She moved through the alley like a ghost, cloak damp from rain and ash. This wasn't her territory, but whispers of missing civilians had dragged her here. Her instincts warned her off—but guilt always had a louder voice.
A blur of motion. A boy darted around the corner and nearly slammed into her. She stumbled back with a soft gasp, hand flying to the hilt at her side—though she didn't draw. Her face was young tonight, no older than twelve, her illusion carefully crafted to blend into the background.
The boy froze, sharp-eyed, breathing hard. Dirt smudged his face and clothes clung to his too-thin frame. Seventeen, maybe. Slum-born, no doubt. He reeked of tension, the kind that settled into bones from too many nights outrunning death.
"You following me?" he snapped.
"No," Esme said quietly, steadying her breath. "You came out of nowhere."
He glanced behind him. Voices—soldiers. Footsteps. Getting closer.
