AI The tunnel breathed sour damp as Harlow Quinn stepped from the stairwell into the Veil Market’s remnant light, where the air tasted of pennies and old rain and something fleshier—like copper still damp on the tongue. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden, now a rumor in the cards and whispered into the ear by those who knew to seek it, swelled around her with a gentle, unnatural pulse. The market didn’t want to be found; it preferred the moon to do the finding, preferred the floorboards to shift and sigh between night and night. It preferred a bone token at the gate, a barbed kiss of superstition that unlocked a corridor to a life other than the one the city allowed.
A single beam of sputtering light fell across her polished leather shoes as she moved, boots quiet against the tiled floor that had once carried footfalls for a commuter’s morning coffee. Her left wrist wore the old leather watch —the only ornament she allowed herself when the precinct’s fluorescent glare turned thirty minutes into a battle of wits with the clock. The market’s smells rose in layers: leather and resin, old ink and new money, copper-tang blood faint as a rumor. The Veil Market didn’t sell what a detective could hang on a wall and call proof; it sold what the city forgot to name.
The first stall to catch her eye wasn’t a stall at all but a doorway draped in a threadbare curtain of wax-warm red. Behind it, an alley of shadows thickened into a line of curtained shelves that carried within them the hush of a crowd echo ing from a place just off the edge of memory. The crime scene wasn’t a body sprawled on a lamp-lit drawing-room carpet, not this time. It was a civic secret, a place where bodies and lies could be folded into one another and left to teach a lesson to those who still believed in the calendar.
“Quinn.” Her name came from a voice she knew as well as the weight of a badge against her palm. The woman stepped from the dark, a silhouette in the wrong light, a friend wearing a different uniform but the same exact agenda of truth. Eva Kowalski, green eyes bright with the green of a scholar’s certainty, curly red hair escaping her pins, the kind of certainty that only comes from a lifetime of asking questions and never stopping at the first answer. Eva wore a satchel heavy with books she hadn’t yet learned to jacket in a single sentence; a risk to any door that wasn’t prepared for a storm of footnotes.
“Afraid you’ll miss the action if you blink?” Eva asked, and it was the kind of line that felt like a dare, a spark against the calm sheen of Harlow’s face.
“Afraid I’ll miss something if I don’t blink,” Harlow replied, letting a corner of her mouth lift in a half-smile that wasn’t wholly earned by levity but by necessity. “The market’s rotations under the full moon are a trick of breath. You know as well as I do this place is as much superstition as matter.”
Eva’s satchel rattled with the promise of discovery; she had her own burdens and clues, the bones of a case she’d already started to assemble in her head. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit that gave away her nerves even as it framed her expression with stubborn intelligence. “There’s more to the story than a staged scene, Harlow. The market’s not just a venue; it’s a vessel. It moves, it breathes, it chooses its own moments to reveal what people think they’ve hidden.”
The crime scene lay in the market’s heart, a place where the stalls bled into one another until it was hard to tell one vendor from the next. A bench of rough timber had been set as an improvised stage; the back wall, once plaster and brick, wore a veil of dust and chalk, a mural of sigils that looked like at least three households of magic had settled their debts on it and forgot to collect. The body lay draped along the bench, a man who wore the kind of tailored coat that spoke of a life lived with resources and a clock that ran a little too fast. There was no blood spatter on the walls, no broken glass, no sign of a struggle in the conventional sense. The killer didn’t want a raging scene; they wanted a quiet, precise impression left in someone’s head.
“Cause of death?” Harlow asked, her voice low, as if the words themselves might wake the place.
Eva inclined her head toward the corpse, and the light fell across the corpse’s features differently. Harlow noticed the face wasn’t the pallor of death at all but the pale shine of wax—like a statue that had only just learned how to blink. The eyelids were closed with a too-careful stillness. There was a peculiar line around the neck, a shallow ridge where something had pressed or wrapped. The shirt collar lay flat, not crushed, as if the killer had chosen restraint rather than violence. A single item sat in the man’s left hand—a small bone token, white as a shell, carved with a loop of runes that Harlow couldn’t quite place in the moment, though they tugged at a memory she’d never fully named.
She stepped closer, careful not to disturb the scene. The token glinted against the pale knuckles, a talisman for entry, perhaps, or a trap laid not to keep a door shut but to usher someone through a door that should not exist in the light of day. The token’s edge pressed against a seam in his jacket as if he’d clutched it in a final, desperate attempt to bring a door down around him.
“Entry denied,” Harlow said softly , meaning the token, meaning the market’s odd habit of reorganizing itself each lunar sweep. The Veil Market’s current location was beneath Camden in a forgotten artery of the city’s old bones. Every full moon, it hopped to another city-block graveyard of rails and tunnels, a ghost’s route between worlds that London didn’t want to acknowledge and the city’s underground thrived on pretending wasn’t there.
Eva leaned in, her breath a pale scent of eucalyptus and old paper, and whispered, “Or perhaps he came with the token and couldn’t bear what it unlocked. The bone token is a key, but it’s also a seal. It seals the gate that should not be opened, and opens a gate you wish hadn’t appeared at all.”
Harlow’s jaw tightened, the sharp line of it reminiscent of a blade just shy of drawing. “What’s your read, Kowalski? Besides the obvious—murder in a place that isn’t supposed to be a crime scene, a token that’s both key and trap, and no footprints in the dust.” The usual city clamor—the voices of witnesses, the scuffs of shoes, the slow careful place-nonsense of a crime tape unwound into the air—seemed to have evaporated, leaving only the two women to stand on the edge of something dangerous and old as names.
Eva’s eyes flickered toward the door behind the curtain, toward a line of cloth that hung like a waterfall or a veil. “Look at the walls,” she said, almost in a whisper, and Harlow followed the direction of her gaze. The wall behind the bench bore a fresh chalk line in a language neither woman had ever seen in the pages of a case file or the British Museum’s archives. It wasn’t a language so much as a map made of circles and triangles—arcane, yes, but also meticulously drawn, as if the artist drew with a physician’s precision. The runes that circled them glowed faintly in the wrong light, a reminder that the Veil Market was more suggestion than stage; it was a theater whose props were alive.
“The crowd here isn’t part of the scene; the watch ers are part of the mechanism,” Eva said, gesturing toward the throng at the stalls, where vendors eyed them with a patient curiosity that was half suspicion, half business. “Look at the glances—no one stops the body. No one claims a witness. They watch for debt to become due and collect with a nod. It’s the market’s way of letting the debt be paid without anyone noticing a ledger.”
Harlow studied the crowd, the way people leaned into corners with a trader’s instinct for survival rather than a witness’s instinct to tell the truth. Where one stall displayed jars of something like unpoured rain in glass vials, another smelled of resin and spices that reminded her of a ship’s hull after a storm. The market’s irregular heartbeat could be heard in the creak of boards, the click of a bottle cap, the soft rustle of a curtain that wasn’t a curtain at all but a doorway between dimensions. It was the kind of place where a killer could dance on the edge of dawn without breaking a law that London recognized as possessing a name.
“Someone wanted him dead here, but not simply dead,” Harlow said, turning toward Eva with that careful, almost military cadence she reserved for moments when she needed to spin a fact into a thread. “This isn’t a straightforward homicide. The token in his hand tells me he had to be here to meet someone, or to pass through something. The question is: what did they hope to gain?”
Eva’s mouth pressed into a line that held more fear than she usually allowed into her expression. She seemed to weigh her next words with care, as if they might jinx the entire scene if spoken aloud. “The market isn’t just a place to buy and sell—it’s a ledger of secrets. And the secrets here point toward something the city wants to forget: a network, a collection of people who know how to make the city bend to their will through fear, through ritual, through the promise that the Veil Market will blink away if you don’t hold tight to your token.” She paused, lifting the satchel slightly as though the weight of all the books inside could somehow shield them from the truth she suspected. “I’ve seen their symbols elsewhere, in restricted corners of archives, in margins of dusty manuscripts that even Oxford’s graduates avoid studying after dark. They think they can move the pieces, and London will merely watch the game without naming it for what it is.”
The thought tightened in Harlow’s chest until it became a wire she could bend with attention. The “clique.” The phrase wasn’t new to her. In eighteen years of service, she’d learned to name the sins she caught glimpses of in corners of the city that most people pretended didn’t exist. The clique was a rumor she’d pursued, a case that refused to stay filed under “unsolved.” They were a constellation of people who believed that some doors were better left unlocked than locked, that power belonged to those who could move their shadows in the same room as the truth and pretend they weren’t shadows at all. She’d suspected their involvement in criminal activity for reasons she would not voice aloud, not yet, not until she could point to the exact link and show the chain that would break a city’s breath.
“Look again,” Eva urged, stepping in closer to the body, careful not to touch but to study. Her fingers hovered above the token, as if she could coax a hidden pattern to reveal itself by contact, but she stopped short. “The runes around the token’s edge—there are two layers to them. One set is old, the other modern. The old set looks like it’s been trained into the bone of the token, a tradition you’d see in a order that’s either myth or memory. The modern set seems like a modification, as if someone learned the ritual by looking at someone else’s notes and decided to improve it.”
Harlow’s eyes narrowed . “Or co-opt it for a different end.” She bent to inspect the token more closely, feeling the patina on its brass edge, the smoothness where years of handling had worn away any roughness. The lines carved into the face—the sigils etched with careful protection—held a paradox: a barrier meant to keep something out, yet a key meant to invite something else in. The compass in her own jacket pocket seemed suddenly heavy with the significance of that possibility.
A few steps away, a small crowd had gathered—stylish, watch ful, as if each person wore the market like a second skin. Some wore leather gloves, others layered wool; all carried with them the sense that they were more than they appeared to be, that their business here wasn’t only the sale of goods but the exchange of futures. The market’s energy rose and rolled in a tide that the humans aboard could never quite quiet or control. It fascinated Harlow, that capacity for ordinary people to become carriers of extraordinary risk simply by stepping into the right place at the right moon.
In the distance, a vendor held a jar up to the jaundiced light and, with a small, practiced flourish, peeled back the lid. The scent of something damp and animal-laden spilled into the air, a reminder of the market’s raw, primal thread. The vendor looked at the corpse with an eye that missed nothing but misinterpreted more than it should have; an experienced observer might call it sorrow, but here it looked more like calculation—the market’s way of letting someone else claim responsibility for what had been done.
Harlow’s gaze returned to the doorway behind the curtain. The edge of it—just a seam, an axis of potential movement—held something that looked suspiciously like a corridor, a channel into a space beyond the visible world. The Veil Market’s policy of moving locations on the full moon meant the place held a memory of all previous sites, a map of doors that had been opened and left ajar. If someone knew how to read it, they could step through the wrong door at the wrong hour and vanish into a different London for a time, returning with new tokens, new debts, new truths.
“The compass,” Harlow murmured, half to herself, half to Eva. She slid a gloved finger into the small brass circle that hung from a fragile chain on her wrist, a personal talisman against the city’s unpredictability. She drew the Veil Compass from her pocket and opened it, letting the face catch the glimmer of a dying lamp. The sigils etched into the face reflected in the brass, a halo of small, protective circles. The needle wavered for an instant, then settled, pointing toward the rear of the market, toward a wall that looked far from solid, a wall that might be a door if a notch of energy pressed just right.
“Where does it point, Quinn?” Eva asked, her voice almost a whisper, as if she didn’t want to wake something sleeping behind the curtain.
Harlow studied the wall, then the token in the dead man’s hand, then the token near the body, and finally the crowd. Her mind worked with the poise of a pistol ready to fire, the chamber loaded with fragments of evidence that refused to align in the symmetric way she preferred. Her partner—a cold, distant memory now—had fallen in a case three years ago that had “supernatural origins” she hadn’t yet understood, and she could feel that ancient ache tug at her, the sense that the criminal landscape was bending the rules she had sworn to defend.
“The token’s not just a key,” she said. “It’s an anchor. It fixes a doorway so it doesn’t drift again with the market’s rotation. The killer knew the market would move, and they needed something that wouldn’t lose its grip on the door when the room itself shifted. If we pull the thread, we might find the door they used to vanish the scene.”
Eva nodded, respecting the implication of the claim. “And if the door is a portal,” she said slowly , “then the runes are the lock. The modern layer—someone’s attempt to rebind an old ritual to fit something they wanted in this century. It isn’t just a homicide. It’s a ritualized transfer of energy, a debt paid in blood so someone could slip through to the other side of London, or perhaps beyond it.”
The words hung in the air , a lattice of possibility that wrapped around Harlow’s shoulders and pulled her toward the truth she’d been trained not to seek, not to accept, and not to fear. The Veil Market’s secret was not simply that it existed; it was that it existed to be used as a stage for people who could not perform their own lives in daylight. The clique—if they were indeed involved—would use such a stage to stage-manage a crime’s consequences, to vanish the evidence and leave the city with a story it could tolerate only if it never spoke aloud to a policeman who had learned to hear the quiet in the noise.
Now the first diverging path of the case opened before them, and it did not run through the body but through the hidden passage behind the curtain, through the door the Veil Compass insisted existed. The compass had never lied before when it pointed toward an energy, toward a portal; it did not lie now. If they followed, they would walk into a space shaped by alchemical dust and the city’s oldest sins. They would step into the body’s quiet afterlife and pull the thread to the knot that bound the present to the past.
“Careful,” Eva said, drawing in a breath that smelled of rain and late-night libraries. “If we step through, we may not come back in the same form. The market is a network, and doors are not just doors here. They are commitments, and this one might bind you to a decision you didn’t expect to make.”
Harlow met Eva’s gaze with steady, unblinking seriousness. “I don’t come to this kind of scene to walk away with certainty,” she said, stepping close enough to feel the other woman’s breath on her cheek. “I come with the memory of my partner, and I come with the duty of the living. If a crime is being used to tip the scales of some larger war, then I’m here to cut the bales loose from the rope that’s pulling this city into a debt it cannot pay. And if that debt means a door that the market keeps trying to hide, I’ll hold the key long enough to see who’s trying to use it.”
Eva offered a small, bleak smile that carried a stubborn hope. She reached into the satchel and drew forth a stack of worn index cards, each one stained at the edges with ink that had faded to a coppery brown. “I can map the runes and the market’s movements,” she said, her eyes bright with the stubborn light of one who refuses to let superstition eclipse analysis. “If we cross-reference the symbol in the old archives with your clique’s known affiliations, we may be able to show a pattern that isn’t merely coincidence. And if we find a name attached to the ritual—someone who has reason to keep this market as a hidden dependency rather than a simple supply chain—then we might have the evidence to tie those pieces to a criminal enterprise that has been running through this city’s arteries for years.”
Harlow nodded, the line of her jaw hardening with the familiar tightening of purpose that had carried her through eighteen years of decorated service. She took a breath and let it out slowly , letting her gaze drift across the crowd. The market was a living thing, a creature that fed on fear and fed back certainty in the hands of those who could pay the price of knowledge. She could feel the tremor behind the subtext of Eva’s words, the sense that there was a name behind the door that would connect the market, the token, the ritual, the debt.
She looked again at the body and the token. The token’s glyphs glowed faintly in the market’s odd glow, not with light but with a suspended memory. She took a step back and studied the entire scene with that careful, almost surgical precision she wore like armor. The bench’s grain, the wall’s chalk lines, the token’s position—all told a puzzle that didn’t fit a straightforward homicide. If the market had moved, as it did, would the body have moved with it? Could someone have staged the death at the market’s present location to mislead an investigation and force the city to swallow a story that would keep the topic away from the real criminals?
The address of the “bone token” wasn’t merely a key to a door; it was a point of origin in a field of force, a line drawn through London that the Veil Market had become a crossroads of. He who held the token could walk through the market’s shifting walls and end up anywhere, in any era, with any intention. The thought made Harlow’s lips press together in a thin line.
She moved again, slowly , as if every action could be a test of the market’s patience. She circled the bench and the corpse, letting the rhythm of her steps count for something more than a count of feet. Her fingers brushed against the token gently , turning it in her palm to examine its back, where the rune-work lay inset with a care that meant someone had spent hours, perhaps days, shaping and refining it. The patina on the brass felt cool, almost alive, and the founder’s name that had been inscribed—“crafted by a Shade artisan”—pricked at her memory. A Shade artisan—one of the wordless makers who whispered through the gaps in the world, who glimpsed the edges where magic and matter still argued about who would own the question.
“Shades,” she whispered, half to herself, half to Eva. The word hung in the air between them, a reminder that the Veil Market wasn’t simply a shop for enchanted goods and banned alchemical substances. It was a place where the dead could borrow the living’s breath, where a token might carry more than a mere literal meaning. It was a space where the city’s old sins could be manipulated by people who had learned that secrecy was a currency as valuable as gold.
The Veil Compass lay in her other hand, as if it were a second, quieter voice urging her toward a path she hadn’t yet decided to take. The needle trembled for a moment and then steadied, pointing not to a stall, not to a vendor, but to the curtain’s edge—the threshold where the market’s reality bleeds into the city’s ordinary streets. It wasn’t a door; it was a seam where the market’s life brushed against London’s bloodstream.
“Follow,” Eva whispered, stepping closer to the compass and the bench, which felt suddenly more like a map’s port than a crime scene. “Follow the needle.”
Harlow did not hesitate. She rose from the bench with the grace of disciplined motion and moved toward the curtain behind the stall—an ordinary piece of fabric when the market was quiet, and an extraordinary doorway when the moon drew near its peak. The curtain parted with a sigh, not a crash, as if the market were a living creature who’d consented to reveal a secret to those who knew how to ask politely.
To the other side lay a narrow corridor, dimly lit by a line of irregular lamps that hummed with a soft, tired energy. The air here tasted different—a denser mixture of clay and ozone, a hint of something old and mineral that she could not name. The corridor didn’t lead to a room so much as to a space that seemed to tilt the physics of the market toward a conclusion it hadn’t yet reached. The walls bore more runes, but these were different—simpler, perhaps older, and arranged in a pattern that looked almost ceremonial rather than decorative, as if the vendor had decided to leave a blueprint for someone who would come when the moon rose again.
“Where does this go, exactly?” Harlow asked, her voice softer now, the edge of suspicion tempered by the careful curiosity she never shelved, even at the worst moments.
Eva’s eyes widened slightly as she studied a second set of sigils carved more deeply into the plaster, as if the wall itself had refused to let go of its secrets and had allowed a craftsman to carve them anew in a language that only the vigilant could read. “If we’re reading it right, this is a conduit,” she said, her voice a careful cadence. “Not a door, not a room. A conduit—an interface between the Veil Market and whatever lies beyond its chosen location. The token, the sigils, the relics—these are the coordinates that call the conduit into a specific moment.”
Harlow’s breath stilled in her chest as she stared at the conduit, a wordless sense of fear and wonder rising in her. The mere possibility that there existed a doorway not just between places on Earth but between this world and something else—something ancient and patient—stretched her. The memory of DS Morris’s death flashed across her mind, not as a memory of a specific case but as a recognition that supernatural origins weren’t gossip to be dismissed but a reality that could take a toll on those who pursued it too long.
“Show me,” she said, and her voice held a calm that did not hide the tremor beneath. “If the clique is using this—if they’re moving through a conduit like a private alley—then we’re not chasing a random killer; we’re chasing a system.”
Eva stepped closer to the conduit’s edge and laid her fingers upon the carved sigils; she did not flinch but steadied herself, as if she were about to step into a river and needed to learn its current rather than fight it. The moment her fingers touched the stone, a change came over the corridor. The air warmed a fraction, and the runes glowed a pale blue and then brightened, as if the conduit recognized something the two women carried with them. The Veil Market’s life exhaled in a slow sigh and seemed to listen.
“The current is old,” Eva breathed, “but it’s not inert. It responds to intention.” She looked up at Harlow. “The token anchored the conduit in a way; the old rune-work executed a transfer, and the modern layer is the mechanism that makes the transfer legible to those who know what to look for.”
Harlow’s eyes narrowed again, not with suspicion but with revelation. A feeling, not of triumph but of a stubborn gravity, pulled at her. If what Eva was saying was true, then the killer hadn’t staged a dead body to hide a crime in the ordinary sense. They’d staged a dead body to prove a point—to claim space in London’s unseen geometry, to prove that the city had a weakness that only those who understood the market’s rules could exploit. The crowd at the stalls, the token in the dead man’s hand, the hidden conduit—all of it pointed to something larger than murder for money. It pointed to a power that wanted to bend a city, to demand sacrifices to keep a door open for something it valued.
She let the thought settle for a beat, then spoke with a careful cadence. “If the clique knows how to use this conduit, they have a way out when law enforcement closes in. If they have a way to move through a moon-ruled market, they can slip into another time, another place, and leave us with nothing but shadows and a ledger that doesn’t balance.”
Eva met her stare, unafraid and unyielding. “Then we must prove they used it. We must pull the thread and see where it leads, even if it’s to a place London doesn’t want to name.”
The Veil Compass answered in its own way, the needle tugging toward a far-off wall that was not a wall but a gate in the market’s own vocabulary. The two women stepped closer to the shimmering seam, and the world thinned around them until it was easier to imagine a door behind it.
And then, as if answering their risk, a distant voice—an echo , really —carried through the tunnel, faint, almost polite, a polite warning that carried a degree of fear within it. It wasn’t fear for them, not entirely; it was fear for what would happen if this door was opened too wide. The voice belonged to a watch er, someone who knew what would happen if the market’s rules were broken, someone who would pay attention while others slept.
“You’re not supposed to see this,” the voice said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t addressing two people at all but the idea of two people who dared to see beyond the lip of the page. The words rose and fell like a tide, and then, as if the tide remembered its duty, the voice faded.
Harlow stood still, her breath quiet, listening to the market breathe with them, as if the whole place waited for her to step over the threshold and become something else, something the world would force to accept as truth because she had spoken it aloud.
“Do you still think the market’s innocent of a crime?” Eva asked, and the question didn’t demand an answer so much as acknowledge the weight in the air.
“No,” Harlow said, the word heavy in her mouth as if she’d swallowed a rock-sized letter that spoke the truth she hadn’t allowed herself to speak before. “I think the market’s a map riddled with old debts and wrongdoings, and someone is trying to redraw the city’s boundaries to their own advantage. If the clique is involved, they’re not merely breaking laws; they’re rewriting the laws in a language London won’t admit exists. We’re not chasing a murder; we’re chasing a breach.”
The Veil Compass hummed softly in her palm, an oracular sheen to the instrument that offered direction without a map. It pointed toward the hidden doorway, the conduit’s mouth, a sanctuary for secrets, and perhaps also a trap for those who would ask too many questions.
“We have to bring the evidence out,” Eva said, her voice steady and calm. “We have to show them what a token can do when it’s properly anchored, and what a crowd’s silence can do when it’s orchestrated.”
Harlow’s fingers tightened around the token, then released it with the ghost-light touch that betrayed nothing of the tremor she felt inside. She would keep the token about her, she decided, not to guard it from the market’s secrets but to remind herself of why she pursued them in the first place: a city whose breath she shared, a partner she’d never forget, and a debt that must be paid in truth, not in fear.
They returned to the corridor’s edge, where the glow of runes lit their path with a pale, nonchalant certainty. The crowd’s murmurs drifted toward them as if the market itself was testing whether these two women belonged in its most intimate rooms. The crowd wasn’t merely an audience; it was the market’s choir, singing in the key of risk, weighing every breath against the cost of discovery.
“We bring the evidence to the right hands,” Harlow said, her voice a measured cadence that still sounded like a command against the dark. “We don’t pretend to know the market’s songs or the cliques that sing them, but we know how to listen when the music changes key.”
Eva inclined her head in assent. “And we know how to follow a needle,” she replied, patting the Veil Compass as if it were a trusted friend who could glide them through the market’s most treacherous notes.
Together they stepped back into the heart of the Veil Market, their silhouettes cutting into the murmur of the stalls, their breath steady against the hush of the room that was never entirely still. The body’s pale stillness remained a memory in the air, but the questions had sharpened, now singing in their minds as if the runes themselves had chosen to whisper truths in a language only the patient could understand.
The evidence wouldn’t fix itself with a single inspection. The token wouldn’t reveal all its secrets with a single glance. The conduit wouldn’t yield its gate just because two detectives stood on the threshold and spoke softly to one another. But they had something the market could not deny: the truth had a way of slipping through cracks when people looked away from the door. And in a city like London, a door left unguarded would not be opened by a force of nature. It would be opened by a hand that believed it could defy the city’s established order and leave nothing for others to hold when the moon finally completed its turn.
Harlow closed her fist around the Veil Compass again, its verdigris patina catching the light and turning it a shade that was almost sea-green, almost bone-white, almost the color of something that had just learned to become visible. Eva’s eyes met hers, and in that moment, a shared understanding formed—one that did not neatly resolve the present mystery but gave them a direction forward. They would follow the market’s next turning, would stand their ground at the threshold where the old world and the new world collided, and would trace the thread to the knot where the clique’s power held fast.
The transactions of the night—footsteps , soft mutterings, the clink of glass, a door’s sigh—kept a measured tempo around them, keeping time with their own breath. They moved as a pair that could understand what the city would deny even existed, a pair who believed that a crime was never just a crime but a thread that, if pulled, could unravel a larger tale the Veil Market had spent centuries learning to hide.
And so they walked, not running, not with the swagger of a hero but with the deliberate calculation of two women who knew enough to fear what they did not yet know, who had enough faith in each other to continue when every sign pointed toward danger. The clock in Harlow’s head ticked in perfect rhythm with the notches on the Veil Compass, and the city stretched before them, a map with both familiar streets and forbidden corners, the lines between the two never quite clear, the risk always worth the price of the truth.