The capital changed after dark. Streets that bustled with vendors and carriages by day turned into empty stretches under torchlight. Smoke from cheap coal fires clung to the air, mixing with the sour tang of spilled ale. In the alleys, shadowed figures lingered, their eyes sharp and hungry.
Morgan moved like she belonged, even though her heart hammered in her chest. She tugged her thin cloak tighter and kept her head low. Tonight wasn't about scrounging for scraps. Tonight, she was walking straight into danger.
The warehouse loomed near the river, its timbers swollen from damp. A single lantern hung by the side door, where two men kept watch. One leaned on a cudgel, the other rested his hand on a short sword.
Morgan hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. "Evenin'."
The cudgel man squinted. "What's this? Lost rat?"
"I'm looking for Big Rat," Morgan said.
That made both guards stiffen. The swordsman tilted his head, eyeing her with suspicion. "And why would the boss want to see you?"
Morgan swallowed. "Tell him Morgan's here. He'll want to hear me out."
For a long moment, she thought they'd laugh. But instead, the cudgel man spat and jerked his chin. "Wait."
The swordsman disappeared inside. Morgan stood under the lantern's glow, the weight of the guard's gaze pressing against her. When the door finally creaked open again, the man returned. "Boss'll see you. Don't waste his time."
The warehouse interior smelled of damp wood and stale beer. Crates were stacked high, marked with merchant symbols she recognized — stolen goods. At the center, several men lounged around a table scattered with dice and coins. Their talk cut off as Morgan entered.
At the head sat Big Rat. His name wasn't given for nothing. He was broad, thick-necked, his face round but scarred by pockmarks, with small eyes that glinted like a predator sizing up prey. His hair was cropped short, his shoulders straining against his shirt. He didn't need blades or scars to look dangerous; the weight of his presence was enough.
"Well, well," he rumbled, voice low and rough. "If it ain't Morgan. My little rat. You've been gone from my alleys too long. What brings you crawling back?"
Morgan forced herself to meet his eyes. "I need work. Not scraps. Real work."
The men at the table burst into laughter. One leaned forward, gold tooth flashing. "Hear that? She thinks she's ready to run with the wolves."
Big Rat raised a hand and the laughter cut off. His eyes stayed on her, hard and calculating. "Real work means real risk. No running back to gutters if you can't stomach it. You sure you're ready?"
Morgan's throat tightened, but she nodded. "I'm ready."
He watched her for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. "Then here's your chance. There's an inn on the outskirts of the city. New place. My men say travelers come and go, women included. You know the Church—they've been sniffing around more these days. I want eyes there. Watch. Listen. Report. You spot anyone strange, you come straight to me."
Morgan's chest tightened. He wanted her to sniff out witches for him. Sell them.
"Too much for you?" Big Rat asked, smirk curling his lips.
"I can do it," she said, her voice steady.
"Good." He waved her off. "Start tonight. Don't come back empty."
The men jeered as she turned to leave, but Big Rat's gaze stayed sharp, weighing her like a coin in his palm.
Finding witches for some coins does not suit well to her. It irked her, but she needs to survive. And surviving means doing everything she can possibly do.
Outside, the night pressed cool and heavy against her skin. Morgan leaned against the warehouse wall, drawing a slow breath.
She couldn't just walk into that inn and hope for luck. She needed tools. She needed a way to watch without being seen.
Her thoughts turned to the strange power simmering inside her veins. Twisted beasts had spilled out of her during her awakening, but maybe there was a way to use that same magic with control. For spying. For distance.
Morgan ducked into a narrow alley, lit only by the faint glow of the moon. She crouched, pressing her palm to the cobblestones. "Let's try this…"
At first, nothing. Then the air above her hand shimmered, like heat rising from stone. Threads of pale mist coiled and twisted, forming delicate wings. Slowly, a moth emerged, its body faintly translucent, its eyes glowing dim white. It flapped once, twice, then settled on her palm.
Morgan's breath caught. The creature was hers. A construct.
"Alright," she whispered, focusing.
She willed it upward. The moth fluttered into the air, circling above her head. For a brief moment, she could feel it — not sight, not sound, but an impression of space, like a second set of senses. She pushed it further, toward the mouth of the alley.
The connection strained. Within ten, maybe twelve paces, the link frayed and snapped like a cut string. The moth dissolved into mist.
Morgan winced, clutching her temple as a dull ache bloomed. Still, her lips curved in a thin smile. "So… a tether. Distance matters."
She tried again. Another moth, this time smaller, thinner. It rose, and she sent it climbing toward a rooftop. She walked beneath it, keeping the construct close. The connection held. When she crouched behind a stack of barrels, she focused, willing the moth to perch on a window ledge. For a heartbeat, she felt the rough texture of stone under phantom feet.
She laughed softly. "Espionage."
The experiment cost her strength. Each construct tugged at her mind, leaving her weary, but the potential was clear. If she could master this, she wouldn't need to rely on rats in alleys or knives in the dark. She could see without being seen.
Morgan staggered back toward her hidden room. The candle stub flickered as she lit it, shadows crawling along the cracked walls. She pressed her palms against the table, staring at the faint glow of magic still tingling in her fingertips.
This ability wasn't just survival. It was possibility.
But she would need time. And strength. And care.
She sank onto the thin mattress in the corner. Tomorrow she would start the job. Tonight, she would rest — and plan.