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Lyxander raises a brow, his eyes flicking from the goiteía charm to me. “Why?”

“You’re far too…” I wrinkle my nose, my gaze sweeping over him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with that mess of silver hair that only draws more attention to his eyes. Not to mention the sharp canines that appear when he speaks. “Noticeable.”

“And you think this will help?” He takes the earring from my hand, only the heat of his fingers brushing my skin. But it sends a jolt through me, and I pull my hand back quickly.

“It’s better than nothing. Unless you would rather paint a target on your back.”

“My ears aren’t pierced.”

“You’re a big boy, Lyxander. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Fine.”

Without another word, he lifts the charm to his ear. I expect hesitation, but there’s none. He holds my gaze as he presses the sharp point against his earlobe. A bead of blood wells up as the charm pierces through, but he doesn’t so much as blink.

The change is subtle at first—a ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a single drop. His hair and rough beard darken, the strands shifting from frost to mahogany, then his eyes follow, the irises bleeding into a deep hazel.

It’s startling, seeing him like this, the sharpness of his features softened by the warmth of the color. If he wasn’t such a prick, I’d offer him a compliment.

“Better?” he asks, his voice laced with dry humor.

“Marginally.” I clear my throat and turn away, gathering the rope I’d discarded earlier in case we can make use of it. “Let’s go.”

He thankfully doesn’t argue as he strides toward the alley’s mouth.

I hesitate, yet despite my reluctance, I have no option but to follow.

The bargain mark pulses beneath my skin, echoing the thought.

Even at this hour, the marketplace is a restless sea of color and sound. The square sprawls wide, framed by stone-and-mortar establishments whose windows flicker with dim light. Stalls form uneven lines, creating narrow alleys that twist and turn, each one crammed with wares. Scents of spices, roasted nuts, and sharp, acrid dye drift through the crisp air, blending into a heady haze.

All around us, merchants shout in sharp northern dialects, each trying to compete with their neighbors. Buyers haggle, and the occasional burst of laughter or argument cuts through the din. Many are tycheroi, the common race of our realm, but among them others bear the telltale signs of nymphai: scales, horns, and vivid hair colors peeking out from fur-lined hoods revealing their nymph heritage.

It’s nothing like the sun-drenched markets of the Sorrows, yet the heartbeat is the same.

It should be comforting, this small sense of familiarity. Instead, unease clings to me as I search for danger in every hooded figure and unfamiliar glance. Each rustle is too close, each voice too abrupt, slicing through the air like the whisper of a blade.

Lyxander parts the crowd ahead of me, two packs slung over his shoulder, their weight shifting with each step. Inside, the essentials of our journey that we’ve already gathered lie tucked away: bedrolls and blankets, flint and steel, waterskins and dried rations. And, most important, changes of clothes that are more suitable for Arkhadia’s climate than my linen pants and tunic beneath the weathered cloak I’m still wearing. I’d swapped my sandals for sturdy boots, but the rest will have to wait until we’re beyond the city’s edge.

“We need to move quicker,” I mutter as we stop at a stall of weapons, daggers and knives displayed across a wooden table and swords mounted on stands behind.

“I need a blade,” he says. “Then we’ll find a stable.”

My gaze dips to the pouch of drachma at his hip. It’s noticeably lighter thanks to the purchases we’ve already made, though I carry a few of the coins in my pocket too. But I can’t argue with the wisdom of him being armed.

The merchant, a burly man with a thick beard and a voice like gravel, steps forward, squinting as he sizes Lyxander up.

“What’re you looking for?” he asks, his tone gruff but not unfriendly.

I leave them behind and drift down the length of the table. My fingers trail lightly over the worn wood as I assess the array of weapons, until I see a small set of throwing knives. They’re simple, unadorned, but appear well-balanced.

I glance back at the merchant, then scan the crowd. No one is watching.

Slipping the knives from the table, I slide them into the small slots of the thigh holster hidden beneath my cloak. Then I turn away, continuing down the line as if nothing has happened.

It’s not the only thing I’ve taken tonight. The pockets of my pants are weighed with items I’ve lifted from other stalls: a sewing kit, a set of picks, gravers, and small items to imbue—since I’ll need a new disguise sooner rather than later.

Now I just need to find something I can write a message with. If I can manage to send it before we lea—