They wheeled, cloak flaring behind them like the final act of a particularly tragic opera, and started walking across the rooftop as though they owned it. As though I—newly human, recently fuzzy, and still occasionally trying to lick my own shoulder out of habit—was expected to simply fall into step.
Which, naturally, I did.
But not elegantly.
I staggered after them like an intoxicated ballerina in battle boots, my borrowed cape flapping behind me with all the grace of a possessed bedsheet. My head—and heart, and maybe even my pancreas—screamed in at least thirteen dialects:
DANGER!INTRIGUE!IS THIS FLIRTING OR A PRELUDE TO STABBING?!
They glanced back, just once. Beneath the cowl, those mismatched eyes caught the moonlight—one golden, one storm-grey—and something in me lurched. That same awful ache bloomed in my chest, like remembering a dream you were never supposed to forget.
Then they spoke.
"You're to kill the Duke," they said. Like they were ordering soup. "Tonight. Before the festival. Then we disappear."
I blinked.
Right. Cool. Murder. Casual.
The last time I tried to kill something, it was a moth in the bathtub. I screamed. I slipped. The small human had to rescue me with a plastic cup and an encouraging speech.
I cleared my throat and attempted something approaching assassin-level composure.
"Why am I murdering a duke?" I asked, aiming for morally righteous curiosity. Maybe he kicks puppies. Maybe he steals from orphans. Maybe he doesn't return library books.
They didn't hesitate.
"He betrayed the Guild. Sold our names for a sack of rubies and a seat in the palace."
I blinked again.
"Oh," I said. "Okay. I can do that."
Apparently justice now involved me, a knife, and a grudge I hadn't personally earned.
They froze, boots scraping against old slate. Then turned to face me fully.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
It hit me—not like a dagger, but like a warm blanket soaked in confusion.
They were concerned.
Not professionally concerned. Not you-might-botch-the-job concerned.
Actually, deeply, forehead-creased, eyes-softened, "I noticed you were limping and also haven't blinked in four minutes" concerned.
For me.For Mochi-who-was-now-an-awkward-blur-of-instinct-and-panic.
Despite the chill of the night and the very real possibility that we were moments away from being skewered like festival kebabs, something in my chest glowed warm.
Was this what having a nemesis felt like?An eternal rival who had criminally good cheekbones and looked at you like you were the only being who ever made sense?
This was going to be a disaster.
But possibly the best kind.
Chapter Four: The Art of Plummeting Gracefully
Then came the horn.
A low, bellowing blast that echoed across the rooftops like the universe itself shouting, "WRONG TURN, IDIOTS."
Below, torches burst to life. Boots pounded. Voices roared.
"The guards found the stairwell," they said, voice clipped, already moving.
"Time to leap."
I stared at them. Then at the edge. Then back.
"Jump where?!" I hissed, my wide eyes calculating the angle of death and how long it would take for the bones in my legs to resemble pudding.
They smirked.
They actually smirked.
Like they'd just played the winning hand in the world's most dramatic poker match.
"Just trust me."
I blinked.
Trust them? The enigma with two-colored eyes and a vibe like scented danger? Who might've stabbed me in a previous life and smelled like pine needles and cinnamon and possibly my impending doom?
So of course, I did.
Because I make great choices.
They reached out and grabbed my hand.
And we jumped.
The world dropped.
Air roared past us. My cape snapped behind me like the flag of a nation built entirely on poor decisions. The wind howled in my ears. And my scream—high, ungraceful, fully deserved—rattled the spires like a banshee fueled by sugar and existential crisis.
But we didn't fall.
Well. Technically, we landed. Hard. On another rooftop. Rolled. Scrambled. Ran again.
But for one, impossibly bright, breathless heartbeat—We soared.
Above the torches.Above the guards.Above the life I had yet to fully comprehend.
And beside me—still clutching my hand, still not letting go—was the enemy I could not outrun.
And perhaps, somewhere deep in my still-adjusting soul…
Did not wish to.