The apartment smelled like mold and forgotten dreams. Naomi had found it three days ago in the lower terraces of Hearthome, a place where the volcanic vents barely reached and the city's warmth died to a bitter chill. The registry had burned in a clerical fire seven years back, making it a ghost in the city's records—invisible, untraceable, perfect for hiding.
She sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, counting their remaining silver coins for the fourth time. Twenty-three pieces. Enough for maybe two days of food if they ate like sparrows. Ashley lay on the room's single bed, her breathing shallow and irregular. Golden fractures traced faint lines along her jawline where her Guardian Covenant had shattered, pulsing weakly like dying embers.
