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T he Broken Lantern sits in Heathborne’s lower district, a place where clearblood guards come to forget the rigidity of their duties and indulge in cheaper pleasures.

Its wooden sign hangs from a single chain, creaking in the evening breeze as I approach.

Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the pungent scent of spilled ale.

Candles flicker in iron sconces, casting long shadows across the uneven floorboards.

I rely on my ingrained magic for my glamour tonight, rather than a pendant around my neck, because the latter would be too conspicuous for this particular task…

I pause at the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light while scanning the faces of patrons.

And there he is. Mazrov sits alone at the far end of the bar, his imposing figure unmistakable even without his dark-gray armor.

Instead, he wears civilian clothes—a plain shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and dark pants that do little to diminish his military bearing.

His fingers wrap around a glass of amber liquid, and I note he’s only halfway through his first drink.

Good. I need him clearheaded enough to follow me but dulled enough not to question too deeply.

I adjust my posture, letting my shoulders drop and my hips sway as I weave through the crowd.

Dayn’s instructions echo in my mind—and I note it’s the first time I’ve willingly accepted any advice from him.

And probably the last. I feel gazes tracking my movement, but I focus only on my target, approaching the empty stool beside Mazrov with nonchalance.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, my voice soft and pitched slightly higher than my natural tone.

Mazrov looks up, those unnatural eyes assessing me with military precision. Something flickers in them—recognition? No, just the standard wariness of a man trained to see threats everywhere.

“It’s free,” he says, turning back to his drink.

I slide onto the stool and signal the bartender. “Whatever he’s having,” I say, then turn to Mazrov with a smile carefully calibrated to suggest shy interest. “I’m new to the area. Thought I’d see where the locals drink.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt, but I catch his eyes straying to the neckline of my black dress.

“You look like you know your way around here,” I continue, accepting a glass from the bartender while maintaining eye contact. “Maybe you could tell me what’s worth seeing in Heathborne?”

Mazrov shifts on his stool, his posture loosening slightly. “Depends on what you’re looking for.” His voice carries the clipped precision of military training, but there’s a hint of something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps .

I lean closer, as if sharing a secret. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Sometimes it’s better to be... surprised.” I allow my fingers to brush against his forearm, the touch light but deliberate.

He doesn’t pull away. Progress.

“Heathborne’s not known for surprises,” he says, but there’s a new tension in his shoulders that has nothing to do with suspicion. “The Academy keeps things orderly.”

“You work there?” I ask, injecting admiration into my voice. “I’ve heard it’s quite impressive.”

Pride straightens his spine. “Senior guard.”

I widen my eyes. “That sounds important. Dangerous, even.”

His mouth quirks in what might be the beginning of a smile. “It has its moments.”

The conversation continues, a careful dance of feigned interest and strategic revelations.

I tell him I’m visiting a cousin who works in the town, that I’ve always been fascinated by Heathborne’s history.

Each disclosure is crafted to seem spontaneous while building a persona he’d hopefully find both unthreatening and intriguing.

An hour passes, our stools gradually shifting closer together, my hand occasionally brushing his arm or shoulder.

I laugh at his dry observations about academy politics, not all of it feigned—some of his insights might prove useful later.

The alcohol has softened his rigid demeanor, though I notice he’s still nursing just his second drink.

Alert, then, but relaxed enough for my purposes.

And, thankfully, my double dosage of suppression pills seems to be doing the trick of concealing my darkblood signature—at least for now.

However, when I make my sultrier moves and attempt to get him to a guestroom, he insists he can’t stay the night. He doesn’t budge, no matter how much I stroke his arm.

Fortunately, Dayn and I agreed on a Plan B on our way here.

I glance casually toward the window at the far end of the room and catch sight of Dayn’s amber eyes watching us.

I raise my right arm casually, as if stretching—a sign that bedroom antics are failing.

I see his scowl even from this distance.

This is going to complicate matters, but at least all is not lost.

“It’s getting late,” I say eventually, glancing toward the main entrance. “I should probably head back to my lodgings.”

Something like disappointment flashes across his face before he masks it. “I’ll walk you,” he offers, exactly as we’d hoped. “The lower district can be unpredictable after dark.”

I bite my lip, as if considering the propriety of his offer. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

We leave the tavern, the night air cool against my skin after the stuffy interior.

I walk close beside him, our shoulders occasionally touching as I guide our path subtly toward the alleyway where Dayn waits.

The streets are mostly empty now, with only a few drunken stragglers making their way home. Perfect.

“My lodgings are this way,” I say, nodding toward the narrow passage between two buildings. “There’s a shortcut through here.”

Mazrov hesitates, his brows drawing together. The instincts of a trained guard haven’t been entirely dulled by alcohol and attraction. “Why this way? The main road would be safer.”

I step closer, looking up at him through lowered lashes. “I thought... maybe we could take a moment for ourselves. Without all those eyes watching.” I place my hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm. “Unless you’re not interested?”

The suspicion in his eyes battles with desire. I can almost see him reasoning that no real threat would be so brazen, so obvious in their intentions. A classic mistake. People always underestimate the effectiveness of transparency as a disguise.

“Lead the way,” he says finally, his voice rough with anticipation.

I take his hand, pulling him toward the alley’s entrance where shadows wait to embrace us.

His fingers are warm against mine, and for a brief moment, I feel an unexpected twinge of—not guilt, exactly, but awareness of the line between manipulation and cruelty.

I push it aside. Mazrov is not an innocent.

He’s a senior guard at an institution that has systematically persecuted my kind for generations, and who personally attacked my brother.

As we step into the darkness of the alley, his grip on my hand tightens slightly. Perhaps some instinct warns him even now. But it’s too late. We’ve already passed the first of Dayn’s carefully placed runes, invisible to the naked eye but humming with dormant power.

Just a few steps more.