Starling padded silently down the narrow corridor, towel tight around her chest, the stone floor slick and warm beneath her feet. The air was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of coal and sweat clinging to the walls like moss. The clang of a furnace door snapped shut ahead, and around the bend she came face-to-face with two staff workers mid-shift, shovels in hand, heat licking at their faces.
They looked up - surprised, confused - but didn't speak.
She didn't break stride, didn't smile, didn't blink. Just moved, past the hiss of pipes and buckets of ash, deeper into the corridor with the air rippling around her like a second skin.
By the time she emerged in the maintenance hall, she felt like she'd walked through a forge. Her hair clung to her neck, and the towel had soaked through in places, but she didn't care. No one could know.
No one.
As nice as the interlude had been - better than nice, truthfully, dangerously good—it wasn't something she could afford to be seen doing. Not with them. If word got out it was her Lucanis and Viago were fucking in the bathhouse, she'd never hear the end of it.
Her name would carry their shadows. Every success, every promotion, every earned privilege would be second-guessed. Whispered about and dissected. Not hers anymore, but theirs. It had already been whispered about with their past conquests.
And when they were done with her - and they would be done eventually - those same people would watch her fall and call it justice. They'd revel in it.
And she'd rather die than give them the satisfaction.
In the changing room, she scrubbed herself down with a rough cloth and cool water, cursing quietly at the bruises already surfacing. Her body ached, but it wasn't the kind of ache she could resent. It was the ache of indulgence, of foolishness, of slipping.
She dressed quickly and ran a comb through her still-damp hair. It would have to do. She left the bathhouse by the staff entrance, head low.
The walk to Crow Hall was short but brisk. The city buzzed in the midday heat, and Starling moved through it like a ghost, quiet and invisible, every step calculated.
She needed to find a room. Outside the Hall. Away from all of it.
She'd saved enough. Years of quiet jobs, clean contracts, and little luxuries refused. She could afford a small space. One room, nothing fancy. A bed. A lock. Some quiet.
Her own. And as long as she kept taking contracts, she could keep it. That was the deal. A room would buy her more than sleep. More than space. It would buy her privacy.
She needed that, craved it, more than she craved rest or comfort or even safety. Somewhere she could store information, write letters, make enquiries. A place to track whispers and rumours and sightings, to chase shadows across maps in ink and silence.
Because she was still looking for him.
Before the Crows had taken her - bought her - she'd known that people were hunting Zevran. He'd never really explained it, only told her that dangerous people were after him and that she had to stay safe and stay hidden. She remembered the last day she'd seen him. He'd left her with someone he trusted. He'd promised he'd be back soon.
And then he never came.
At ten, she hadn't understood the weight of it. And months later, she'd been property. At fourteen, she'd killed a man. At nineteen, she was still looking over her shoulder, but not for fear.
For him.
And she had heard his name more than once in the halls of the Crows. Spoken in low tones, in wary voices. He had been a Crow too. Zevran Arainai. A traitor. A deserter. A ghost who'd slipped through their fingers for two decades and left a trail of dead Crows behind him. He was a legend here. And that made her smile sometimes, quietly, when no one was looking. She'd always known he was clever. That he was dangerous. That he was golden and sharp and wry and not quite real.
But the legend wouldn't protect her. If they knew who she was - whose she was - they'd use her. As bait, or leverage. Or punishment.
So she said nothing. Played the part, came when summoned, killed when told and smiled when expected.
And waited. But she was done waiting. Not passively, not blindly. She would find him. But she couldn't do that from a shared cot in a dormitory filled with spies and informants and half-trained killers eager to report anything for coin or favour. She needed four walls and a door with a lock. She needed silence and distance. She needed control.
A room would be a start. Just a start. But sometimes a single locked door could change everything.
--
The stairs creaked beneath her boots as she followed the innkeeper up the narrow flight, the worn wood slick with polish and years. The tavern was an older one, tucked between a tanner's shop and a weaver's house just off the main square, close enough to be convenient, far enough to stay unnoticed. Exactly the kind of place she'd been hoping for.
The man ahead of her, Jorren, was older, paunchy, and too tired-looking to be nosy. Good. She could work with that.
He reached the landing, pushing open a thick door with a heavy brass latch. "Here we are," he said, stepping aside to let her in.
Starling moved past him and stopped just inside the threshold. The room was small - she could cross it in eight strides, maybe nine - but it was private. A slanted roof pressed down on one side, and a dormer window overlooked the street below. A tiny hearth crouched in the corner, with a hook for a kettle. The bed was simple but clean, the mattress stuffed with straw and wrapped in wool. A single table. A shelf. A rug. Not much, but enough.
And, more importantly, thick walls, no shared door, and only one way in or out if you didn't count the window. She could lock it. She could trap it. She could hide things beneath the loose floorboard she spotted near the hearth or behind that crooked panel beside the bedframe.
It was perfect.
"I get the odd traveller," Jorren said, rubbing his jaw. "But mostly I need someone quiet who won't cause trouble. Someone long-term, keep the room warm, keep the coin coming. You look like you can handle yourself."
She smiled faintly. "I can."
He nodded, satisfied. "Four silvers a week, paid up front every month. Meals extra, but we've got a kitchen. Bath's downstairs. You'll have the key and the only copy."
She stepped forward, testing the boards beneath her feet. Solid. No draught.
"I'll take it," she said.
They shook on it, his hand rough and warm, the kind of grip that expected no lies and offered none. She liked that.
"You can move in tomorrow. Room'll be clean by midday."
"Perfect."
She left him downstairs with a coin deposit already paid and a sense of something rare curling quietly in her chest. Satisfaction.
She'd been looking for weeks. Most places had been wrong. Shoddy. Unsafe in the 'ceiling might cave in and crush you' sort of way. Or too exposed, with thin walls and landlords who talked too much. But this? This was hers. Hers to lock. Hers to sleep in. Hers to store letters and maps and names - her father's name. The ones she'd written to, the ones who might know something. The ones who might help.
She didn't need much space. Just a door that shut. A fire she could tend. A quiet place to think, to write, and to hide.
Tomorrow, she'd move in. And from that point forward, at least one part of her life would belong entirely to her.
--
The Crow Hall smelt like dust and damp wool, blood long scrubbed out of the stones and replaced with old sweat and soap. Starling barely noticed it anymore. She pushed through the heavy door, shrugging her satchel higher on her shoulder, fingers automatically brushing the side of her neck as she walked. Just in case. She hadn't had time to check a mirror. She needed one. Or a stiff drink. Or an hour of sleep uninterrupted by hands or mouths or-
"Look who's back," Cade said, leaning against the bottom stair like he'd been waiting for someone to comment on him.
She saw the gash before anything else, stitched neatly along his temple down to the corner of his jaw. It looked fresh, still pink at the edges.
"What happened to you?" she asked, making her way over.
"I've heard women are into scars," he said, deadpan, raising a brow. "Is it working?"
She smirked. "My knees are weak; can't you tell?"
His grin widened. It tugged at the stitches and made his wince look self-inflicted. She reached out, brushing her fingers near the wound to inspect it, but he batted her hand away like she was going to steal something.
Then, with all the subtlety of a child, he flicked something at her neck and gasped.
"Starling! My sweet, innocent little bird letting herself be defiled?"
She gave him a solid punch in the shoulder, half a laugh still caught in her chest. "Shut it. Someone might hear you."
Still grinning, she reached up and tugged her hair forward to cover the incriminating mark, letting the thick waves spill down over her shoulder like a curtain. She didn't need anyone else commenting on it. Cade gave her a smug little look, like he knew exactly what he'd stirred up and wasn't sorry for it.
Then his expression shifted. His eyes flicked just past her shoulder, and he muttered, low and tight-
"Shit. Someone just did."
Starling turned, slowly.
Lucanis and Viago were striding down the hall, dressed all in black, their long coats sweeping behind them with every step. They moved like they owned the place - which, to be fair, wasn't far off - and the quiet ripple of awareness through the hall confirmed it. No one else dared cross their path.
Starling's spine snapped straight, Cade's beside her doing the same. They both stepped instinctively to the side, out of the way, not saluting, this wasn't the military, but keeping their eyes averted, heads dipped just enough. Respect wasn't optional when it came to leadership.
She didn't look at them. She didn't dare.
But her skin prickled as they passed, as though their eyes were dragging over her anyway. Seeing them again brought it all back in too-vivid clarity - the heat of the bathhouse, the weight of Lucanis's hands on her hips, and Viago in her mouth.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, determined not to look.
They didn't stop. Didn't speak. Must be heading to a meeting or something. Still, she felt them go by like a pressure in the air.
As soon as they were gone, she and Cade moved in perfect sync, turning on their heels and scurrying off down the hall like they hadn't just been caught talking about sex like children gossiping in a barn.
"Fuck me," Cade hissed once they were safely around the corner.
"I think that's the problem," Starling muttered.
But her heart was still beating too fast, and her skin still felt too hot.
--
Lucanis didn't speak right away, not as they climbed the stairs toward the council room where Teia and the handlers were waiting. But the image was stuck behind his eyes - Starling's fist catching that boy in the shoulder, her mouth curved in a grin wide and bright, the kind that cracked through her usual restraint. He'd never seen her smile like that before. Not with them.
"Who was that?" he asked, voice low.
Beside him, Viago didn't need clarification. "Cade," he said mildly. "Just got back from Rialto. Botched job. As you can see, he was injured."
Lucanis made a noncommittal sound. The boy had looked smug with that stitched-up gash down the side of his face, like he thought it gave him character. Maybe it did. The kind of boy who threw flirtation like darts, waggling his brows at Starling, calling her his sweet little bird. And she'd laughed. Laughed and punched him, and looked… comfortable.
That was what rankled. Not that she spoke to someone else, she wasn't theirs. Not officially, not in any way that would hold, but she'd grinned at that boy like he was a known quantity, something familiar and easy. Hours ago she'd been on her knees between them, gasping around Viago's cock, and now she stood there with her hair pulled forward to hide the mark he'd left on her neck, eyes averted like he was just any other handler. As if nothing had passed between them at all.
She hadn't looked at them. Not once. And that part, that burned the most.
He'd watched the way she straightened up the moment she sensed their presence - posture gone rigid, attention sharpened. She stepped out of their path, silent and deferential like every other recruit. Like she hadn't spent last night gasping their names and crumpling in their arms. Like she hadn't slipped away: "This was neat, thanks."
Neat.
Lucanis's jaw tensed.
Viago cast him a sidelong glance, catching the flicker of heat behind his eyes, but said nothing. They both knew Starling was unlike the others. She hadn't bragged. Hadn't lingered in their bed. Hadn't paraded through the Crow Hall like a victorious pet. She wanted it private. Wanted them private.
Lucanis wasn't sure which part he hated more; how well she played it, or how much he respected the game.
"She's still hiding it," he muttered.
Viago didn't respond right away, but his expression shifted, subtle and knowing. "She always has."
Lucanis gave a quiet grunt of agreement as they reached the top of the stairs. "Well," he said, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Then he opened the door, and the meeting began. But his mind stayed downstairs, in the hallway, where a too-pretty girl with secrets in her smile had looked everywhere but at them.