I woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and the low hum of the canals. The morning sun slanted through the slum's narrow alleys, making the water glint like scattered coins. Kilsa was already moving, and I followed quietly, curious and cautious. In the small courtyard behind the church, the thief girl was crouched beside a bundle of supplies. She did not look at me, nor did she speak. Her scarf was wrapped tighter than usual, and her hands moved efficiently, folding clothes and securing ropes as if she had done this a thousand times before. Kilsa knelt beside her, checking knots and organizing small pouches of provisions.
I stayed at the edge of the courtyard, feeling the weight of watching, not acting. For a moment, I wondered how different this was from the life I had known on the island—the safety, the rhythm, the warmth of Rose's hands. Here, everything felt sharper, rawer. Even the smallest sound—the slap of a rope against the deck, the shuffle of boots on stone—made my chest tighten.
Kilsa handed the girl a small satchel, her blue-striped tattoo hidden beneath the scarf, still unnoticeable to me. He glanced at me briefly, as if to warn: stay back. I nodded and stepped behind a crate, pretending to be busy. The girl secured the bundle onto the small boat that would take her south, toward the Flower Islands, far from my destination in the north. She worked silently, her movements precise, deliberate, almost ceremonial. I wanted to ask her name, to speak, to make sense of her, but no words came. She remained a shadow in the morning light.
Two sailors appeared from the narrow alley behind the boat, bowing slightly to Kilsa before beginning their work. Kilsa gave quiet instructions, and they responded with quick nods, hoisting oars and checking lines. Every motion was careful, deliberate, as if any mistake could ruin the departure. I kept my eyes on the thief girl, trying to memorize the way she moved, the tilt of her shoulders, the tension in her hands. She said nothing, but I felt her presence as sharply as a living thing in the sunlit air.
Just as Kilsa was about to give the final command for them to leave, a raven landed on the railing beside him, wings snapping against the morning light. It tilted its head, black eyes glittering, and dropped a small folded note. Kilsa caught it with one hand, his other still resting near the girl's supplies. He unfolded the note, read silently, and his face stiffened.
"Hide," he said softly, turning to me. "Southern part of the city. The sewers. Two or four days. Wait for the next message."
I frowned, confused. "Sewers?"
He nodded once. "You'll understand when the time comes. Just stay there. Don't leave until I tell you."
The girl looked up at the raven's departure, but only for a moment. She did not speak, did not ask. She moved as if she had expected this, as if some unseen current was guiding her steps. Kilsa motioned to the sailors, and the small boat slid into the canal. I watched as the water swallowed them, their figures becoming smaller, almost ghostlike, until the morning reflected only the empty ripples.
I stood there long after the boat had disappeared, feeling an unfamiliar emptiness. The girl's absence pressed against me like a weight, and I wondered what it would be like to step onto those waters myself. To chase something I didn't understand, someone I barely knew. And yet, the Church's instructions were clear—she was Kilsa's responsibility now, and I was to remain in Silkan City.
By afternoon, I found my way to the sewers Kilsa had shown me in passing, narrow tunnels beneath the slums, dark and smelling of damp earth and refuse. I could hear water trickling below, rats scuttling along the edges, and the faint hum of the city above. Kilsa's earlier explanation made sense now—the sewers were not just hiding places. They were a network, a map of the city's underbelly. One could travel unseen, emerge almost anywhere, and disappear again. I traced my fingers along the damp walls, memorizing each curve and junction. The knowledge felt powerful, almost sacred. It would keep me alive, at least for a few days.
The first night passed quietly. I ate bread and cheese I had brought with me, listening to the distant echoes of Silkan City above. At first, it seemed almost peaceful. The sound of water running over stones, the faint dripping, the smell of wet earth—it was nothing like the chaos of the streets. I understood why Kilsa had chosen this. The sewers were a shadowed sanctuary, and I was alone, but not entirely exposed.
Over the next few days, I ventured out carefully to gather supplies. Markets, alleys, and bakeries became my observation points. One afternoon, I was close enough to the stalls to see faces clearly, and that was when I noticed him.
A man moving with deliberate precision, a red cloak draped over his shoulders, slicing through the crowd. He brushed against merchants and commoners alike, but his gaze was sharp, measured, almost calculating. I froze as my memory stirred—a story told by the man who visited the island, a story I had heard when I was younger. A man with a red cloak, he had said, had fought someone and had his hand sliced, then covered the scar with a tattoo of roses and thorns.
My eyes followed the man's movements as he raised a gloved hand to adjust the cloak. The scar—half hidden, but unmistakable—was there. Roses and thorns tattooed over flesh that had once been cut. I stumbled back, heart racing, trying to steady my breath. The details matched exactly what I had heard, and yet this man moved freely among the city, a phantom of memory and story.
For the rest of the afternoon, I could not take my eyes off him. Every movement, every gesture, seemed to echo the tale I had been told. I did not approach; I dared not. Instead, I slipped through the stalls and returned to the safety of the sewers, tracing my path carefully, feeling the damp walls beneath my fingers. I understood now that Kilsa's foresight, the instructions to hide, and the knowledge of these tunnels were not just precautions—they were survival.
I returned to my small corner beneath the city, the water dripping steadily around me, and I thought of the thief girl and her silent departure. The city above was alive, intricate, and dangerous, and somehow, even the shadows carried stories that could reach across oceans. I pressed my hand to the wall, memorizing the angles, the turns, the escape routes.
And in that quiet, darkened place beneath the streets, I realized that my life in the City of White, Silkan City, and the slums was about to collide with forces far older and far larger than I had imagined. The golden box, the mysterious girl, the red-cloaked man—they were threads in a tapestry I could barely see, and for the first time, I understood that even my smallest choices could ripple outward, touching lives I had not yet met.