Chapter 1

Heidi

The sound hits me first—a pulse that thrums through the obsidian stone beneath my boots, crawling up my spine like a living thing. Music spills from Vestige's entrance in waves of heat and shadow, carrying voices, laughter, the crack of magic against skin. I press my back against the alley wall across from the club's entrance, letting the chaos wash over me.

This is why I love New Solas. The noise drowns everything else out.

I adjust the bronze cuffs wrapped around my wrists, making sure they catch the light from the enchanted sconces. The metal's warm against my skin, mimicking the natural heat signature of a low-caste xaphan. My hair falls loose around my shoulders, dark waves hiding the absence of wings, and the deep burgundy dress I'd lifted from a merchant's cart this morning shows enough thigh to distract from what I'm not.

Human. The word tastes like ash in my mouth, even thinking it.

But here, pressed into shadow while xaphan nobility strut past in their finery, wings spread like declarations of power, I'm invisible. Just another face in the crowd, another body seeking escape in the city's most infamous den of sin.

The line outside Vestige stretches around the block. Bodies pressed close, magic crackling in the air like static electricity. A pair of pure-blooded xaphan with pristine white wings laugh as they bypass the queue entirely, the bouncer's nod sharp with deference. Behind them, a group with mottled gray feathers wait with practiced patience, knowing their place.

I've watched this hierarchy play out for years from the shadows. The golden-winged elite, the silver-touched merchants, the gray masses who work and serve and pretend they don't resent every moment of it. And below them all, the humans—though most pretend even that’s not true. That we’re slaves to be ignored entirely.

Better that way.

My fingers drift to the small blade hidden in my hair, then to the coins tucked into my bodice. Tonight's take had been decent—three purses from distracted nobles, a pair of silver earrings from a merchant too busy eyeing the working girls to notice my hands. Enough to eat for a week, maybe find a few warmer clothes for the incoming cold.

There was a time when I was fed and clothed. But it was never worth the cost. 

The memory slides in before I can stop it, sharp-edged and unwelcome.

"Heidi, get up."

I'm twelve, maybe thirteen. Time blurs together in the cramped dormitory above the tavern. Madam Cordelia's voice cuts through the pre-dawn darkness like a blade.

"You've got work today."

Work. The word makes my stomach clench. I know what work means now. Have known for months, since the night she first brought me downstairs to the red rooms with their stained silk and the smell of sweat and coin.

"Please." The word slips out before I can stop it. "I don't feel well."

Cordelia's laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "Feeling poorly, are we? That's unfortunate. Considering you still owe me for your clothes, your food, your bed." Her fingers dig into my arm as she hauls me upright. "Seventeen nodals this week alone. How do you plan to pay that back?"

I don't answer. Can't. The number grows every week, no matter how many times she sends me downstairs, no matter how many men's hands I endure. She calls it compound interest. I call it a cage.

"That's what I thought." She shoves me toward the washbasin. "Clean yourself up. Master Vrain is particular about his investments."

I shake my head, forcing the memory back into its box. The present bleeds back in—music, heat, the distant sound of glass breaking followed by raucous laughter. A xaphan couple stumbles past, the male's hands already wandering beneath his companion's dress, her wings fluttering with intoxication.

Nobody looks at me. Nobody sees me.

Perfect.

Another memory slithers forward, this one sharper, more recent.

I'm sixteen. The scars on my wrists are fresh, still tender where the shackles bit into skin. Cordelia had started chaining the older girls after Mira tried to run. Tried and failed. They brought her back bloody and broken, and we all learned what happened to birds who forgot their cages.

But I'm smarter than Mira. Quieter. I've been planning this for months, stealing drops of hemlock from the kitchen, hoarding the bitter coins men sometimes leave as tips. Tonight, while the others sleep, I swallow just enough poison to mimic death without achieving it.

The convulsions are real. The foam at my lips, the way my body goes rigid—all genuine responses to the toxin coursing through my veins. When Cordelia finds me in the morning, cold and still, she curses the loss of investment but doesn't waste time on sentiment.

"Dump her in the river," she tells the tavern keeper. "Can't have the other girls getting ideas about giving up."

But Marcus is lazy, and drunk, and the river is three blocks away. He leaves me in the alley behind the brothel, my body wrapped in dirty sheets like garbage. I wait until his footsteps fade, then force myself to move despite the poison still burning through my system.

I'm dead now. Heidi Marlowe died in that alley, and whoever crawls away into the night is someone else entirely. Someone free.

The bounce and sway of the queue brings me back to the present. More xaphan have joined the line—a group of silver-winged merchants arguing over territory disputes, their voices rising above the music. One of them gestures wildly, nearly clipping his companion with his wing, and his purse swings loose from his belt.

Too easy.

But I don't move. Haven't moved. That was the old me, the desperate one who took every opportunity because missing one might mean starving. Seven years of freedom have taught me patience. Taught me to choose my marks carefully, to never take risks unless the reward justifies them.

The silver-wing's purse isn't worth the attention moving through this crowd would bring.

Instead, I sink deeper into shadow and let the noise of Vestige wash over me. Drums that sound like heartbeats, voices raised in laughter and lust, the sharp crack of magical discharge from inside the club. It's chaos given form, and it drowns out the whispers that sometimes creep into quiet moments.

Worthless.

Damaged.

Used.

Here, surrounded by sin and shadow, those voices hold no power.

A commotion near the entrance draws my attention. Two xaphan in expensive suits are arguing with the bouncers, their wings spread in aggressive displays. One has feathers like polished copper, the other deep purple that shimmers with embedded magic. Money and power written in every line of their bodies, but apparently not enough to guarantee entry.

"I don't care who your father is," the bouncer growls, his own wings dark gray and massive. "No entry without an invitation."

"This is ridiculous." Copper-wing's voice carries the entitled whine of nobility unused to hearing 'no.' "We're regular patrons at Crimson's, at The Gilt Rose—"

"Then go back there." The bouncer's tone suggests the conversation is over. "Vestige doesn't want you."

I watch the rejected xaphan storm away, their wounded pride practically visible in the set of their shoulders. Even here, in this den of acceptable depravity, there are hierarchies. Rules. Someone decides who belongs and who doesn't.

The thought should amuse me—watching the privileged get a taste of exclusion. Instead, it settles heavy in my chest like old stone.

You don't belong anywhere.

The voice isn't mine, but I recognize it. Cordelia's poison, still working its way through my system seven years later. I press my palms against the rough wall behind me, grounding myself in the present. In the heat radiating from Vestige's enchanted stones, in the scent of smoke and spice that drifts from its open doors, in the steady throb of music that makes my bones vibrate.

This is real. This noise, this chaos, this city that hides me in plain sight—this is the life I chose when I crawled out of that alley. Not perfect, not safe, but mine.

A young xaphan girl stumbles past, her pale pink wings drooping with exhaustion or drink. She can't be more than eighteen, her dress expensive but rumpled, her makeup smeared. For a moment, our eyes meet across the space between shadow and streetlight.

I see myself at that age. Not the confident thief I've become, but the broken thing that used to flinch at sudden movements, that measured safety in how quickly I could disappear.

The girl's companion—a male with silver-tipped feathers and predatory eyes—wraps his arm around her waist, his grip just tight enough to guide rather than support. She leans into him with the desperate trust of someone who's never learned that protection and possession often wear the same face.

I look away.

Not my business. Not my problem. I learned long ago that trying to save others only gets you caught, and being caught means becoming property again. The girl will figure it out eventually, or she won't. Either way, it's not my choice to make.

But the image lingers as I settle back against the wall, letting Vestige's chaos drown out the uncomfortable tightness in my chest. Just another night in New Solas, watching other people's lives unfold from the safety of shadow, taking only what I need and leaving everything else untouched.

The music swells, and I close my eyes, letting it fill the hollow spaces inside me where softer emotions used to live.

The familiar weight of performance settles over me like a second skin. Time to work.

I push off from the wall, letting my shoulders roll back and my chin lift. The shy girl hiding in shadows dissolves, replaced by someone confident, untouchable. Someone who belongs in a place like Vestige despite the human blood running through her veins.

The bronze cuffs around my wrists catch the light as I approach the entrance, the metal warm against my pulse points. I've practiced this walk for years—the subtle sway that suggests wings even when there are none, the way to hold my head so the shadows fall just right across my face. Confidence without arrogance. Allure without desperation.

The bouncer barely glances up as I near the rope barrier. His wings are massive, charcoal gray with silver threading through the primary feathers. Military background, probably. The kind of muscle that doesn't just look intimidating but knows exactly how much pressure it takes to snap bones.

Perfect. Military types respect authority, and I can project that in spades.

"Evening." I let my voice drop to a purr, the kind that suggests secrets and promises in equal measure. "Quite the crowd tonight."

He looks up then, his gaze traveling from my face down to the burgundy dress that clings to my curves before hugging my thighs. The neckline shows just enough skin to be interesting without screaming desperation. His eyes linger on the bronze cuffs, cataloging their quality, their heat signature.

"Invitation?" His voice rumbles like distant thunder.

I tilt my head, letting my hair fall across one shoulder in a cascade of dark waves. "Do I look like someone who needs paper to prove her worth?"

The smile I give him is practiced, honed through years of survival. Not the desperate grin of someone begging for scraps, but the lazy confidence of someone who's used to getting what she wants. I let my fingers drift to the coins hidden in my bodice—not enough to buy my way in, but enough to suggest I have resources.

He hesitates, and I press the advantage.

"I've heard such interesting things about Vestige." I step closer, not quite close enough to touch, but near enough that he catches the subtle scent I'd stolen earlier—expensive perfume from a noble's dressing room, something that smells like midnight blooms and sin. "About how it caters to those with... refined tastes."

His nostrils flare slightly. Xaphan have enhanced senses, and the perfume tells a story of wealth, of access to the kind of luxuries only the upper castes can afford. Combined with the heat-signature cuffs and my carefully cultivated confidence, it paints a picture of someone who belongs here even if her specific identity remains mysterious.

"What's your name?" he asks, but his hand is already moving toward the rope.

"Does it matter?" I lean back just enough to be playful rather than evasive. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Just looking for somewhere to... forget the outside world exists."

The last part isn't even a lie. That's exactly what I want from places like Vestige—noise loud enough to drown out memory, chaos bright enough to burn away the past. He seems to recognize the hunger in my voice, something familiar and safe in a city built on people running from their histories.

The rope drops.

"Enjoy your evening," he rumbles, already turning his attention to the next patron.

The first rush of success floods through me as I step across the threshold. One hurdle down, countless opportunities ahead.

The heat hits immediately—not just temperature, but something deeper. Magic radiates from the enchanted sconces lining the walls, their flames dancing without fuel, casting everything in shades of amber and crimson. The air itself seems to pulse with energy, making my skin tingle where the dress leaves it bare.

And the noise. Oh, the glorious, overwhelming noise.

Music pounds up from the sunken dance floor, drums that match the rhythm of heartbeats, strings that wail like pleasure and pain given voice. Bodies move in the pit below, a sea of wings and skin and desperate motion. The upper levels buzz with conversation, laughter that edges toward hysteria, the sharp crack of magical discharge from the private rooms.

I pause just inside the entrance, letting it all wash over me. This is why I love the nights in New Solas, why I brave the risks of being discovered. In places like this, surrounded by sin and shadow and beautiful chaos, the whispers in my head can't find purchase. There's no room for Cordelia's poison when every sense is flooded with immediate, overwhelming sensation.

A server glides past, her tray loaded with drinks that glow like liquid starlight. Perfect.

I slip into the crowd, using the press of bodies to mask my movements. The burgundy dress helps—expensive enough to suggest I belong, revealing enough to distract from closer inspection. I catch fragments of conversation as I move, voices raised over the music.

"—told him if he wanted exclusive trading rights, he'd have to—"

"—never seen wings that pure before, must be Praexa blood—"

"—in the pain parlor on the second level, apparently she likes to—"

The words wash over me without sticking. I'm focused on the server now, tracking her path through the crowd. She's young, probably new, her movements just uncertain enough to suggest inexperience. Her tray tilts slightly as she navigates around a group of silver-winged merchants, the glowing drinks sliding toward one edge.

I move in like water finding a crack.

"Careful there," I murmur, steadying the tray with one hand while my other plucks two glasses in a motion so smooth it looks like helping rather than stealing. "Busy night?"

She flashes me a grateful smile. "Completely mad. I've never seen it this crowded."

"Special occasion?" I ask, already backing away with my prizes, the glasses hidden against my body.

"Some sort of celebration upstairs. Private party for the Praexa." Her voice carries the awe typical of lower-caste xaphan when discussing their betters. "They've been ordering bottles of Amerinth all night."

Praexa. The word sends a little thrill through me. The golden-winged elite, the ones who practically glow with divine favor. If there's a gathering of archangels in the building, there will be serious money changing hands tonight. The kind of wealth that makes my usual pickpocket targets look like street beggars.

"Sounds impressive," I say, but the server is already moving on, her attention pulled by someone else calling for drinks.

I melt back into the crowd, cradling my stolen prizes. The glasses are warm to the touch, their contents swirling with an inner light that suggests magic rather than simple alcohol. I take a cautious sip of the first one, and liquid fire blooms across my tongue. Not Amerinth—something smoother, sweeter, but with an edge that makes my pulse quicken.

Perfect for what I need tonight.

The second glass I keep for show, something to occupy my hands while I work the room. I need to look like I belong here, like just another patron enjoying Vestige's particular brand of excess. The drink serves as both prop and liquid courage for what comes next.

I find a position near one of the raised platforms, where I can watch the crowd while appearing to watch the performance. A xaphan dancer moves on the platform above, her wings spread wide as she wraps herself around a golden pole that pulses with its own inner heat. Her movements are hypnotic, drawing eyes and loosening purse strings in equal measure.

The crowd presses closer, and I let myself be carried with them, using the momentum to brush against potential marks. A male with copper-streaked wings has his attention fully absorbed by the dancer—perfect distraction. I drift past him, my fingers light as whispers against the coins hanging from his belt.

Three silver pieces, warm with xaphan magic. Not a fortune, but a start.

Next, a group of merchants arguing over territory rights. They're gesturing wildly, their focus entirely on their debate. The female on the left has a small purse tucked behind her wing joint—visible but forgotten in the heat of negotiation. I stumble slightly, catching myself against her shoulder with an apologetic murmur while my other hand relieves her of the burden.

"So sorry," I breathe, steadying myself with practiced embarrassment.

She waves me off without really looking, already turning back to her argument about shipping routes and tariff disputes.

The purse weighs heavy in my palm—more than silver this time. I can feel the distinct shape of nodals through the fabric, real money that could keep me fed for weeks if I'm careful with it.

This is what I live for. Not the violence, not the desperation of my early years on the streets, but this—the elegant dance of deception, the way I can move through crowds like smoke, taking what I need without leaving ripples behind. There's art in it, skill that goes beyond mere survival. I'm good at this. Maybe the only thing I've ever been truly good at.

The music swells, and bodies press closer to the stage. I let the crowd carry me toward the bar, where well-dressed xaphan cluster three deep, shouting orders over the noise. Perfect hunting ground—lots of money, lots of distraction, lots of alcohol to dull their reflexes.

I squeeze between two males arguing over the merits of different Amerinth vintages, using the press of bodies to mask my work. The one on my left has a money clip tucked into his inside jacket pocket—visible when he gestures, accessible when he turns to signal the bartender. His companion is wearing enough jewelry to buy a small house, rings and chains that catch the light with every movement.

Too much, I decide. Jewelry is harder to fence than coin, and valuable enough that its absence would be noticed quickly. Better to stick with what I know, what I can turn into food and shelter without drawing attention.

The first male's money clip slides free as easily as breathing, my fingers finding the gap in his jacket and relieving him of the burden in one smooth motion. He's too focused on explaining why the 847 vintage is superior to notice the brief contact, his gestures growing more animated as he tries to make his point over the music.

I drift away before either of them can register my presence, the money clip already tucked safely against my ribs. Another successful extraction, another step toward the kind of payday that will let me disappear for weeks.

The energy of the place is infectious, and I find myself actually smiling as I move through the crowd. Not the practiced expressions I use for marks, but genuine pleasure at being here, at being good at what I do. The music pounds through my bones, the magical atmosphere makes my skin tingle, and my pockets grow heavier with each successful theft.

This is going to be a very good night indeed.