I was currently engaged in a high-stakes tactical maneuver: trying to sweep a pile of grey ash out the front door of the shop without looking like a man who had spent his night creating said ash.

  Outside, the street was a chaotic mess of gossip and paranoia. The Lyric Court wasn’t just a building; it was a symbol. And right now, that symbol was a smoldering tooth in the city’s skyline. People were huddled in groups, their voices carrying through the glass like a swarm of angry bees.

  "I haven’t seen a blaze like that since the Goregrove Rebellion," an old man croaked, clutching a bag of flour. "Pure spite, that fire was. The work of a demon."

  "Spite?" a woman whispered back. "It’s a signal! The Warrens are rising. They’re coming for our throats just like they did twelve years ago."

  I leaned on my broom, a cold pit of embarrassment forming in my stomach. People were comparing my bad night to a historical massacre. I wanted to crawl into the floorboards and die.

  The worst part wasn't the arson. It was the . I’d leveled a city block and signed my real name in the soot because of Lirra. A girl I had met twice. A girl I had spoken to exactly . I’d gone from a professional, cold-blooded "mover" to a pyromaniac teenager because she’d looked at me like I was part of the furniture.

  If this was how I handled a crush, I was going to need a much larger matchbox for a first date. I was a professional idiot. The "Underground Prince" had been defeated by a polite smile and a complete lack of interest. It was pathetic. I deserved to be caught just so the judge could laugh at me.

  The bell above the door jangled with a violent .

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Oren marched in, looking like he’d spent the morning chewing on lemons. His hat was crooked, and he was clutching a newspaper so tightly his knuckles were white.

  "Damn this city," he spat, not even looking at me as he threw his coat toward the rack. "It’s never been more dangerous. Not since the rebellion twelve years ago. The air tastes like treason and burnt wood."

  I kept my head down, sweeping with newfound vigor. "The rebellion, sir? People outside were calling it 'Goregrove.'"

  Oren stopped, his eyes turning distant and dark. He let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle his bones. "That’s what the historians call it. The Goregrove Rebellion. When House Gorewyn decided they’d had enough of being second-best to their cousins in House Valerion. Family blood is the stickiest kind, Eymire. It doesn't wash out of the cobblestones."

  He leaned against the counter, his grumpy exterior softening into something weary. "House Gorewyn tried to snatch the crown from Valerion’s head, and the whole city paid the price in fire." He stared at the floor, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic tone, almost like he was reciting a funeral dirge:

  He shook his head, the gloom hanging off him like a heavy cloak. "They were dark times, Eymire. Dark times. I remember the sky being this same shade of grey for a month."

  I looked at the soot on my broom, then back at my grumpy employer.

  I thought.

  I gave him a sympathetic nod. "Sounds like a lot of work, sir."

  Oren grunted, the sadness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "work? It was a disaster for the textile industry! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of high-quality silk? Now stop standing there like a statue and finish the floor. If I see one more speck of ash, I’m docking your pay for 'environmental hazards.'"

  I went back to sweeping, hidden behind my scarf.