Elmira
It had been a simple, unremarkable exchange, one among many. Yet something about the way he made her feel seen, without needing her to explain, had stuck with her. There was an ease in his presence, a steadiness she didn’t realize she’d needed. He even picked up the tab that night. And every night since.
El reached out to touch the smooth surface of the solid oak door. It was cool to the touch, freshly oiled. The action, simple as it was, felt momentous. What was the harm in stepping inside? Handing over the box and leaving? Just like that. Take a moment to steal one last hello, to ask how he was doing, to laugh with him just once more before she slipped away into the night.
It was the thing she had grown to love most about this place. The quiet moments with Arman had become the highlight of her week. Their rendezvous at what passed as the local bar, a watering hole for the weary, crammed into a closet. But that was the problem.
She’d come to rely on those moments.
Perhaps she could leave a note with the box. Just a simple explanation about what it was and who it was for. There was no chance she’d leave the blueprints. What kind of spy did not try to sabotage her enemy, after all? She had to get home before the Key was finished.
“Fuck!” Resisting the urge to accidentally knock on the door out of pure rage, her fingers curled into a tight fist.
The Illevans had betrayed their truce and were about to declare war, and she could no longer afford to be distracted by things like this. Arman was a good man—too good, maybe—but in the end, they were enemies, whether she liked it or not. Despite the lifetime she had spent drinking beside them. They had not changed. Instead of working together for the benefit of the world, the Illevans lied, cheated, and slaughtered everyone who dared oppose them. The truth loomed over her like a dark cloud: I am not one of you.
With a quiet resolve, Elmira spoke the words aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am not one of you.”
Beyond the workshop, people hustled about, carrying goods, leading livestock, and shouting greetings across the street as if there hadn’t just been a catastrophic explosion in one of their neighbourhoods because of their bored leader. The thick scent of the market mingled with the earthy odor of manure and smoke, and the distant sounds of screams, hammers, chatter, and the occasional clink of metal on metal filled the air.
Vibrant and full of movement, this right here was the lifeblood of Sangora, and yet, for all its noise, it was the kind of place that could swallow a person whole if they weren’t careful.
The thought caused Elmira’s throat to tighten. Even though she knew, in her gut, that nobody was watching, her imagination still felt the pressing weight of prying eyes. Still, something stayed her step.
Guilt.
It gnawed at her like a bitter, unyielding ache. No choice. Not anymore. But she couldn’t shake the knots that told her that she was abandoning something precious, something that didn’t deserve to be left behind.
Gently she pressed her forehead against the wood, her breath coming in slow, shallow breaths. Though she didn’t believe in the gods anymore, a silent prayer for forgiveness still rose from her heart. Faith was not something she carried anymore. Not really. Not since everything had shattered. They could not answer prayers. They were beings with flaws and faults and trials like any mortal. Just beefier and insanely more powerful. She knew that now.
For Arman, she sent the prayer anyway. A silent wish that he would forgive her. That he would somehow understand. As her fingers curled around the doorframe, she glanced around quickly, making sure she wasn’t being watched.
“Time to shine, Elmira,” she told herself. “You always loved a good exit strategy. Think.”
The solution came to her like a clear stroke of lightning. Plausible deniability. It wasn’t like she hadn’t used this trick before. In fact, she could practically hear Korp’s voice in her mind. His lessons, his tricks, his dirty little methods, those had stuck with her like blood on skin.
Elmira moved quickly, slipping into the shadows as she took the lid off the box. With swift, practiced motions, she scattered half of the contents of the box onto the street around her, just when the foot traffic lulled a little, the delicate components falling in a carefully chosen pattern. A few she tucked inside her satchel for good measure.
Let them curse about that.
With her favorite dagger, she cut the back of her hand, wincing slightly as the blade cut deep enough to draw blood. She smeared the crimson stain along the wall and let it drip onto the ground, a perfect splatter of chaos. Then, with a final, guttural scream, she dropped the entire box onto the ground with a heavy, deliberate clang. The noise echoed a shattering sound that was sure to draw attention. Before anyone had time to react, El was gone.
She slipped into the quiet space between two rooftops, lying flat on her belly against the tiles, hidden from the world below. The crowd erupted in confusion and panic. People shouted, some sprinting toward the alley of Arman’s workshop while others gathered at both ends, peering down the narrow passage.
The oak door to Arman’s workshop slammed open on its hinges, and there he was. Arman. Wild-eyed, face pale, swinging a crowbar, his brow furrowed with both concern and confusion. El’s heart clenched in her chest, and she had to fight to keep the tears from blurring her vision. Watching him and others inspect the scene, looking over the blood, the box, the scattered contents. They would find no answers here. Not in the chaos she had created. Not in the blood she had left behind.
Would not find her.
Crouching near the contents, Arman frowned, his fingers brushing the evidence, his mind working as he pieced together the mystery. Eyes swept the area, tension mounting as he took in everything around him.
“El?” His voice rang out, sharp and desperate, cutting through the noise of the gathering crowd.
Her name, his call, pierced her heart like a thorn, and she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in return.
“Auriel!?” The shout echoed in her ears, and the sound of it settled deep in her soul, sinking into her bones. She would not forget it. Of that, she was entirely certain.
Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She kept her face pressed against the cold roof tiles. Not now. Not when it was already too late.
Arman’s eyes landed on the print she had left behind. It wasn’t hard for him to recognize it. Of course, he would know her print. The blood was fresh. She could practically see his thoughts, the recognition dawning on him. She was here. She did this. Where is she? What happened?
A voice shouted that the SPF was coming, distracting his gaze from the rooftops. Tension rippled through the crowd like a wave and the focus shifted from Arman to the approaching officers. The commotion grew louder, people pointing in all directions, their voices raised in confusion, trying to make sense of the bloodshed.
Arman cursed at two young men who sprang to collect the items and carried the contents of the box inside while he remained in the alley, lingering with his shoulders slumped, the crowbar hanging limply in his hand. His mouth moved as his eyes looked up at the roofs. She ducked down.
I am not one of you.
The words ran through her mind, over and over like a mantra. I am not one of you. I am sorry, I am not one of you.
The guilt was overwhelming, but it didn’t change anything. The Maze Hunter was gone, taken by gods know what. The cover story set. Rumors would spread, and eventually, they’d all piece it together. Kollisi would hear of it. Whispers would carry, and in time, everyone would know the truth.
A fitting end for someone who had never truly belonged. She only hoped Arman would survive it. That he would be able to make sense of what had happened, that he would not think the worst of her.
As the last of the daylight faded, Elmira moved slowly across the rooftops, keeping her body low, slinking from one shadow to the next, until she reached the southwestern edge of the Sangoran Plateau. There, the overgrown path wound its way down the cliffside, leading into the deep valley below.
Before slipping over the wall, Elmira threw one last look at the place she'd called home, refuge, and prison for the past eighty years of her life before she, like a shadewraith, slipped away.
