Theea
yla
I light up when I spot him. "Niki?" It comes out half-laugh, half-relief. "You made it to Torchline!"
Nova ’s warning about not taking the blame earns her my best raised brow and an amused smirk. I shake my head as she skips off trailing starlight like a guilty comet. "Noted, commander," I murmur under my breath, then tip my chin to Nikandr. "I’ll take the south. Try not to get arrested."
I slide into the southern street where the crowd thickens around a performer. Knives catch the lamplight and spin silver halos; the audience oohs and laughs, shoulders pressed tight. It’s perfect cover. I keep my head down, clapping once like I belong, then edge along the shopfronts—peeling paint, fishing nets hung to dry, a chalkboard menu promising something fried and wonderful.
There—the rival flyer, all flourished script and smug edges, nailed over a patch of sun-faded cork. I glance at the knives (still midair), at the crowd (entranced, I hope), and work my fingers under a corner. Slow and careful. The paper sighs free. I fold it twice and slip it into my jacket—no sense leaving evidence—and lift one of Nova’s masterpieces from my stack.
Glitter blooms the moment I breathe on it. Of course it does. I turn my body to block the worst of the sparkle as I smooth the new flyer into place, palm skimming the corners, knuckle tapping each tack home. I step back, wipe a comet’s worth of glitter off my hands (futile), and blend into the edge of the crowd. "One down," I murmur to myself, already scanning for the next target.
Nova ’s warning about not taking the blame earns her my best raised brow and an amused smirk. I shake my head as she skips off trailing starlight like a guilty comet. "Noted, commander," I murmur under my breath, then tip my chin to Nikandr. "I’ll take the south. Try not to get arrested."
I slide into the southern street where the crowd thickens around a performer. Knives catch the lamplight and spin silver halos; the audience oohs and laughs, shoulders pressed tight. It’s perfect cover. I keep my head down, clapping once like I belong, then edge along the shopfronts—peeling paint, fishing nets hung to dry, a chalkboard menu promising something fried and wonderful.
There—the rival flyer, all flourished script and smug edges, nailed over a patch of sun-faded cork. I glance at the knives (still midair), at the crowd (entranced, I hope), and work my fingers under a corner. Slow and careful. The paper sighs free. I fold it twice and slip it into my jacket—no sense leaving evidence—and lift one of Nova’s masterpieces from my stack.
Glitter blooms the moment I breathe on it. Of course it does. I turn my body to block the worst of the sparkle as I smooth the new flyer into place, palm skimming the corners, knuckle tapping each tack home. I step back, wipe a comet’s worth of glitter off my hands (futile), and blend into the edge of the crowd. "One down," I murmur to myself, already scanning for the next target.
Know I'm gonna get there somehow, take it all in and breathe out
I got everything I need now, think I'm done looking down,
got my head in the clouds
I got everything I need now, think I'm done looking down,
got my head in the clouds
