"I wonder what was up with that guy. At least he's gone. Anyway—your highness?"

"It's Taliyah, dammit!" I chastise him as I thrust myself out of the booth. Before he can say another word, I launch myself into the crowd, pushing and shoving my way toward the door.

I hear some sputtered words from the back corner of the bar, but I don't turn around. I keep shouldering my way past the throng of bodies as they pack in to celebrate another day of work done.

I then burst through to the world outside and my lungs fill with fresher, cooler air. A wide wraparound porch provides extra seating for the tavern's clientele, so I run along the railing, looking out over the swell of people in the streets.

I discover there's a certain sway to the locals. Whether it be the bounce of their shoulders as they laugh with a friend or the stumbling footsteps of someone already drowning in drink. I try to tune that pattern of movement and instead focus on those that cut a clear line through the crowd with a destination in mind and a purpose fueling each step.

A few people stand out, but I don't let hope fill me until I spot the stiff stride of a passerby with deep red hair highlighted by the street lamps.

"Cephias!"

He doesn't turn, and I smack my palms against the handrail with a curse on my lips. With a huff, I decide to take to the streets myself and I race down the closest set of stairs to the avenue.

"Cephias!"

I yell his name over and over again, until I'm hoarse, yet there is no response. Perhaps he's ignoring me in his frustration, or maybe he simply can't hear me. Despite the shrill volume of my cry, I'm shorter than most around me and the thick throng of bodies muffle my words.

Once again, I'm pushing my way through, darting around clusters of people. A couple of times, I have to jump in another direction to avoid a horse and buggy hurrying down the street. Which only makes progress harder since I'm slowly losing my sense of direction.

But then I see a flash of dark red up ahead. I remind myself that my dragon is not unique in his hair color, but it is all I have to work with. So I press ever forward, chasing after flickers of crimson whenever I spot them through the crowd.

Eventually, though, I make it out of the city center and into the quieter network of roadways spanning the residential areas of Vidalia.

I stand at a crossroads with the road back to my hotel behind me and three options set out before me. To my left are brightly lit homes nestled together, each with their own small garden outside their welcoming doorways.

Straight ahead are a few more homes followed by a stretch of more industrial buildings that are silent monoliths in the evening hours.

To the right is a near facsimile of the left except the gardens are a little rougher, the windows a bit dingier, and the doorways a tad darker.

Where would you go, Cephias?

Poised on the corner of the intersection, I look from one roadway to the next. My odd behavior catches the attention of a few generous locals who offer to give me directions. I politely decline and continue to scrutinize the options for another minute before deciding what Cephias would want—quiet and isolation from humans.

So I head forward, hopeful I'll find him sitting on a bench outside a factory, or resting against the wall of one of the city's many alleyways. However, after traversing a few blocks into the industrial quarter of the city, I find only near empty streets and dwindling light.

"Dammit," I curse beneath my breath.

My legs ache from a solid day of walking and my heart pounds with the fear.

Is he lost? Has he done something foolish out of anger? What if he has revealed himself in some way? What if he pulled his stitches? Could someone have seen him and tried to capture him?

"No," I say to myself with a shake of my head. "That's ridiculous. He wouldn't do that, and no one would be foolish enough to contend with him if he did. I'm just tired, frustrated, and hungry."

As the thought of food flicks into my head, I realize I left everything in the booth back at the bar. A fresh wave of self-loathing hits me, but I console myself when I realize I still have my dagger and purse—as well as the coins and tickets in the purse—since both are strapped to my person.

"I suppose I should go back to the hotel and hope he returns, too. Probably should have just gone there to begin with." I rub both hands over my face and realize just how much dirt is sticking to my sweaty skin. "A bath shall make this all better. I'll just go back, take a bath, and wait for Cephias. If he doesn't return tonight, I'll find Bartholomew and ask for his help. Not that I know where he's staying..."

A groan rumbles in my chest, and I roll my head back to look up at the sky. The stars wink at me from far above and I lose myself in their beauty as I take slow, calming breaths.

Then a footfall slaps the sidewalk behind me.

"Cephias?" I twirl around with hope widening my tired eyes. It's then knocked out of my lungs when I see three unfamiliar faces watching me from only a few feet away. "Apologies. I thought you might be my friend. Good evening to you."

I shouldn't be jumping at the sound of every passerby, accusing them of being Cephias. It's time I get back to the hotel room where a bath and bed promise a better day tomorrow.

"Pardon me," I say, stepping forward to bypass them on my way back to the city center. However, my steps halt immediately when one of them moves to block my path.

"Oh, we offer you no pardon, princess." The voice is ragged and patronizing, his words bouncing with a deep, malicious chuckle—one that his companions match with equal amounts of venom and disgust.

"I...I'm not sure what you mean. You must have mistaken me for someone else." I try to step out into the roadway to go around them, but all three move to block me. It's then I notice a lurch to their steps, a couple limping, while one has an arm wrapped in a sling. "Are you all right?"

"Do we look all right?" The question is a hiss from the single woman in the group. She steps forward into the streetlight between us so I can see the scrapes on her cheek and the ash clinging to her clothes. "Well, do we, Princess Taliyah?"

My hand shoots to my side, though I don't grab the dagger. Not yet, not until I understand who these people are and why they know my name.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

I take a slight step back, but the three rough strangers match my retreat.

"We are some of the fine folk you tried to murder in Vernon's Glade." This time the man with his arm in a sling answers. Despite the loss of use in that appendage, he still wields a dagger just fine with his good arm.

"Bandits," I mutter as my fists clench. "You followed us in the woods. You're the ones he kept hearing. Have you been watching me ever since we got here" I thought about the unease that kept crawling up my spine, the one that felt the eyes on my back even though I couldn't find any evidence of such scrutiny.

"Yeah," said the bandit with a limp and a deep slash across his face, "which is why we heard your friend calling out your title."

Dammit, Bartholomew.

I'll have to yell at him later—if I somehow manage to survive this, that is.

My hand twitches beside my thigh, ready to grab the dagger, but I take a breath and try to settle my voice into a calm monotone.

"Well, I suppose we're all familiar with each other now. So perhaps you can tell me what it is I can do for you?"

It's a foolish question, but I need to bide time. Maybe Cephias is nearby. Maybe Bartholomew followed me. Maybe I can scope my surroundings and find an exit on my own.

"You can bring back our friends!" The woman lunges at me and though I take a swift step back, it's her comrades grabbing hold of her that likely saves me from taking a dagger to the gut.

"Come now, Marta, we all want to flay her, but she might be worth money now that we know she's a princess."

"Also explains why she had a dragon under her command," adds the man with the sling. He looks me over while the other man calms the still furious woman. "Not sure where your dragon is now, but we know you have two bodyguards with you."

"Think a princess could've afforded better," croaked the man with the cut on his face. "Can't believe how quickly we found you alone."

"Yeah, well," said the man in the sling, "we don't know how long it will be until they come looking for her, so it's time we move. What do you say, Gabin? Marta? Think you can escort her highness to some place quiet?"

Before either of the bandits can react to the man's command, I pull the dagger from my skirt and slash at him. I cut across the top of the hand clutching his dagger, and he rewards me with a screech. The knife clangs against the ground and I kick it away, before getting into a defensive stance as I face off with the others.

"Now, listen here. I've been trained in all manner of combat, and the odds of you three against me are not in your favor."

"Oh yeah, what about four against one?"

A cold blade skims over my throat and I hiss as the thin, shallow cut stings my skin. Whoever is behind me keeps the knife at my neck while wrapping a muscular arm around me, pinning my own in place.

However, the hand still holding my dagger is free, and I swing it up to stab the bicep straining against me.

But Marta stops me before I find my mark. She grabs my wrist and twists it back in a way that peels a cry from my lips and forces my fingers to release my only weapon.

"You're the one that needs to stop and listen, princess," says the hot, angry voice at my ear. "It's time you bled in recompense for Dread and all our kin you slaughtered. Your reign is over."