Page 143 of A Court of Wings and Shadows

Kaelith’s voice moved through my mind like thunder wrapped in silk.

Do not tell me you trust that traitor with your life.

With my life?I responded.Yes. With my heart… never again.

She growled softly.

Good. Don’t get dead.

Then her presence faded, leaving a faint echo of concern behind. I smiled faintly.

The door creaked open, and Remy stepped inside wearing a tunic even dirtier than mine. There were three different stains on the front, and I couldn’t tell if the brown streak across his collar was dried blood or wine.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded.

We slipped from my room and into the castle halls like ghosts, moving with practiced ease. The guards barely glanced our way. One even stepped aside to let us pass without question, and I couldn’t help but wonder, why did they fear him so much?

Remy didn’t carry a visible weapon. He didn’t wear a noble crest or bark orders. And yet the air shifted around him, like the shadows bent to make space.

Outside the castle compound, the world opened up, messier, louder, realer.

We navigated the stone alleys and market streets of Warriath’s village as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting the world in gold. The scent of roasted meat drifted from open tavern doors, mingling with the odor of damp earth and hot bread. Vendors shouted over each other, children darted between stalls, and laundry lines crisscrossed the air like banners from another war.

It was just before dinner, the busiest time of day.

Perfect cover.

Remy moved like he belonged to this place. I followed half a step behind, just a shadow with no name.

Whatever came next, I was ready.

Because I had to be.

The streets of Warriath village pulsed with energy as the sun dipped lower, casting long golden shadows between crooked stone buildings and overpacked market stalls. I stuck close to Remy’s side as we wove through crowds thick with laughter, arguments, the clang of metal from blacksmith stalls, and the occasional shriek of children darting underfoot.

We passed out of the merchant sector, past rows of aging homes with sagging shutters and cracked steps, until we reached the southwest edge of the city, where the cobblestones were broken, and no guards patrolled unless blood hit the dirt.

A tavern squatted at the corner, leaning just enough to look like a stiff breeze could bring it down. Its sign swung lazily overhead, cracked and weather-worn, with the name scrawled in fading red paint—The Crooked Claw.

It fit.

The stench hit me the moment we opened the door, burnt meat, sour ale, unwashed bodies, and something darker beneath it all. Inside, the tavern was a hive of noise—tankards clashing, dice rolling, someone cursing in three different dialects. A manbellowed with laughter at the next table while two others argued over who owed who a broken nose.

They were serving something in tin bowls, stew by the consistency, but I couldn’t identify a single ingredient. The bread was stale, crusted in spots I didn’t want to question. The smell of beer clung to the air like smoke.

Remy didn’t slow. He moved through the crowd with purpose, and I followed him to a shadowed table in the far back, tucked near a wall splintered with knife marks.

A tall, slender man was waiting for us.

He had pale, sun-worn skin and narrow eyes the color of old brass. His hair was shaved on one side and fell in an uneven curtain on the other, and his fingers twitched constantly, like they hadn’t learned how to be still. A jagged scar split his top lip, making his smile seem half-permanent.

Remy clasped the man’s hand, firm, brief, and I caught the flash of silver as a coin passed between their palms.

We sat.

“I’m Derren,” the man said, his voice rough with too many cigars and not enough sleep. He looked at me with a curiosity I didn’t like. “And you must be the ghost the Order misplaced.”