Page 80 of Harbinger

“There are no Icaros posterns.”

“Hmph” is her only response.

“What does that mean?” If my family had a personal postern at our disposal, I’d know. On the rare occasions that we use one at all, we use the one near the post like everyone else.

But she’s silent as she sheathes her sword.

Just another reminder of how small my family is in the scheme of things.

Vessica traces a few of the postern’s etched lines, her finger dancing around in a chaotic pattern until sigils begin to glow. The air under the arch shimmers, and I suck in a deep breath, bracing myself. Before I exhale, Vessica is already through.

“Don’t wait for me,” I grumble. Closing my eyes, I dart forward. My boots skid on flagstone, and I nearly crash into Vessica, who’s standing at the edge of a public street with her arms folded, looking like she’s been waiting for me her entire life.

“You okay?” she asks, not sounding particularly concerned.

“I’m not dead,” I manage, but my teeth buzz from the double blow of the postern’s cold and the weather.

“Good enough.” She scans our surroundings. “Stay close to me.”

Squat buildings line the street, nearly lost in a haze of smoke. The sound of clanging metal rings out all around us. Every other business is a forge, and every structure appears built for defense, as if the lives of each soul in Wolf’s Keep revolve entirely around the needs of Order Marius. Houses and shops are packed tightly together, their roofs sloped to shed rain and their windows barred like the village’s inhabitants always expect intruders and never guests. The wood used to build is old and battered, but nothing is broken or in disrepair. The streets are wide and paved. Every pothole is filled. The town is rough but ready for whatever the Stars throw at them.

Vessica moves through it like she owns the place, a privilege she’s earned as a knight. Although I suspect she had that confidence long before the rank. People nod as she passes, their eyes sliding right over me. But it’s better than being stared at.

We head for what might be considered the main street in an average village. Still, normal trades—a baker, apothecary, and grocer—feel like an afterthought here. A sign swinging over the entrance of The Last Drop tavern reads: No Fights. No Questions. No Credit.

The dress shop is tucked beside it, colorful gowns displayed in the windows. Vessica deposits me there, promising to return after a quick trip to the post.

I survive the entire fitting before she returns and taps on the glass like she refuses to even step foot inside. Sliding the receipt into my pocket, I mutter a quick thanks to the seamstress and hurry out to find Vessica studying one of the dresses through the window. It’s made from deep blue velvet, cut close to the body, the sleeves slashed with silver and lined in white silk. Severe but elegant.

I clear my throat as I close the door behind me. “You should try it on.”

“I have no use for dresses.” But her eyes linger.

“Lenora says even soldiers dress up for Twelvetide.”

She snorts. “Only the ones trying to catch someone’s eye.”

I can tell what she thinks about doing that.

“You could wear it for yourself,” I say quietly. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

Her gaze narrows. “If you believed that, you wouldn’t keep covering up that mark on your chest.”

I want to tell her that she’s wrong, but I can’t.

“Here.” She thrusts a single envelope into my hand along with a small box wrapped in brown paper. “These were at the post for you.”

My heart thunders at the sight of Kieren’s sloppy handwriting. The envelope is thin. There can’t be more than a single piece of folded parchment inside. But a package? After weeks with no word, I resist the urge to tear it open.

“I can’t dance anyway,” Vessica confesses as we turn to leave, her tone so conversational that I nearly trip on the threshold.

Before I can point out how easily we can remedy that, the doors of the neighboring tavern burst open. People spill into the street toward the Civicus in the center of the square. There’s already a group clustered around, arguing over something posted there. I can’t see what, but the energy has shifted since I entered the shop an hour ago. Voices rise and fall like a storm. People are tense, glancing between the Civicus and the street like they’re looking for something.

A couple of them spot me and stare.

“They know you’re the raven-marked one,” she warns me in a low voice. “They all do.”

Raven-marked.