The streets of the capital never truly slept. Even as night thinned into gray pre-dawn, lanterns still glowed faintly at certain corners, and the restless stir of voices and footsteps filled the narrow veins of the city. Morgan walked with her hood pulled low, hands tucked in her sleeves to hide the callouses of a life spent running and hiding.
The meeting with Big Rat and his men still lingered in her thoughts. Their smirks, their greedy eyes, the way they treated her like both tool and liability—it was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. At least here, she knew her place. Work, deliver, survive.
Her task was simple: investigate an inn at the edges of the capital where new guests had been arriving. Women, especially, were of interest. The thugs wanted to know if any of them might be witches. Information to sell, or leverage to exploit.
Simple, yes—but dangerous.
Morgan kept her pace steady as she left the city's crowded center behind. The outskirts were quieter, the houses smaller, the air thinner with cooking smoke and market spice. She stopped once to buy a small piece of bread with a copper coin. She chewed slowly as she walked, letting the warmth in her belly push away the night chill.
The inn came into view near a fork in the road, its signboard swaying gently on old iron hinges. A modest place—two floors of timber and plaster, its windows throwing faint amber light into the foggy street. Not suspicious at a glance. Not inviting either.
Morgan lingered near the alley opposite, her gaze sharp beneath her hood. She couldn't just walk in blind. She needed to be sure.
Her fingers twitched at her side. The moths.
She thought back to the cramped attic where she had first discovered them—fragile constructs of mist, shaped by her will, dissolving back into nothing when her focus slipped. Cockroaches had been crude and obvious; moths were quiet, forgettable. Perfect for slipping into corners where no one looked.
But how far could she push them?
Morgan ducked into a shadowed corner of the alley, kneeling low against the wall. She pressed her hand to the damp stones and closed her eyes, pulling at that strange thread within her chest. A shiver rolled down her spine as the mist gathered between her fingers, curling upward in faint tendrils. Slowly, delicately, it shaped itself into the outline of a moth. Its wings flickered like faint parchment smoke.
It perched on her knuckle, weightless. She stared at it, lips parted, then sent a thought—fly.
The moth lifted into the air, circling unsteadily before veering toward the inn. Morgan's pulse quickened. For a moment, she saw what it saw: a sliver of wall, a gleam of lantern, the outline of a window. Then the connection snapped, as if a string had been cut. The moth disintegrated into mist and vanished.
Too far.
Morgan frowned, biting her lip. She tried again, shaping two moths this time. They fluttered in her palm, their wings soft glows in the night. She pushed one toward the inn, keeping her focus tight, her mind threading itself into their fragile forms. She could feel them—faint, like echoes at the back of her skull.
But once the first passed the middle of the street, the tether thinned to nothing.
She hissed under her breath. Only a few meters…
Still, even a short leash could be useful if she was careful.
Morgan adjusted her plan. She would not stay hidden in the alley the whole time. She would move close, act casual, let the moths slip inside with her. She would need to play the role of a weary traveler, unnoticed among strangers.
For the next half hour, she practiced. Summoning moths, letting them flutter into cracks between barrels, up broken shutters, under doorways. Each time she gauged the distance, testing how long the tether held before snapping. She learned to split her awareness just enough—one eye on the street, one ear on her moths. It was exhausting, her forehead damp with sweat, but by the time the sky paled with the hint of dawn, she had something that felt like control.
She rose, dusting off her knees, and crossed the street.
The inn's door creaked as she pushed it open. Warmth and the scent of stale ale washed over her. A half-dozen travelers were slumped at tables, some asleep, some muttering low. Behind the counter, a stout woman wiped cups with a rag that had seen better days.
Morgan lowered her hood, kept her head bowed. She moved quietly to a corner table, ordered nothing, and let her moths slip from her sleeves. They clung to the ceiling beams, faint shimmers invisible in the dim light.
She listened.
Snatches of conversation drifted her way—complaints about road tolls, talk of grain prices, the usual noise of commonfolk. Nothing unusual.
Her moths drifted upstairs. She caught glimpses of rooms—empty cots, a man snoring, a woman brushing her hair in the mirror. Nothing screamed danger, nothing smelled of witchcraft.
By the time the first rays of dawn bled through the shutters, Morgan was certain: there was no witch here.
She prepared to leave quietly, her mission done, when the sudden crash of hooves outside froze her in place.
The door burst open.
Knights in the king's colors stormed inside, steel boots slamming against the floor. The room erupted in shouts. Travelers scrambled back, mugs spilled, chairs toppled. The innkeeper raised her hands in trembling protest.
"In the name of His Majesty," one of the knights barked, "all guests are to remain where they are!"
Morgan stiffened, her breath caught in her throat. She ducked her head lower, praying their eyes slid over her.
The knights spread out, their armor glinting in the dim light. Then one of them pointed. "You. Woman."
Every gaze followed his finger to a young woman sitting near the stairs, her face pale with shock. She wore a faded green cloak, her hands clutching it tight to her chest.
"You've been reported," the knight growled. "Witchcraft."
Gasps filled the room. The woman shook her head violently, tears springing to her eyes. "No—no, please, I swear, I'm no witch!"
The knights seized her arms. She struggled, crying out, but their grip was iron.
Morgan's nails dug into her palm beneath the table. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to do something. Her moths circled the rafters above, useless, fragile things against armored men.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself still.
If she stood now, if she dared to interfere, she would be dragged away just the same. A girl with nothing, a nobody. Her power was too small, too fragile. She would break before she could save anyone.
The knights pulled the woman toward the door as she begged, voice cracking, "Please! I've done nothing wrong! Please!"
Morgan shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, the inn was silent but for the heavy breaths of those left behind. The knights were gone. So was the woman.
Her moths dissolved into mist above her, leaving only empty air.
And in that silence, Morgan understood—truly understood—the truth she had only brushed against before. Witches, accused or real, stood no chance. Not against knights, not against the city, not against the world that had already marked them for death.
She lowered her hood, rose quietly, and slipped out into the morning streets.
The city bustled on, uncaring.