She’s opening for business."
He pointed toward the door. Lucy, the salon owner, had already opened the front shutters. She was dressed in a clean athletic tracksuit, her hair freshly dried, and a light layer of makeup softening the sharp lines of her face. She looked far more put-together than she had the night before, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes barely noticeable.
"Did you sweep the floor?" Lucy asked, wringing out a wet rag as she glanced toward Flint, who was leaning against the counter with a freshly lit cigarette.
"Yeah," Flint mumbled around the filter. "Couldn't sleep in a dump."
"There was a chair," Lucy replied, her voice cool and devoid of warmth. "How long are you staying?"
"Hard to say. We’ll pay by the day. You won’t lose a dime." Flint patted his stomach, reached into the supply crate, and pulled out a pack of vacuum-sealed beef.
Ethan opened his mouth to remind him that they had agreed to leave the food behind, but he thought better of it and shut his mouth.
Flint caught his look and smirked. "What? Want me to trade you some secrets for this?"
Ethan didn't flinch. He knew both men had heard his exchange with Petra the night before. "If you're willing to teach, Flint, I’m willing to learn. The food has nothing to do with it."
Flint’s grin widened.
Nearby, Petra rolled her eyes in sheer disgust. What a shameless brownnoser. Her father was surrounded by sycophants just like him. Some called it high emotional intelligence; she called it pathetic flattery. Sparing with me over a scrap of beef, but he folds the moment the older guy wants some...
"Fine," Flint said, nodding slowly. "When we get a quiet moment, I’ll show you a few tricks."
In the brief time they had spent together, Flint’s estimation of Ethan had risen considerably. At his age, the boy was remarkably level-headed, keeping his emotions entirely under wraps and knowing exactly how to leverage his limited assets to buy whatever edge he could get. His methods were still raw, but with the right guidance, the kid had the makings of something formidable.
He’d make a hell of a night broker, Flint thought.
At half past eight, Lucy ushered the four of them into her private back room. Before closing the door, she laid down the law.
"Keep your voices down. I don't need my customers thinking I’m running a brothel. Stay off the bed—don't you dare get dirt on my sheets. And if you men need to use the toilet, you sit down. No standing."
"I am a grown-ass man," Dean Brennan hissed, his pride instantly flaring. "You expect me to sit down to piss?"
"Don't like it? Find another hole. I’ll even waive the fee," Lucy replied, her expression ice-cold.
Dean turned to Flint, silently asking if there was a third safe house. When Flint gave a slow, negative shake of his head, Dean growled under his breath.
"Fine. Sitting it is." He slammed the door shut behind them.
"It’s not like you're losing a leg," Flint murmured dryly. "What's the drama about?"
Within minutes of entering the room, Petra collapsed against the wardrobe and drifted off. She hadn't slept a full night in days, and her shift keeping watch over Ethan had pushed her body past its absolute limit. Heavy dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes.
The other three men, however, were relatively rested. Ethan in particular looked sharp and energized.
"Two packs of beef just to have her watch you sleep," Dean muttered, still irritated by the bathroom rules. He looked at Ethan, searching for a fight. "What, you don't trust us?"
"Drop it, Dean," Flint intervened smoothly. "Save your anger for the people who deserve it. More importantly—what are you doing with the girl?"
The question pulled a heavy, suffocating silence over the room.
They had successfully evaded the Lampbearer by retreating to this corner of the city, but the hunt wasn't going to stop. The Duskwardens were likely tearing Northridge City apart block by block.
The Nightbound’s original objective was simple: use Petra Marlowe to force Mayor Victor Marlowe to open the Nightveil Passage. Had the Lampbearer not interfered, they wouldn't be backed into this corner.
Just as Victor Marlowe couldn't comprehend why the Nightbound had targeted a backwater like Northridge City, Dean couldn't understand why a Lampbearer was stationed here. Why would Dawnspire let an elite of that caliber waste away in a border town?
But dissecting the mystery wouldn't save them.
They couldn't hide in this back room forever. The Lampbearer’s reputation was legendary—they were like starved hounds; once they caught a scent, they never let go unless you cut their throats. And Dean knew his limits. He didn't have the strength to cut a Lampbearer's throat.
They were stuck. They couldn't fight, and they couldn't run.
Initially, four Nightbound had been assigned to the kidnapping. But because they couldn't predict how long Victor Marlowe would stall, the other three—including their squad leader—had already slipped out of Northridge City to attend to other matters.
Dean was the sole operative left on the ground.
Even the phone call he had received earlier wasn't from his comrades; it was from a local mole inside the city's network. Dean had considered calling back to check on the situation, but he had ultimately decided against it.
The Lampbearer was no fool. Dean's timely escape meant a leak was obvious. The Lampbearer would be auditing every communication channel. Calling now would not only expose his position but also doom his informant.
Dean was entirely, utterly isolated.
Fortunately, Flint was a consummate professional. As a broker, Flint's job ended the moment he delivered them to a safe house. He had no obligation to stay and share the risk, yet he remained.
Then there was the problem of Petra.
Killing her would be easy, but pointless.
From the start, even while masked, Dean had treated the girl with a degree of care. The Nightbound killed to achieve their goals, but they were not mindless slaughterers. Senseless murder violated their creed. By all accounts, Petra Marlowe was innocent. Her privileged life might have been built on the suffering of others, but that wasn't enough to justify her execution.
Yet, Dean had made a wager with the Lampbearer. If the Nightveil Passage wasn't opened within two days, he had sworn to kill her.
The passage wasn't going to open. When the time came... could he actually bring himself to do it?
Dean looked at the sleeping girl. There was no malice in his eyes, only the deep, agonizing conflict of a man trapped between his word and his conscience.
"She knows too much," Flint said quietly, gesturing toward the floor. "She’s seen our faces. She knows this location."
Dean frowned. Flint was speaking in pragmatics, but the subtext was clear: Petra Marlowe was a loose end that needed to be severed.
Ethan stayed silent. When you don't know the full board, the best move is to keep your head down. He had no idea what Dean planned to do with him once this was over, so he had no business worrying about the mayor's daughter.
"We'll see," Dean sighed, rubbing his temples. "If the Lampbearer actually tracks us down, whether she saw our faces won't make a damn bit of difference anyway."
Ethan noted the resignation in Dean’s voice. It sounded like the man had already accepted defeat. It made him wonder what kind of monster this Lampbearer truly was. To reduce a hardened operative like Dean to such quiet despair without even showing his face was chilling.
"Don't worry, Flint. If things go south, I won't drag you down with me," Dean said, forcing a faint smile. "Our people still want to do business with you in the future. Can't afford to lose the most reliable broker in the district."
"You're giving up?" Flint asked, his brows furrowing.
Dean shook his head. "Giving up? Never. But if I can't run, I might as well see what a Lampbearer is made of. It's not every day you get to trade blows with a legend."
"Dean, I broker deals. I don't sell my life," Flint said, his voice dropping to a low, serious gravel. "If the walls start closing in, don't expect me to play the hero."
"I know, Flint," Dean smiled. "When the time comes, you run."
Flint opened his mouth to offer one last piece of advice, but the words died in his throat as a sweet, high-pitched voice drifted through the thin door from the front salon.
"Oh my! To think the honorable Duskwardens would grace my humble little shop! What an absolute pleasure!"