Page 45 of Silvercloak

The joke landed flat. Levan and Rasso left the room without looking back.

Their absence rang in her ears like a bell fallen quiet.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Saffron studied her wand in its holder for a moment. Should she mutteret vocos,try and make contact with Aspar? Let the captain know her position was secured? No. Some instinct told her to hold off until she knew how closely the Bloodmoons were observing, listening.

I seeeverything,Filthcloak.

Besides, she didn’t have any real intelligence yet. She could warn Aspar that Lyrian knew everything about their cohort, but what good would that do? Aspar wasn’t the type of captain to place detectives in safe houses so readily. She needed cloaks on the streets.

Saff shoved her feet into her boots and headed over to the small washbasin. She scrubbed her face and neck with the same lemon-mint soap she’d smelled on Levan, then lifted her tunic at the waist and dabbed her armpits with a cloth, but she couldn’t bring herself to wash the rest of her body yet. That would mean confronting the brand, and she was nowhere near ready to do that.

Once she was dry, she grabbed the crimson cloak from the top of the trunk. It was light and silky, gliding through her fingers like ink. She shrugged it over her shoulders—wincing as the fresh brand tugged at her chest—and secured it at the neck with the ruby brooch.

Then, turning slowly on her heel, she eyed herself in the tall, wall-mounted mirror.

At the sight of herself in the infamous Bloodmoon scarlet, she felt a kind of profound disturbance in the very fabric of herself.

Her silver-blond curls corkscrewed in all directions—her mother’s curls. The last time Saff had seen them on another mage, they had haloed Mellora’s dead face like a mourning wreath. Now the very same curls fell onto the shoulders of a Bloodmoon cloak.

It felt like dancing on a grave with the person who had dug it.

As Saffron strode to the door, she felt the thread tying her to her old life shiver and snap.

THE JADED SAINT WAS A MOODY TAVERN FRONTED BY DARK BLUEawnings, flanked on either side by raucous red pleasurehouses. Indented into the tavern’s creamstone walls were several shallow domed alcoves, each housing a marble statue of the patron saints of wielding. A jet of everflowing water shot from Quissari’s fingertip, while eternal fire danced behind the eyes of Incinari. Thunder cracked above Etanari’s head, while red roses sprang from seed to bloom and back again around Aterrari’s feet. All of the Saints wore tormented expressions, staring at their respective elements with a look of existential horror. (There was no real reason for this artistic choice, theologically speaking, rather than a desire to lend a certain edginess to the tavern’s aesthetic. According to Patron legend, the Saints had actually been quite titillated by their own acts of creation.)

Saffron and Levan stood across the street, outside an enchanted quill shop Auria adored. Arollan Mile flowed with a steady stream of civilians, all of whom avoided looking at the two tall mages in sinister scarlet cloaks. The fallowwolf’s gaze fixed hungrily on the drinkers outside the Jaded Saint, as though wondering whom to tear to shreds first.

“Are you going to tell me who Zares is?” Saffron asked, disquiet swirling in her gut. “Or at least why they’re important? Auria will need something to go on.”

“Not if she’s as skilled a researcher as you claim.”

His tone signaled this was a closed matter.

And so Saffron sought victory elsewhere, a tiny grapple for control, no matter how small. A reminder that she was not the kingpin’s dog, nor the fallowwolf trotting at Levan’s heel. She was a powerful mage with her own agency, and she would not fall into step like a leashed animal.

“I don’t think I should wear the scarlet cloak,” she said matter-of-factly. “Auria won’t cooperate if she knows I’m working with you.”

Levan grunted his assent. “Fine.”

“And you should wait outside. There’s a chance you’ll be recognized—Auria has a powerful memory, and if your face has ever appeared in connection with Bloodmoon activity, she will know. She has your father’s file memorized cover to cover.”

At this suggestion, Levan looked at her incredulously. “Let you go in alone? And leave you to say whatever you want to your old Silvercloak brethren?”

“Not whatever I want.” Saff tapped at the brand. Despite the salve, it was raw and tender to the touch, the wound still bright and new. “Or I’ll perish instantly. I have no choice but to act in the Bloodmoons’ favor.”

“You could just not do anything. You could go in and discuss, I don’t know, the new translation of the Saints’ manifesto, and I’d be none the wiser.”

“And lie to you?” Saff gave him a pointed glare. “Wouldn’t that constitute a betrayal?”

His jaw hardened. “You’re not going in alone.”

Saffron folded her arms. “If you’re happy with Auria immediately clamming up and refusing to give you the information you want—or even trying to arrest you there and then—you’re most welcome to join me.”

“You’ve seen how far I’ll go to convince—”

“We went through torture training in the Academy, and only three of us passed first time: me, Auria, and Sebran. You will never break herwith pain or fear. You kept me alive for a reason. Because you need me to coax.”

The street felt muted around them. Levan appeared to be grappling internally between logic—what was best for the mission—and a desire not to cede any ground. He wanted her afraid for her life, not ordering him around.

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