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CHAPTER FIVE

JESSALYN

O n the roof of a building worn by time and filth, bathed in the raw light of the moon and the flickering glow of nearby tavern, stood two figures.

Below, the slums roared: broken laughter, drunken shouts, violent quarrels. The clatter of shattered tankards mixed with the guttural growls of gamblers losing everything and the dull thuds of bodies slammed against walls. The stench of urine and blood rose with the night breeze.

But here, on the rooftop, all was silence.

A tall woman stood, straight as a shadow rooted in the night. Her black coat seemed to drink in the moonlight, erasing the shape of her body, leaving only the massive hat obscuring her face and the long silver braids swaying with the wind. She was still, frozen like a statue. But her fingers, clenched around a cane, trembled—a faint, almost imperceptible motion.

Beside her stood a man, a torch in his hand. The flame flickered, casting light across his skin, dark as polished obsidian. He was broad, his head shaved, and a quiet tension hummed through his frame. He wasn’t the type to question his captain, but tonight, his deep voice broke the silence, laced with rare hesitation: “We should head down…”

The woman raised a hand, silencing him.

“Not yet,” she said, her voice low but commanding.

She was waiting. And she knew exactly what she was waiting for.

The moon, full and heavy, had reached its zenith. Its cold light bathed the roof, carving their figures into stark, spectral outlines. The old woman drew a deep breath, leaning into her cane. Her movements were quick, almost clumsy, as though she feared missing a crucial moment—a moment she had waited for a very long time.

She stepped forward, her legs shaking beneath her weight, but her gaze remained locked on the horizon. The night breeze swelled, sweeping through her clothes.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

The moonlight slipped over her ebony skin, revealing deep creases etched with decades of burden. Her narrowed, piercing eyes cut through the darkness, searching with an almost supernatural intensity.

And then, she saw her.

There, on the crumbling bridge that led to the slums, stood a figure—distant, barely touched by the dying glow of lanterns fading into the night.

A low, resonant gong echoed in her chest, a beat so deep it could have shaken the streets below, had anyone cared to listen.

Her hand tightened around the cane, and a subtle tremor ran through her. Her eyes remained locked on the figure, as though afraid it might vanish into the shadows.

She inhaled deeply, and exhaled, her voice calm, almost relieved:

“She’s here.”