Page 13 of City of Secrets and Shadows (Empire of Vengeance #2)

13

I slipped out of the academy like a ghost, my footsteps silent against the polished marble. The hallways were deserted, most students either asleep or engaged in late-night study sessions or revelry behind closed doors. Only the occasional guard stood watch, and they paid little attention to a slave leaving after duties were complete. The night air hit my face like a slap, cool and bracing. I welcomed the sting of it. Better than the hollowness expanding in my chest where Livia’s words still echoed. Fear for what Septimus might do.

I understood her reasons. Of course I did. Survival in the Empire demanded compromises, especially for those of us born with the wrong blood. But understanding didn't lessen the ache.

“Always last,” I muttered, kicking a stone and watching it skitter across the cobblestones. “Always fucking last.”

My feet carried me without direction, away from the academy district with its clean streets and imperious architecture. Down, always down, toward the lower quarters where the stink of the tanneries and fisheries mingled with the sweat of the desperate. Where Imperial guards ventured only in pairs or more, and where those with Talfen blood could sometimes, briefly, forget they were conquered. These places struggled and gasped for air beneath the Empire’s boot.

My boots scuffed against loose stones. I hadn’t paid attention to where I was going, simply putting distance between myself and the academy. Between myself and Livia, waiting in her room for Septimus. Septimus would be there by now, his arrogant hands claiming what moments ago had been mine. I could see her in my mind, opening the door to him, letting that stola slide off her shoulders, revealing the hard, strong beauty beneath. I could almost see the smug look in his eyes as he watched her. My mind twisted like a knife in my own gut, forcing images I couldn’t escape. I could see it with sickening clarity — his fingers tracing her skin where my lips had been, his mouth on hers, tasting me without knowing it. Would he fuck her roughly? Would she fake her pleasure, those soft sounds she made with me now performed for him? The thought of him inside her made me want to vomit, to scream, to put my fist through stone. I hated him with a fury that burned like acid in my veins. Hated that he could walk through the front door while I skulked through servants’ passages. Hated that he didn't have to savour each moment with her because he assumed there would always be more. Bastard. I wanted to tear that smug satisfaction from his face, to make him bleed, to make him beg. I quickened my pace, bile rising in my throat, my jealousy a living, breathing monster clawing at my insides.

Marcus would have understood if he’d discovered Livia and me together. There would have been confusion and maybe disgust, but he was not cruel and he’d always treated me as human. Had I been found in Livia’s bed by Marcus, we would have eventually reached some kind of understanding, I was sure. But Septimus...

My hands clenched involuntarily at the thought of him. Septimus, with his perfect chiselled jaw and cold eyes. With a strong athletic body like one of the gods. The one who’d escaped the arena the same as I had, but whose human blood meant he could walk freely in daylight while I remained a shadow. A slave to my bloodline. We’d both worn the same chains, felt the same lash on our backs, but his light brown skin, the white of his eyes, the rounded tips of his ears; all of these had given him something I could never claim — acceptance in any kind of society.

I hated him. Hated his casual cruelty toward my people. Hated the way he looked through me rather than at me. Hated how he claimed Livia as if she were a possession to be owned rather than a woman to be cherished.

Yet beneath that hatred lay something disturbing — a current of tension whenever we occupied the same space. A violent energy that hummed between us. Sometimes I imagined confronting him, alone, away from Livia and Marcus. I imagined the hatred between us exploding into something physical — fists and teeth and blood, pain transforming into a different kind of release. The thought both repulsed and compelled me, like pressing on a bruise to feel its boundaries.

What did that make me? To hate a man and still feel this pull toward him?

I found myself in a small square, its centre marked by a fountain that had likely been grand once. Now it gurgled weakly, water trickling from a cracked stone basin. I stared into its shallow pool, finding my reflection in the rippling surface.

Short white hair — the colour all Talfen were born with, a stark contrast to my ebony skin. Sharp features that humans sometimes found beautiful and sometimes found alien. And my eyes — solid black pools that betrayed my bloodline more clearly than anything else. No whites, no visible iris. Just darkness.

My mother had called my eyes “night mirrors,” claiming they reflected the eternal darkness from which our ancestors had emerged. “You see differently because you come from the stars,” she would say, stroking my hair as a child. My heart ached for her suddenly, my memories of her always tainted by the memory of her body, battered and bloody after the Imperial soldiers had violated her over and over until her body finally gave out.

If anyone understood Livia’s need for vengeance it was me, and the more she spoke of it, the more I envied her drive for it. I had never even considered it, too beaten down, too despairing, but Livia gave me hope. Hope for the blood of the man who tormented those like me.

But now, staring at my reflection, I felt a momentary, shameful wish — what if my eyes were normal? What if I could walk the streets without immediately being marked as other? What if Livia didn’t have to choose between me and her safety?

The thought sickened me as soon as it formed. Self-hatred was a luxury my people couldn’t afford. Not when the Empire worked so diligently to make us hate ourselves already.

I turned away from the fountain, disgusted by my moment of weakness.

A commotion down a nearby alley caught my attention — raised voices, the sound of something falling. I moved toward it without conscious thought, drawn by the aggressive tone of the voices.

Four Imperial guards had cornered a young half-breed vendor against his cart. They were dressed in the simplified uniforms of city watchmen, but their bearing betrayed their military training. The vendor couldn’t have been more than sixteen, his white hair falling around his shoulders in tight braids, his human eyes wide with fear.

“—tax for selling after dark,” one guard was saying, his hand resting conspicuously on his sword hilt.

“Please, I’ve paid all required fees,” the boy responded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have documentation—”

“Are you calling me a liar?” The guard stepped closer. “That’s a serious offense, Talfen.”

“No, sir, I just—”

The guard shoved the cart, sending carefully arranged textiles tumbling to the dirty ground. “Clumsy of you,” he observed with a smirk. “Now they’re soiled. Who would buy them?”

I should have walked away. That’s what any sensible Talfen would do. Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention. Survive today so you can fight tomorrow.

But I thought of Livia sending me away to protect me. Of Septimus waiting for her. Of my own reflection in the fountain and that moment of shameful weakness.

“That’s enough,” I said, stepping into the alley.

All five heads turned toward me — four guards with expressions ranging from surprise to anticipation, and one terrified Talfen boy whose eyes widened further at the sight of me.

“Another one,” said the guard who had been speaking. “Friend of yours?” he asked the boy.

“No, I—” the boy began.

“Go,” I told him, not taking my eyes off the guards. “Now.”

He hesitated for only a moment before gathering what he could salvage and darting past the guards, who were now fully focused on me.

“That’s interference with city watch business,” said the leader, a heavyset man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. “Serious offense.”

“Four armed men against a boy selling scarves? What kind of business is that?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

“The kind that teaches discipline,” said another guard, younger than the rest, eager to prove himself. “Something your kind needs regular reminders of.”

I smiled thinly. “Why don’t you teach me, then?”

The first punch came from the youngest one, telegraphed so clearly I could have dodged it in my sleep. I side-stepped and struck back, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to send him stumbling backward.

That was the last clean hit I managed.

The other three converged on me at once. I blocked the first few blows, landed a solid kick to one guard’s knee that drew a satisfying howl of pain. But they had numbers, weapons, and the weight of Imperial authority behind them.

A baton struck my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. A fist connected with my temple, sending my vision swimming. I fought back as best I could, but each time I focused on one attacker, another would strike from behind or from the side.

“Enough,” said the leader eventually, watching as I struggled to rise from the cobblestones. “I think he’s learned his lesson.”

The youngest guard, the one whose jaw I’d struck, disagreed. His boot connected with my side, once, twice, three times. Each impact sent fresh waves of pain through my already battered body.

“I said enough,” the leader repeated, with more authority. “We’re not killers. Just teaching a lesson about knowing your place.”

They left me there, bleeding onto the cobblestones, every breath a new exploration in pain. I tried to push myself up but fell back, my arms trembling too badly to support my weight.

“Lie still,” said a voice from the shadows. “You’ll only make it worse.”

I tensed, preparing for more pain, but the figure that emerged was not another guard. A woman knelt beside me, her face lined with age and experience, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a practical knot. Her eyes were a deep brown, but something in their shape betrayed her mixed heritage — Talfen blood, diluted but still present.

“Can you walk?” she asked, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind. “We need to move you before they decide to come back.”

“I think so,” I managed, though I wasn’t certain.

She helped me to my feet, surprisingly strong for her age and stature. I leaned heavily on her as we made our way through a maze of back alleys and narrow passages. The pain in my ribs made each step an exercise in control, but the alternative — staying where the guards had left me — seemed worse.

“Where are we going?” I asked when I could spare the breath for speaking.

“Somewhere safe,” she replied. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”

I didn’t. The academy was out of the question — showing up bloodied and beaten would raise too many questions. Marcus’s apartments were closer, but reaching them would require moving through more heavily patrolled areas.

“No,” I admitted. “No better suggestions.”

She nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “Then trust me a little longer.”

We eventually reached a nondescript building on the edge of the merchant district. From the outside, it appeared to be a warehouse or storage facility, its windows shuttered, its door solid and unmarked. The woman produced a key from within her robes and unlocked it, ushering me inside before securing it behind us.

The interior was unexpected — clean and organized, with several tables and chairs arranged in the centre of the space. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with supplies, books, and what looked like medical equipment. Lamps burned with a low, steady light, illuminating the space without drawing attention from outside.

“Sit,” she instructed, guiding me to a chair. “Let me see the damage.”

I complied, too exhausted and in too much pain to question. She moved with practiced efficiency, gathering supplies from the shelves and returning to examine my injuries. Her hands were gentle but thorough as she cleaned the blood from my face.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked as she worked.

She met my gaze directly, her dark eyes assessing. “I saw what you did for that boy. Not many would risk themselves for a stranger.”

“Not many would be stupid enough to take on four armed guards,” I amended with a wince as she applied some stinging solution to a cut above my eye.

Her mouth curved in a small smile. “Stupid? Perhaps. Or perhaps exactly what is needed in times like these.” She set aside the bloodied cloth. “Remove your shirt. I need to check your ribs.”

I hesitated, then complied, sucking in a sharp breath as the movement pulled at already bruised muscles. Dark bruises were already forming across my torso, concentrated on my left side where the guard’s boot had connected repeatedly.

She probed gently with experienced fingers. “Two, possibly three cracked ribs. Nothing broken completely, from what I can tell. You were lucky.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” I muttered.

“You’re alive and conscious. Trust me, that’s lucky.” She began applying a pungent-smelling salve to the worst of the bruises. “You’re a warrior.”

I stiffened. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you fought. Even outnumbered, you had technique. And you’re not from around here.”

Her eyes flickered up to mine. “Don’t worry. I have no love for Imperial informants.”

“I’m not—” I began, then stopped myself. “I work for Lady Livia Cantius. She’s one of the entrants at the Dragon Elite Academy.”

“And yet you were alone tonight, wandering into trouble.” She began binding my ribs with practiced movements. “Far from the academy district.”

I didn’t answer immediately. What could I say? That I had been sent away by my lover so she could entertain another man? That jealousy and wounded pride had driven me into the city streets?

“I needed air,” I said eventually. “Space to think.”

She nodded, as if this answer satisfied her, though her expression suggested she understood more than I’d said.

“What is this place?” I asked, changing the subject.

“A gathering place,” she replied. “For people like us.”

“Healers?”

Her smile widened slightly. “Among other things. We have gatherings here. Officially, we celebrate Talfen culture, keep our traditions alive.” She tied off the bandage around my ribs and met my gaze directly. “Unofficially, we discuss how to ensure we have a future worth living.”

The implication was clear enough. Resistance. Not open rebellion — none could survive that in the heart of the Empire — but something more subtle. More patient.

“Dangerous discussions,” I observed.

“All worthwhile discussions are dangerous in the Empire.” She moved to a small stove in the corner and set water to boil. “I’m Suura, by the way. Since I’ve had my hands all over your body, it seems we should be properly introduced.” Her eyes flashed with humour, and I realized it wasn’t a flirtation, just an attempt to lighten the conversation. I grinned.

“Tarshi,” I offered.

She handed me a cup, the steam carrying the scent of herbs I recognized from my childhood — moonroot and sylphberry.

“How did you know to prepare this?” I asked, inhaling the spicy aroma.

“We keep the old knowledge alive here,” she replied simply. “Drink. It will help with the pain.”

I sipped the tea, allowing its warmth to spread through me. The pain in my ribs receded slightly, enough that I could breathe more easily.

“We’re having a gathering tomorrow night,” Suura said after a moment. “Nothing grand, nothing that would draw Imperial attention. Just people sharing stories, keeping our culture alive.” She watched me over the rim of her cup. “You would be welcome.”

I hesitated. Such gatherings were illegal, and if these gatherings involved discussions of resistance, however subtle...

“I should focus on healing,” I said carefully.

“Of course.” Suura nodded. “Though sometimes healing requires more than bandages and tea. Sometimes it requires remembering who we are, where we come from.”

“I have... commitments,” I said. “People who rely on me.”

“Your mistress?”

I nodded.

She studied me, her expression thoughtful rather than judging.

“A difficult position,” she acknowledged. “To stand between worlds, belonging fully to neither.”

The words struck deeper than she could have known, echoing my earlier thoughts.

“Loyalty is admirable,” she continued, setting down her cup. “Especially in times when it’s in such short supply. But let me ask you this, Tarshi — to whom are you loyal? Individuals who care for you, certainly. But what about yourself? What about your people?”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” I argued, though the events of tonight suggested otherwise.

“Aren’t they?” Suura’s gaze was penetrating. “When was the last time you honoured your own heritage without hiding it behind Imperial doors? When did you last speak our language freely, without lowering your voice? Do you even know our language?”

I didn’t. My mother had told me a little, but after the violence of my childhood, it had never occurred to me to learn about my Talfen side, only to try and conceal it, to live with it. I had cut off half of who I was, because the Empire had told me it was forbidden. My sudden shame must have been apparent on my face, because Suura reached out and laid her hand on my arm.

“Loyalty to those we love is admirable, but sometimes we must also be loyal to ourselves, to our roots.”

She rose and moved to a small chest, retrieving something from within it. When she returned, she placed a small carved token in my palm — a stylized dragon.

“Come back tomorrow evening,” she said. “Show this at the door if I’m not here to welcome you. No pressure, no obligations. Just a chance to remember who you are among others who understand.”

I closed my fingers around the token, feeling its edges press into my palm.

“Think about it,” she added. “That’s all I ask.”

I slipped the token into my pocket, the weight of it heavier than its small size warranted. “I’ll consider it,” I said, not committing but not refusing either.

Suura smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “That’s all anyone can ask.” She stood, gathering her supplies. “You should rest here tonight. Those ribs need time, and the streets aren’t safe for you right now.”

The thought of returning to the academy, of lying in my narrow bed in the servants’ quarters while imagining Livia with Septimus, made my stomach clench. “Thank you,” I said.

She showed me to a small back room with a simple pallet. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was clean, and when I lowered myself onto it, my body practically sang with relief.

“Sleep,” Suura said, placing a small vial beside the pallet. “Take this if the pain wakes you.”

After she left, I lay in the darkness, listening to the distant sounds of the city. My fingers found the dragon token in my pocket, tracing its contours. The tea had dulled the pain in my ribs, but my thoughts remained sharp, cutting.

I thought of Livia — her fierce intelligence, her passion, the way her eyes lit when she spoke of justice. She wasn’t cruel, not intentionally. She was trapped by the same empire that enslaved my people, just in different chains. Golden chains now, perhaps, and bloody ones, but chains nonetheless.