Morning broke gray and reluctant over the capital. The streets still glistened from last night's drizzle, and the city's breath rose in mist and chimney smoke. Morgan hadn't slept at all.
She left her narrow room by the docks before the sun had fully risen, her cloak drawn close to hide the exhaustion beneath her eyes. The echo of the inn—boots pounding, the woman's scream, the heavy clang of armor—still haunted her mind.
But she couldn't dwell on it. In this city, survival depended on moving before memory caught up.
The slum's air was thick with damp and rot, the gutters swollen with runoff and trash. Rats scurried past her boots, bold even by daylight. Everything was far from wlthe modern life she was used to. Comfortable bed, clean roads and streets without anything rotten on the streets. Walking the familiar route—down Broken Hook Alley, past the shuttered tavern that smelled of sour ale and sweat—until she reached the crooked building with a rat-shaped carving nailed above its door.
She slipped inside without knocking.
The tavern's main room was alive with noise and smoke despite the early hour. Men sat hunched over dice games; a woman laughed too loudly from the counter. The smell of ale, sweat, and damp wood pressed against her.
Big Rat sat in his usual corner under the support beam, one thick arm resting on the table beside a plate of stale bread. His bulk filled the chair; his eyes were half-lidded, but sharp beneath the lazy pretense.
When he noticed her, a grin cut across his scarred lip. "Well, well. The little rat returns. I was startin' to think the knights caught you sniffin' where you shouldn't."
Morgan stopped in front of him, lowering her hood. "They almost did."
That got his attention. The tavern noise quieted just a touch. Big Rat's grin faded into curiosity. "Oh? Tell me, then."
She hesitated just long enough to seem shaken, then spoke with deliberate calm. "There was a witch at the inn. The King's men came before dawn—armored, disciplined, not Church men. They took her in chains. I barely escaped through a back door before they started searching."
A low murmur spread through the tavern.
Big Rat's brows knitted. "The King's men, not the priests?"
"Yes," Morgan lied smoothly. "Their captain even carried the royal insignia. Whatever's happening, it's not the Church this time."
He cursed under his breath, pounding the table once with his fist. "Bloody bastards… always one step ahead. They sniff out gold and power faster than we can find scraps."
Morgan lowered her gaze, letting him believe her fear. "I thought you should know."
Big Rat stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching her face. Then he grunted and reached into his pouch, tossing a few silver coins onto the table. "You did good. Even bad news can be useful."
She caught the coins and slipped them into her pocket.
He leaned forward, voice dropping low. "Now listen. You're not done yet. There's another job. Easier, maybe—but only if you keep your head down."
Morgan straightened. "What do you need?"
"There's a merchant—Harlon. Used to pay us protection money like any smart man. Now he thinks the crown's guards make him untouchable." Big Rat's lip curled. "You'll find him in the Weaver's Row district. I want eyes on him for two days. Find out how many guards he keeps, when they sleep, when they change shifts. Look for a weakness."
"Two days?" she asked.
"Two days," he confirmed. "Then come back and tell me if we can hit him or not."
He leaned closer, his grin returning. "And Morgan—try not to get caught this time. The King's men are busy enough. Don't give them reason to look in my direction."
She gave a curt nod. "Understood."
The city felt different once she stepped outside—colder, sharper. The mention of royal soldiers had unsettled even her. If the King's men were arresting witches, something larger was moving behind the scenes.
But that was for later.
For now, she had to survive.
Morgan ducked into an abandoned alleyway a few streets from the tavern and crouched behind a broken crate. The stench of mildew filled the air, but the isolation comforted her. She extended her hand and whispered, letting her power stir.
Light shimmered around her palm, and a moth materialized—pale and delicate, wings glimmering faintly like glass catching moonlight. It perched on her finger, alive but not alive, a construct of will and magic.
She smiled faintly. "Let's see what we can do today."
The first few attempts went poorly.
Three moths, then four. They flickered, fading after mere seconds. Her control wavered every time she tried to sustain more than a handful. Each failure drained her strength, her breathing growing ragged.
Still, she persisted.
By midday, she had eight stable constructs fluttering in the alley. They didn't vanish immediately, but their range was pitiful—barely thirty feet. She couldn't see through them, but she felt them. Faint pulses at the edge of her awareness.
It wasn't true sight or hearing; it was something more abstract—presence. Like faint ripples in a pond, each moth a node of perception. When one brushed against a wall or drifted near a moving body, she sensed the distortion.
That alone was enough to make her grin.
By the time dusk fell, she could maintain twelve moths for several minutes without losing consciousness. The effort made her temples throb, but she felt alive. Her magic had grown sharper—less hesitant, more obedient.
It was time to work.
Harlon's estate lay near the trade quarter—modest by noble standards, but wealthy enough to stand apart from the slums. A tall brick wall surrounded a courtyard filled with trimmed hedges and a small fountain.
Morgan approached from the rooftops, using shadows and the noise of evening crowds to mask her movement.
Her first night was for observation. She perched atop an abandoned warehouse that overlooked the estate's gate. From here, she could see nearly the entire property.
One by one, her moths drifted into the air. They vanished into the dimming light, blending perfectly against the sky.
She felt each one settle into place—above the roof, near the stables, behind the fountain. They moved like silent sentinels, mapping the space. Through them, she felt vibrations, the rhythm of footsteps, even the faint flicker of torchlight as ripples against her awareness.
She counted guards: four by the main gate, two circling the perimeter, one stationed by the back gate. Another patrolled near the merchant's personal carriage.
By midnight, she had a rough mental map of the estate. But it wasn't enough.
She needed more.
She tested how close she could move her moths without drawing attention. One brushed too near a torch—the guard blinked, swatting at the air, but saw nothing. Morgan exhaled quietly. Close enough to sense them, invisible enough to survive.
Hours passed. Her head grew heavy. When she finally dismissed the constructs, it felt like she'd been hollowed out.
She returned to her rented room and collapsed into bed, asleep before her boots touched the floorboards.
The next day began earlier. She returned before dawn, slipping through the fog to her rooftop perch.
This time, she summoned her moths in cycles—half active, half reforming—to maintain a continuous network. Each wave expanded her awareness until she could feel nearly the entire courtyard at once.
A rhythm formed in her mind: patrols changing every two hours, kitchen doors left ajar at dusk, carriages checked twice a day.
By midafternoon, she began experimenting.
She sent two moths drifting low across the courtyard, brushing near open windows. Through their presence, she felt warmth—movement, maybe people inside. The distortions told her someone was pacing, others were eating.
She was learning to read the world through absence and vibration. Every flutter became language.
The longer she maintained the connection, the deeper the awareness grew. When one moth landed on a lantern post, she could feel the faint metal hum through its wings. Another brushed against cloth and sent a subtle ripple back through her mind—soft texture, steady rhythm.
It wasn't true sensation, but it was close enough to build understanding.
When evening fell, new faces appeared at the gate—two men in cloaks, speaking with Harlon himself. She couldn't hear them, but their body language was sharp, urgent. One gestured toward the stables; the other pressed a pouch into the merchant's hand.
She memorized every movement.
By the time the moon rose, she was trembling from magical strain, but her resolve only deepened.
For the first time, she felt like she belonged to the shadows she hid in.
The second night brought answers.
The estate was unusually busy. Servants moved quickly, carrying crates toward the rear courtyard. Horses were saddled. The air smelled faintly of hay and fresh oil.
Morgan adjusted her position, crawling along the roof's edge until she had a clear view of the wagons. Her moths hovered silently above the stables, drifting closer to listen—not with ears, but through pressure and pulse.
She felt the motion of boxes being loaded. Wooden weight on wooden floorboards. Muffled voices.
Then—footsteps heavier than the rest.
Harlon himself appeared, his voice low but angry. Though Morgan couldn't make out the words, the rhythm of his movements spoke of frustration and urgency. He handed a pouch to one of the men and gestured toward the gate.
Within an hour, both carriages were fully loaded. Eight guards, four drivers, and two servants prepared to depart.
They were leaving.
Morgan's heartbeat quickened.
She sent a few moths to follow as the wagons began to roll toward the western road, noting every turn, every guard position. When she finally recalled them, dawn was breaking again.
Her limbs felt heavy, her head throbbing from magical fatigue—but the mission was done.
She had what she needed.
When Morgan entered the tavern that morning, Big Rat was already awake. His men lounged around him, dice clattering and mugs half-empty.
She stepped up to the table silently.
He looked up, smirking. "Well, look who didn't die. You finish your little errand?"
"I did."
He leaned back, gesturing lazily for her to speak. "Let's hear it, then."
Morgan took a slow breath. "Merchant Harlon employs eight guards. Two shift rotations per day. He's preparing to flee the capital—two carriages, both loaded by nightfall yesterday. He plans to leave through the western gate."
That made Big Rat sit forward. "You're certain?"
"I watched it myself," she said evenly. "The carriages left just before dawn."
For a moment, the tavern fell quiet. Big Rat's thick fingers drummed against the table, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "So the coward runs. Probably trying to hide his silver before we take it."
He chuckled, low and mean. "Good work, girl. Better than most of my men would've done."
He reached into his pouch and tossed a small leather bag across the table. Morgan caught it easily. The coins inside clinked softly—heavier this time.
"Keep your eyes open," he said, voice dropping lower. "If he's gone, someone'll have to greet his wagons on the road. We might make our collection yet."
Morgan nodded. "Understood."
As she turned to leave, Big Rat called after her. "Morgan."
She glanced back.
He grinned. "You ever think about stayin' on? You're wasted running small errands. I could use someone with eyes like yours."
She managed a faint smile. "I'll think about it."
Then she slipped out into the daylight.
The morning sun burned pale through the fog, and the city below her hummed with movement. Somewhere, carriages rolled westward. Somewhere else, a witch sat in chains.
Morgan drew her cloak tighter and kept walking.
Her moths fluttered briefly into existence above her shoulders, invisible to all but her. The faint hum of awareness returned—comforting, steady.
She was getting better. Stronger.
And though she still played the part of the rat, she could feel something shifting within her—a slow, quiet hunger for more than survival.
For knowledge. For power. For freedom.