Lyra's mind was blank.
She sat with her back against the wall, watching him. The dagger was still in her hand—her fingers gripped the hilt on their own, without input from her brain. The cold of the metal—the only thing that felt real right now.
Corvin. The mage with different-colored eyes. The target she'd been searching for in this rotten hole for three days. He sat two steps away, rubbing his bruised back, and seemed in no hurry to either run or attack.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Outside, through the hole in the roof, distant voices drifted. The Razors were still far, but for how long? Lyra forced herself to breathe evenly. Outside was her element. Here, in this cramped den, with a strange mage who could incinerate her with a glance—she was not in her own territory.
Corvin finally stopped paying attention to his back and reached into his shoulder bag. Lyra tensed, adjusting her grip on the dagger. But all he pulled out was a candle—yellow wax, cheap, melted.
"Just don't scream," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
His fingers ran over the wick. Once. Twice. And the candle flared to life with a steady, warm flame.
Lyra froze.
Fire. Without flint. Without tinder. Just—snap—and it burns.
She'd seen tricksters at fairs. Sleight of hand, hidden balls, smoke and mirrors. But here... there was no trickery. There was a miracle.
Something warm and completely inappropriate pricked in her chest. Wonder. Childish, forgotten, burned out by years on the rooftops of Ebros. Magic. Real.
"Y-you're a mage?" she breathed.
Her voice wavered. She hated herself for that trembling voice, but she couldn't help it. Her whole body, accustomed to filth, hunger, and betrayal, suddenly remembered that it had once known how to be amazed.
Corvin looked at her. Saw that wonder—and for a second, his face lit up with a smile. Almost proud.
And then the smile faded. He was again the hunted fugitive.
"Something like that," he said dully and turned away.
Something clicked inside Lyra. Shame—quick, angry—slammed the wonder back into its cage. Enough gawking like an idiot. This isn't a miracle. This is a job. He's your job.
Corvin, meanwhile, reached into his bag again. Brought out a strange chisel—narrow, with a curved tip—and a small stone. Pale purple, cloudy, as if glowing from within. Deftly, not even looking at Lyra, he began working the stone—with the chisel, barely touching it, shaving off the finest dust.
"Does the little mistress have a name?" he asked, not raising his eyes.
Lyra blinked. Little mistress? Her? No one had ever called her that. Never.
"Lyra," she answered shortly. And added, not knowing why: "Just Lyra."
Corvin nodded, continuing to fuss with the stone.
"Corvin," he introduced himself. Paused, then added, more seriously: "My story will be short. They're chasing me, you've already figured that out. Judging by the noise I made"—he glanced guiltily at the hole in the roof—"they'll be here soon. Sorry about that. You'll have to find a new den yourself."
He spoke quickly, matter-of-factly, but weariness was audible in his voice. And a strange, almost childish guilt—for breaking her roof.
Lyra nodded. There was nothing to say. He was right—they couldn't stay. The Razors were cordoning off the area, and if they didn't leave now, they'd have no chance.
She stood up. The decision came on its own, without thought. It was easier that way—not to think, just to act.
"Earl Nowenstein sent me," she said. Her voice was steady, as if she were reporting on a situation. "To find you. To tell you he can help."
She reached under her jacket, pulled out the letter—crumpled, warm from her body—and silently held it out to him. No games. No bargaining. Just the facts.
Corvin froze. For a second he looked at the letter, then at her. Took it. Ran his eyes over it.
The expression on his face... Lyra couldn't read such subtleties. Too much there. Surprise? Fear? Hope? All of it together, mixed into a thick, viscous blend.
He was silent for a long time. Lyra waited, leaning against the wall, not taking her eyes off him. The candle was burning down, the flame trembling, casting jagged shadows on his face.
Finally, Corvin carefully folded the letter and put it in his bag. When he looked up, his gaze was different. Colder.
"And who are you, then?" he asked. Not hostile, but with a squint.
Lyra shrugged. Strange question. She'd already told him. But if he wanted it differently...
"A tool?" she answered. What the Earl had taught her. Simply and honestly.
Corvin's face soured. Very sour. He opened his mouth to say something—maybe to protest, maybe to joke—but then a caw sounded from outside.
Hoarse. Sharp. Alarming.
Grey.
Lyra instantly tensed, her muscles remembering their job before her brain could think. The raven only screamed like that in real danger. Not just "someone's near"—"run, fools, they're coming."
She darted to the crawl space, peered through the gap. Saw enough: shadows by the distant houses, fast, coordinated movements. The Razors were combing the street. Moving in a line. And they were close.
"Pack up," she threw over her shoulder, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "We have to go. Now."
Corvin paled, but didn't argue. Grabbed his bag, blew out the candle.
Darkness enveloped them instantly.
"Follow me," Lyra said. "Don't fall behind. And if you fall—I'm not picking you up."
She slipped into the crawl space first, clutching the dagger with the raven on the guard. Behind her, stumbling and cursing in a whisper, the mage crawled.
Lyra slid along the wall, listening. Behind her, Corvin wheezed—loudly, hoarsely. She turned around: shut up! He clamped his hand over his mouth, but his breath still tore through his fingers.
Earl, why me?
The route Lyra usually covered in five minutes became torture. Corvin stumbled on flat ground, caught on ledges, breathed as if an army were chasing them. She caught him, pressed him against walls when the Razors' shadows flickered below.
Her body demanded rest. Three days on hardtack, three days without proper sleep—her muscles were filled with lead, dark spots swam before her eyes. She bit her lip until it bled.
Just not here. Get him there—and that's it.
Corvin trudged behind and glanced at her. Strangely. As if he saw something that shouldn't be there.
"How old are you?" he breathed out, when they froze in a niche.
Lyra didn't answer. Counting steps.
"Do you understand what's happening here? These are another earl's people. If your Nowenstein..."
"Shut up," she cut him off. "Later."
He shut up. But his look remained: what the hell is a child doing in a mess like this?
Lyra pushed the thought away. Just get out.
Corvin suddenly grabbed her arm.
"Wait. There... something's wrong."
The air had changed. Become dense, heavy. Pressure settled on their shoulders, like before a thunderstorm.
"What is it?"
Corvin fumbled in his bag, pulling out pale purple stones. His eyes gleamed feverishly.
"A mage," he breathed. "Telekinesis. He senses my trail."
"Can you shake him off?"
"I can," he smirked crookedly. "If you're not afraid to die."
He crushed the stone.
Lyra didn't see—she felt it. A wave—warm, prickly—lashed along her nerves. Corvin jerked, arched—and suddenly straightened. The weakness was gone. Before her stood someone else. Fast. Dangerous.
"Run."
They flew over the roofs, and Corvin no longer stumbled. Jumped over gaps, did it easily, but his face remained tense—as if a fire burned inside him, consuming him alive.
"How long will this last?" Lyra shouted.
"Not long! When it ends, it'll hurt."
She didn't ask.
They burst onto a wide, flat warehouse roof, bathed in moonlight. Three sides—empty space. The fourth—a staircase down.
Someone was already standing there.
Alone.
Tall, in a dark hooded cloak. Black armor, gloves with metal, two short swords at his belt. The pommels were crowned with blue stones—like Corvin's, only larger.
He was waiting for them.
From the alley, the Razors swarmed. Many. Surrounding the roof, cutting off escape routes.
"Caught," the mage said dully. "You ran long enough, Corvin."
"Screw you."
The mage extended his hand.
The air exploded. An invisible wall crumpled everything in its path. Corvin threw up his hands, shouted something—the air before them trembled, went rippling.
A barrier.
Blue light flared in a translucent sphere. The invisible ram struck it with force—Corvin was thrown back, he cried out, but held.
The stones in his fists were dissolving, gray ash sifting through his fingers.
"Run..." he rasped. "I can't hold long..."
The mage tilted his head. Drew his swords. The blue stones in the pommels flared—the weapons reached toward the barrier, seeking a weak point.
Lyra dashed to the edge of the roof. The Razors were swarming from everywhere. Nowhere to run.
Corvin swayed, but stood. The barrier thinned, trembled.
The mage stepped forward, raising his sword.
And at that moment, the shadow behind him stirred.
Lyra didn't understand what happened. From the darkness, from under the mage's feet, a silhouette rose.
Black riveted armor. Hood. Two curved blades.
Aina.
First strike—under the ribs, precisely between the plates. Second—across the throat.
The mage jerked and crumpled to his knees. The swords fell, the blue stones went dark.
Aina caught the falling body, carefully lowered it to the roof. Leaned close to his ear:
"Shhh. Don't make a sound. It's over."
The Razors froze. A second—and they ran. All at once, trampling each other, just to get away from the black shadow that had killed their mage in two strikes.
Corvin collapsed to the ground. The barrier died. He shook violently, as if with fever—the backlash was hitting him.
Aina straightened, wiped her blades on the dead man's cloak, sheathed them. Turned to them.
Lyra looked at the shadow beneath her feet. It was behaving strangely. Reaching toward its mistress, shifting, as if alive.
"What was that?" Lyra breathed.
Aina followed her gaze.
"Shadows," she answered shortly. "They brought me here."
Lyra wanted to ask why she hadn't come sooner. Met Aina's gaze—and understood: she had been watching. All this time. Waiting.
"Testing me?" Her voice gave out.
Aina didn't answer. Only the shadows at her feet shifted, as if nodding.
Lyra's gaze moved to the corpse of the mage, to the fleeing Razors, to Aina wiping her blades. The same woman who had brought her hot water and taught her to wash with soap. Who had said "here they don't take food away."
She was a killer.
The thought came cold and simple. And somehow, right now, Lyra understood for the first time: Earl Nowenstein was not a kind lord from a fairy tale. He was war. And Aina was his soldier.
"The Earl is waiting," Aina said. "For both of you. Let's go."
She turned and walked toward the edge of the roof. The shadows spread under her feet like dogs.
Corvin tried to stand—collapsed. Lyra rushed over, heaved him onto her shoulder.
"Idiot," she breathed.
"I know," he rasped.
Somewhere in the night, a raven cawed.