The rain thinned to threads. The capital of Balad greeted summer’s first cloudless night, a velvet bowl washed clean above the roofs.
Still, the weather felt wrong, like a fever under a smile. The rain hadn’t quit; the morning sun lashed like a whip. Weeks of standing water steamed up, kettles simmering in the air. Every step burst a wet flower underfoot. The air reeked of roadside gutters, a sour brew rising slow.
This humid heat outlasted any normal summer, a blanket soaked and hot. The pampered people of Balad covered mouths with sleeves or frowned. Empire-wide unrest barely touched the splendor here, bright as a market fair. But its residents tasted, by accident, a day in ruined Dalahaman.
At least the moon tonight slipped free of cloud. Pale silver, born from beyond the sky, poured down like cold milk. It found a narrow alley that rarely knew light. Time was almost up, a drumbeat nearing its last strike.
In the alley, a girl lifted her head, nerves tight as a bowstring. Moonlight lit brown curls hiding under her hood. She studied the waxing crescent, then fished a pocket watch from her coat. A soft click; the lid sprung open. A portrait hid there—same eyes, same thin lips as her own. Yellowed corners held a date; the month and day were today. She stared at that date; her grip tightened around the watch. A dull ache moved first; yesterday Father called me home to remind me. …Sorry, Mom. When this is done today, I’ll come see you.
Her lids lowered; her gaze dropped to the twitching second hand. She lifted her eyes again to a moon already a third full.
“Why isn’t Adelaide here yet…?”
“She won’t be coming, Miss Hazel Paddini.”
A stranger’s voice rose behind her, making Hazel jolt like a struck string. She turned; a shadow seeped out like liquid from the alley’s dark. It took shape: a figure in black robes, hidden head to toe. Only fabric’s ripples betrayed a tall, graceful woman beneath. She couldn’t see a face, and the voice was new. But years of knowing Adelaide tightened Hazel’s brow, like thread pulled taut.
“Adelaide… why are you dressed like this?”
Adelaide was usually in a wheelchair; now she stood before her. Realizing Adelaide was a bit taller gave Hazel a wordless itch. But even named, the woman didn’t drop her mimicry of voice.
“There’s no Adelaide here.”
“...?”
“Last night, Adelaide was accused by her dear friend of being a Blood Mage.” She left angry and disappointed, like a door slammed in a quiet hall. “She never agreed to anything, and she knows no Blood Magic.” “She’s ordinary, sickly, with no ability to fight.” “What’s here now is a ‘mysterious person’ who happened to pass by.” “I heard your whole talk that day.” “I came out of simple justice to help you—nothing more. Understood?”
“…Ha? Maybe get your head checked.”
“Do you understand?”
Hearing it twice, Hazel realized she meant it. She thought for a moment, then scratched her head and sighed. “You’re as troublesome as ever.”
“First meeting—how is it ‘as ever’.”
“Fine, fine, I get it, kind ‘mysterious lady.’”
Hazel turned and set her hood, then slipped into another lane. The “mysterious person” followed; soon they reached the back of a gilded dome. Even in this suffocating weather, the building burned with lights. Actors declaimed with proud cadence; stage props roared as crews hauled them. Audience hush pooled like a lake between beats. Together it braided into a complex rhythm, a music of noise and stillness.
“Imperial Theater, famed across the Sumerland Continent,” the veiled red lips murmured. “An art basilica said to bear a god’s hand, every bard’s dream.” “If you want to expose rotten officials and war-profiteers, this is right.” “They sit tight in narrow rows like bound hogs, waiting for the blade.” “But I think that isn’t your target tonight.”
Hazel gave her a speechless look. “Of course. Just follow me.” She took another bend and came to the other side of the building. This stretch was even narrower, a throat packed with theater trash.
“As you said, the Imperial Theater has 1,300 seats.” “Those who can truly savor a show might be counted on one hand.” “But the rest aren’t all posers.” “Some come for the stair behind the stage, which runs underground.” “Down there lie things you won’t find where the sun reaches.”
Hazel pushed aside junk as she spoke. Her words pricked the other’s interest like a thorn.
“Oh? And how does the famous Chief Justice Paddini’s daughter know that?” “Could it be—”
“No ‘could it be.’ My parents are among the few who truly enjoy the stage.” “They never touched that business.”
Hazel’s hands slowed for a beat, then threw things aside like giving up. “They rarely brought me here, but one day Mom said we should come as a family.”
“Your mother…?”
Hazel felt the gaze shift behind her; she bit down, taste of iron. “Yes. She probably felt her days were short and wanted more time with us.” “But that night’s play was a tragedy.” “A righteous knight sacrificed a princess for the common folk.” “In the end he saved nothing, like a sword swung into mist.” “I couldn’t stomach it; I slipped out.”
She reached the alley’s end, like a fish nosing a net. Boxes and burlap were piled ahead, a wall unless you could fly. Yet Hazel stepped forward anyway, like a swimmer choosing the cold.
“That day, I circled this alley and stepped wrong into a pipe.” “The theater’s habit of dumping heavy stuff had cracked the stone lid.” “But guess where that pipe leads?”
“Since it’s all the same underground, it must meet the backstage stair.”
“Right. It’s a secret way only I know—our ticket to slip in silent.” “So don’t complain about mud on your clothes while we crawl, ‘mysterious lady.’”
The “mysterious person” shrugged. “I’m not afraid of dirt. But you might not be the only one who knows this passage.”
She snapped her fingers; the sound cracked like dry wood. A rose-tinted glow washed the alley, a dawn inside the dark. No one came here for years; dust lay thick like winter ash. In a place like this, human traces shout. A box showed clear handprints; moving it gouged a half-circle on the ground. Those marks linked to footprints that weren’t Hazel’s or hers. Their entrance gaped in open air, sending a tidy message. Someone had already gone in ahead of them.
