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Taly had been up there plenty. Ivain used to let her and Skye sit in on meetings with the clients he deemed “less dangerous”—those who weren’t likely to throw knives or spells if things went south. And during her days as a salvager, she’d ventured up there solo more than once. That’s where she’d found a shadow mage crazy enough to make her pistols, no questions asked.

Taly slowed as she reached the top of the stairs, keeping her footsteps light. The air here was different—hushed, tense, carrying the weight of whispered trades and guarded glances.

She slipped behind a half-open door, cracked to let out the smell of heated metal and burnt herbs. A Nephilim blacksmith stood hunched over a cluttered workbench, his tall, bony form almost skeletal in the low light. The flickering glow of embers in the small forge cast sharp shadows across his gaunt face.

The blacksmith looked up. His eyes were dark pools against paper-white skin, like the hollow sockets of a skull. He muttered something in a garbled, guttural language, the sound fizzing through the air like static.

“Shut up,” Taly hissed. “You’ll blow my cover.”

The Nephilim let out a low, rattling grumble. Then he shrugged, clearly uninterested in prying. These were the backrooms, after all. Some things were better left unexplained.

He turned back to his work, the metallic clink of his tools filling the air once more, as if to say,whatever trouble you’re in, it’s none of my concern.

Taly peered out into the hall, watching as Luck approached a nondescript door at the end of the hallway. She hesitated momentarily, her hand curling into a fist before knocking sharply. The sound echoed against the quiet.

The door opened with a creak, and a hobgoblin in a fine suit stepped out. He was broad and wrinkled, standing roughly even with the girl.

“Do you have it?” Luck asked, hushed and urgent.

The hobgoblin wore a scowl that seemed permanently etched into his wrinkled face. “Ol’ Grizzlethorn’s workin’ on it, runt. Ain’t somethin’ you just pull out of thin air.”

Luck frowned, her small face hardening. “My master won’t be pleased.”

Grizzlethorn snorted. “Yer master’s already killed half my bloody contacts. He can either wait, or he can wipe out the rest and get nothin’.”

The girl’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with something—annoyance, maybe fear. She didn’t say anything else, just gave a curt nod and turned on her heel, her coat sweeping around her as she marched back down the hall.

Threads rippled around the girl, coiled and frayed in all the wrong places. Who the hell was this kid?Whatwas she?

There wasn’t time for answers. Stepping out from behind the door, Taly blocked the girl’s path.

Luck didn’t startle. She simply stopped. Her eyes flicked over the impediment.

Then came the smile. Small. Joyless.

“There she is,” Luck said, soft as a curse. “Do you ever get tired of being so predictable?”

Taly ignored the bait. “Bold move, showing your face here.”

A small shrug. “One of us has to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re nothing. Just lucky. And too dumb to see it.”

Taly shook her head. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to earn this child’s loathing, but fine. Two could play. “Look, I don’tknow who told you mercenary work was a viable career path, but there are easier ways to cry for help.”

That wiped the smile right off Luck’s face. For the first time, her expression hardened. “You think this is me asking forhelp?”

“I think you’re ten. You should be fingerpainting, not running errands for Daddy Evil. It’s still not going to make him love you.”

Luck’s glare was sharp enough to slice.

“Alright,” Taly said. “I’m done with the games. You’re coming with me.”

She stepped in and grabbed the girl’s wrist.

The Weave buckled. She felt it twist, then split, her magic snapping to the side so hard it nearly took her balance with it.