He smirked. “A little bit of both.”
We moved on, weaving through the crowd until the noise dulled and the air thickened with leather and smoke. Thorne was already ahead, talking to a broad-shouldered man with inked arms and fingers stained from dye and oil. The holster-maker.
The shop was little more than a stall nestled between two crumbling buildings, shaded with stretched canvas and cluttered with tools. Straps of leather hung like vines from the beams.
Thorne turned at our approach. “Pick what fits. He’ll shape it to you.”
The holster-maker grunted in agreement, jerking his chin toward the display.
"Let's see the blade," he said, his voice rough but curious.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, I reached into my coat and withdrew the dagger. I'd already wrapped the hilt in a strip of velvet, hiding the crest beneath.
I felt Thorne’s eyes sharpen, watching every movement closely.
Slade remained just behind him, arms crossed, scanning every passerby like they might pose a threat. The silent giant didn’t say much, but I could feel his watchful presence like it was physical.
Phoenix leaned in, peering at the display of belts and buckles. “This one,” he said, tapping a sleek holster of dark brown leather with reinforced blue seams. “Matches your coat. And it won’t slip.”
The holster-maker took it, measured it against the dagger, and nodded. “Give me a moment.”
He set to work quickly, humming under his breath as he adjusted the length and added a leather strap to secure the hilt. His fingers moved with speed, but not carelessness.
As he worked, Thorne stepped closer to me, voice low. “Keep that blade hidden. Tyrone was right about one thing. If anyone sees that crest…”
“I know,” I murmured. “It’s already wrapped.”
“Good,” he said simply.
The holster-maker handed the finished piece over with a grunt. I strapped it to my thigh, adjusted the fit, and slid the dagger home. It settled against me like it belonged.
“Looks right on you,” Phoenix said beside me, smiling crookedly.
“Feels right,” I admitted.
Thorne gave a single nod. “Then we move. Leo will meet us soon. We’ve got a lot to do before nightfall.”
Leo found us just past the smithing quarter, near the cracked edge of the old city wall. He came striding toward us with a burlap sack slung over one shoulder and a smug glint in his eye.
“Took your time,” Thorne muttered.
Leo didn’t even flinch. He strode right up to me and dumped the sack into my hands with a flourish. “For you.”
I raised a brow. “What is it?”
“Open it,” he said, grinning like a cheshire cat.
I unwrapped it slowly.
It was a set of throwing knives, wickedly curved, forged from obsidian-black steel with gleaming silver filigree down the spines. Delicate etchings ran along the hilt—roses, twisted in thorns. The hilts were wrapped in dark red leather, almost the colour of blood.
“I saw them and thought of you,” Leo said, and he meant it—completely unironically.
“They’re beautiful,” I said softly, weighing one in my palm. Balanced. Deadly. “And the roses?”
He shrugged, but there was a flicker of something real beneath his grin. “Thorns on the outside, petals at the heart. Felt… appropriate.”
I blinked. Swallowed. Phoenix whistled low beside me. “They’re Veylan-made. That’s shadow-forged steel. Where the hell did you get these?”
