The train hissed to a stop like it was exhaling after a long run. Jamie and Iris stepped onto the platform, and the capital swallowed them whole.
Noise hit first. The sound of hundreds of boots and voices clattered off the vaulted ceiling of the station, rising in layers—announcements shouted through brass megaphones, babies crying, vendors hawking roasted nuts, and the rhythmic hiss of steam from the train behind them. The platform stretched farther than they'd expected, lined with polished stone and arched beams streaked with soot. Glass panes above let in thin light from the overcast sky, but the air felt dim—like the city filtered the sun before it could reach them.
The second thing that hit me was the smell. Sharp and metallic, it was touched with coal smoke, oil, and expensive perfumes that lingered behind well-dressed passengers. Underneath it all was something damp and mineral—stone that had held too much history—the kind of scent that whispered: people have died here.
Iris stood frozen momentarily, her gloved hand tight on the wooden dress box. "This is…"
"Loud?" Jamie offered, scanning the crowd.
She nodded slowly. "And tall. Everything is taller."
He didn't answer right away. His eyes tracked the guards posted at the far end of the station—capital uniforms, crisp and expressionless, randomly stopping travelers to inspect their papers. Their coats were a deeper navy than Greystone's lawmen ever wore. Sharper cuts. Polished buttons. Their eyes were even colder.
Jamie grabbed Iris's elbow gently. "Come on. Let's blend."
"Into what, exactly?" she hissed as he steered her toward the side of the platform. "We look like lost kids."
He gave a tight smile. "That's because we are lost kids. But let's fake it."
They slipped past a column where a small group of workers unloaded crates, ducking through the less crowded east exit. No one stopped them. No one looked twice. In the capital, it turned out, anonymity was the default.
Outside the station, the city rose up like a god.
Buildings loomed in every direction, pressing in close like they were listening. Wrought iron balconies clung to soot-darkened stone facades. Cloth awnings in every color sagged with moisture above windows glittering with reflected rain. People moved with purpose—hurrying past without seeing anyone, like the world was something to endure rather than engage with.
Carriages rattled down the narrow streets, their wheels striking sparks on cobblestones slick with grime. Overhead, the sky hung gray and heavy, pressing low over the roofs like a warning.
"This is insane," Iris whispered. "This city has layers. Is it a cake?"
Jamie didn't reply. He was watching everything—too much, too fast.
They walked silently for several minutes, weaving between crowds, dodging puddles, and glancing back more than once.
Eventually, they ducked into a small alley behind a fruit vendor's cart, half-shielded from view. Iris leaned against a damp wall, one hand on her chest.
"Okay," she said, breathless. "We made it."
Jamie nodded and pulled the envelope from his coat pocket. The one from Maribelle Quinn.
He opened it again, smoothing the parchment against the brick wall. The handwriting was still elegant. Still poised. Still completely useless.
"There's no address," Iris said. "I was hoping it would be written somewhere. It's not."
They stared at the letter in silence for a few seconds.
"Great," Iris muttered. "So we came all this way, nearly drowned in the crowd—and we don't even know where to go."
Jamie tucked the letter back in. "We'll figure it out."
"How?" she snapped—then immediately softened. "Sorry. I just… I didn't expect to feel this overwhelmed."
Jamie leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. "We're not just here for the dress. We're here for the murder. If we track the fabric back to a guild or tailor… it could give us both a location and a name."
Iris raised her brows. "You think the dress and the murder lead are the same?"
"Maybe," he said.
She sighed and slid down until she was sitting on her suitcase. "I've never felt this small before. In Greystone, everyone knows me. Here, I'm a speck."
Jamie sat beside her, letting his shoulder bump hers gently. "Better to be a quiet speck than a loud target."
She gave him a weak smirk. "That's deep."
"Thanks. I've been reading your sarcastic monologues for inspiration."
They sat for a beat longer. Just breathing. Listening.
Then Iris sat upright. Slowly. Eyes wide.
"What?" Jamie asked.
"The seal," she whispered.
Jamie frowned. "What about it?"
"Maribelle Quinn's seal. Her carriage. Her boots. Her whole vibe. She's not just rich. She's known."
Jamie blinked. "You think a guard might recognize her?"
"Or the name. Or the seal. If anyone watches who goes in and out of estates, it's the guards. They might know where this gala even is."
Jamie hesitated. "It's risky. If we ask the wrong one—"
"Then let me do it," Iris said firmly.
"You?"
"I look harmless," she said. "You look like you're about to interrogate someone with your eyebrows."
He gave her a look. Then nodded. "Fair. But I'm close by."
A few minutes later, they stood at the edge of the southern district, just inside a merchant alley lined with shuttered stalls and flickering lamps. Two guards stood nearby, one older and one younger, their uniforms more ceremonial than functional.
Iris stepped forward, clutching the sealed envelope.
"Excuse me," she said politely.
The guards looked her over, surprised.
"I was told to deliver a dress for Miss Maribelle Quinn. I have her seal here, but she didn't give me an address. Just said the Southern estate. Do you know it?"
The older guard's face changed. Subtle, but not missed.
He took the envelope, turned it over, and whistled. "Fox flame. Yep. That's her."
"So you do know where she lives?" Iris asked.
He handed the envelope back. "Morrowind Avenue. Head south past the ivy gates, and you'll see bronze fencing with that same fox emblem. That's the place."
"Thank you," she said, already turning.
The guard called after her. "Word of advice? Deliver the dress. Don't stay long."
The gates opened without a word. No creak, no groan—just a smooth, silent sweep as if the estate had been expecting them all along.
Jamie and Iris stepped through, boots crunching lightly on the black stone path. The world behind them seemed to fall away. The sound of the city faded. Even the air felt different—cooler, stiller, and controlled.
Gas lanterns flickered along the walkway, their flames dancing behind iron cages shaped like thorned vines. The trees lining the drive stood like sentries, trimmed into narrow columns that watched without eyes. Somewhere overhead, a crow called once then fell silent.
The front door opened before they knocked.
A butler waited. He was tall, thin, perfectly groomed, with a collar so stiff it looked like it could cut glass. He said nothing—just nodded once and stepped aside.
Inside, the manor was a world of velvet and echo.
Marble floors reflected soft candlelight from sconces mounted on paneled walls. The air smelled faintly of old roses and lavender polish as if someone had cleaned obsessively an hour ago. A grand staircase curled upward, its railings carved into twisting vines and foxes mid-prowl.
They were led through a sitting room, past a library with gold-embossed spines, and down a corridor where the wallpaper changed from deep green to red damask. At the end of the hall, a door stood half-open.
The butler finally spoke, his voice smooth as ink. "She's waiting."
Jamie glanced at Iris—Are you ready?—and she nodded once.
They stepped inside.
Maribelle Quinn sat beside a tall window, bathed in the gray-pink light of a dying day. She wore a robe the color of pine needles and a brooch shaped like a bleeding flower. Her hair was pinned back in elegant waves. A cup of tea rested near her hand, untouched but still steaming.
She looked up—and smiled.
"Miss Miller," she said warmly. "And… company."
Jamie gave a nod, staying quiet.
Iris stepped forward slowly, her hands white-knuckled on the wooden dress box.
"I brought it," she said softly.
Maribelle stood and crossed the room with the grace of someone used to being watched. "Of course you did. You strike me as someone who finishes what she starts."
She reached for the box, but Iris hesitated. "It's delicate."
"I trust you," Maribelle said simply.
That surprised Iris more than she wanted to admit.
She set the box down gently and unclasped the lid.
The dress inside caught the light like liquid fire—crimson velvet, gold thread, and the dragon at the hem sparking to life in the flickering candlelight. Even Jamie let out a quiet breath.
Maribelle was silent for a long moment.
Then she said, "Exquisite."
Iris blinked. "You really like it?"
"Like it?" She gave a low laugh. "My dear, I have been seen in gowns stitched by masters. Paid for dresses that took a year to make. But this…" She traced a finger near the dragon's tail, not touching, just admiring. "This is hunger, beauty, and rebellion sewn into one. People will talk."
She stepped away and picked up a small velvet pouch from the side table. It clinked faintly.
"For your work," she said, placing it in Iris's hand. "And for your silence."
Iris froze. "…My silence?"
Maribelle's smile returned. "This city is full of thieves, Miss Miller. Thieves of fabric, gold, and stories. Some things are better hidden until the right moment. Keep this dress quiet until the gala. No one else must wear one like it. Understood?"
Iris nodded slowly. "Understood."
Maribelle's eyes gleamed. "Good girl."
She turned back to the window, signaling they were dismissed.
Jamie put a hand on Iris's shoulder. "Let's go."
They left the room, the pouch still warm in Iris's hand.
Chapter 6: Ash on the Edges
They didn't speak right away after leaving the estate.
The city didn't let them.
Morrowind Avenue was quieter than the station, but only just. Horse hooves clacked against stone, carriage wheels hummed past, and a street musician played a slow, trembling tune on a violin somewhere nearby. Even the shadows felt busy.
Jamie walked a few paces ahead, his boots tapping a steady rhythm, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Iris followed behind, cradling the velvet pouch like it might evaporate if she loosened her grip. Her steps were slower now—not heavy—but tired.
She didn't realize how drained she was until they turned a corner, and the street noise dropped for half a block.
"Are we heading toward the inn now?" she asked, voice low.
Jamie didn't answer right away. He was still running hot from the conversation with Maribelle—eyes sharp, thoughts tangled.
"I was thinking," he said, "we could use the rest of the daylight. Ask around. Tailor shops, maybe. If it's from the capital, someone must've woven that fabric."
Iris blinked hard, her feet slowing again. "Jamie."
He turned halfway, eyebrows raised.
"I'm spent," she said softly. "I can't talk to anyone else today."
"You wouldn't have to do the talking," he offered. "I just need another pair of eyes. You're better at spotting—"
"Jamie," she repeated sharper this time. "I can't."
That made him stop. He turned to face her fully, and they just stared at each other for a moment, the space between them filled with everything they weren't saying.
Iris looked down the street. "I've had strangers in my face all day. I got lost in a crowd twice. I watched a noblewoman examine my soul like it was sewn into the hem of that dress. My brain's fried, my hands hurt, and I'm still unsure if I delivered art or a political message wrapped in velvet."
Jamie's expression softened. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. We'll find the inn."
He stepped closer, walking beside her now, his stride adjusting to hers. They didn't speak again for several blocks. The pouch in Iris's coat thudded softly against her side with each step, heavy in ways she couldn't explain.
The streets began to thin. Lamps lit overhead. Laundry lines crossed between second-story windows. A group of kids darted past them with chalk-stained hands and bare feet, laughing like the city hadn't stolen anything from them yet.
Jamie glanced at her again. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head. "Don't be. I know you want answers. I do, too. Just… not today."
He gave a slow nod. "You were incredible in there, by the way."
Iris snorted. "I was barely holding it together."
"You didn't flinch once. Not even when she called you 'good girl.'"
"Ugh. Don't remind me. I'm gonna hear that in my nightmares."
He smiled. "Seriously. You looked like you belonged."
"I looked like I wanted to disappear. Same thing in fancy places."
They reached a quieter intersection, and Jamie checked the scrap of paper he'd tucked in his coat pocket—the name of an inn scribbled in uneven ink. "Three more blocks. Supposed to be tucked between a butcher shop and some flower carts."
"Sounds poetic," Iris said dryly. "Hope the walls don't smell like either."
Jamie chuckled. "Could be worse. We could be sleeping at the station."
Iris shuddered. "One more whiff of the steam engine, and I'll throw myself into a laundry cart."
He looked over. "You sure you're okay?"
She hesitated. Then said, "No. But I will be."
And that, for now, was enough.
The inn sat in a crooked line of buildings, its sign swinging from iron brackets that squeaked with every gust of wind. Painted in faded green with peeling gold script, it read:
The Thistle & Thorn – Rooms, Warm Meals, No Nonsense.
Which sounded like exactly what Iris needed.
The building was narrow but deep, tucked between a butcher shop that was thankfully closed for the evening and a flower cart spilling over with damp petals and crushed stems. The inn's front windows glowed with soft amber light. The smell of spiced broth and old wood drifted out as Jamie pushed open the door.
Inside, it was warm.
The lobby was small, more of a wide hallway than anything, with an old rug worn down in the middle and framed sketches of local scenery crookedly hung on the walls. A small bell sat on the counter beside a guestbook with a cracked spine.
A woman with short gray hair and sharper eyes looked up from behind the desk. "Room?"
Jamie nodded. "Two beds, please. Nothing fancy."
"Everything here's the same kind of not-fancy." She reached under the counter and pulled out a key. "Three nights?"
Jamie glanced at Iris.
She was leaning against the doorframe, her eyes half-lidded, her boots muddy, and her arms still wrapped around the velvet pouch, like it was the last real thing holding her together.
"Let's start with that," Jamie said. "We'll extend if needed."
The woman named a price, and Jamie opened the pouch Iris had handed him earlier. A few coins glinted inside—enough to stay comfortably, more than enough for a hot meal or two.
He paid without a word.
They climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, the boards creaking beneath their steps. Their room was at the end of the hall, tucked beneath the sloped part of the roof. When Jamie opened it, the door stuck a little.
Inside was simple: two narrow beds with heavy quilts, a wooden table near the window, a ceramic washbasin, and a small oil lamp already lit. The scent of lemon polish clung faintly to the air, mixed with the warm, earthy smell of the linen.
Iris stepped in, dropped her bag by the nearest bed, and fell face-first onto it.
Jamie raised a brow. "Shoes, at least?"
A muffled groan came from the pillow. "Too far."
He crossed the room, crouched down, and tugged off her boots one at a time.