CHAPTER 155: JUST THE THREE OF US

They finished their soup in a heavy silence, the clinking of spoons against earthenware sounding like pickaxes striking a grave. The red-haired servant returned, like an efficient ghost with pale hands, to clear the empty bowls.

She left behind her a trail of cold indifference and a fleeting scent of harsh soap. Around them, the inn lived in muffled tones: hushed whispers, the scrape of a chair, a sigh from a customer leaning on his elbows. A scene of normalcy that felt off—like a spider’s web stretched over a chasm.

It was in this hushed quiet that Élisa turned her gaze on Dylan. Her eyes, storm-grey like a North Sea squall, pierced the gloom and locked onto his, clear and commanding. No more teasing, no more morning lethargy. A naked blade.

"Do we do it in your room?" Her voice was clear, sharp, deliberately loud. She didn’t care about ears that might be listening or eyes that might turn. It was an order dressed as a question. A call to immediate motion.

Dylan didn’t flinch. Just a slow nod, heavy with implications. His smile, when he turned to Maggie, regained that charming, slightly tired glint he wore so naturally. A striking contrast to Élisa’s gravity.

"Bit early," he admitted, voice still rough with sleep, "but I’d love to." The irony was palpable, laced with a quiet thrill. Love to. The words echoed strangely in the moment. Love what, exactly? What could a man and two women possibly be up to in a room at this hour?

They rose in unison, the wood of the bench groaning beneath their sudden movement. Jonas, watching them with the lazy interest of a well-fed predator, made a move to follow—but a sharp look from Élisa, hard as steel, pinned him in place. He raised his hands in mock surrender, a sly grin playing through his beard.

"Go on, lovebirds. I’ll see if this inn offers more than soup and stale hope." His gaze lingered on Maggie with an intensity that betrayed his feigned disinterest.

Dylan led the way to the stairs. Élisa followed close behind, upright and purposeful, her steps precise. Maggie brought up the rear, her stride casual, a mysterious smile curling her lips. The staircase, more treacherous in the stark morning light, groaned under their weight.

Dylan felt eyes at their back—those of the other patrons, frozen in their dull breakfasts, and especially, he was certain, those of the red-haired waitress, lurking somewhere in the shadows of the back room. A prickle ran across his skin.

The hallway upstairs was bathed in milky light, filtered through grimy corner windows. Dust danced in the beams. The silence here was deeper, more intimate, laced with muffled sounds from other rooms—a cough, the creak of a bedspring.

They passed Jonas’s door, ajar, revealing a rumpled bed and scattered bags. Then Donovan’s—closed, austere.

Finally, Dylan stopped in front of his own door. The wood was rough under his fingers. He cast a quick glance down the hallway—empty, for now—before pushing the door open.

The room was as he’d left it: unmade bed, the pillow still bearing the imprint of his head, his old suitcase gaping like a silent mouth in the shadow beneath the bed. Morning light, more ruthless here, laid bare the poverty of the place—the peeling paint, the dusty furniture, the chipped enamel basin. And that persistent smell of old hay and damp wood.

He stepped aside to let the women in. Élisa entered first, eyes sweeping the room with quick, tactical efficiency, like a general surveying a battlefield. Maggie followed, slower, her gaze drifting curiously—Jonas’s shirt thrown over a chair, the cracked mirror catching a fractured reflection.

Dylan closed the door behind them. The sound of the latch falling echoed like a lock sealing the world out. The silence thickened, charged with a static tension. The air vibrated.

Élisa turned toward him, leaning against the wall near the window, arms crossed. Her golden eyes had caught more of the morning flame, turning almost amber.

"Right," she began, her voice low but sharp as a razor in the closed room. "Now that we’re safe from prying ears... Let’s talk about what we’re going to do to survive, Dylan. We can’t rely forever on Marisse and Jonas’s coin." Her gaze shifted to Maggie, then back to Dylan, unflinching. "And especially not on hiding our stigmas to avoid being branded spies."

Dylan stayed still for a moment, hand still on the latch. He watched them both in the filtered light. Maggie had moved to the bed, brushing it with her fingers like she was feeling the warmth of an old memory. Élisa hadn’t moved—solid, rooted. A living challenge.

He raked a hand through his unruly hair.

"Yeah..." he murmured, mostly to buy time.

He walked over to the half-open suitcase, snapped it shut with his knee, and sat down on it. The wood creaked beneath him. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and looked up at them.

"For now, we’re surviving on borrowed time." He paused, glancing at Maggie. "Jonas is housing us, Marisse got the papers that keep questions at bay... but that won’t last."

Élisa nodded slowly, like a weary professor dealing with a slow student.

"No. It won’t. Martissant isn’t a backwater village. They have real authorities here."

She uncrossed her arms and moved to the nightstand, drawing a finger through the dust. A clean line. A choice.

"The stigmas are a problem. Dylan, yours is too unstable. Maggie, yours is too... visible. Mine stays hidden as long as the bracelet does. But at the first test, the first whisper of suspicion..." She looked up. "We’re burned."

Maggie sat cross-legged on the bed, her gaze moving between Élisa and Dylan.

"So what do we do? Work for Jonas and Marisse? Sell shady potions in the street? Perform tricks until the count throws us in a cell for illegal sorcery?"

Her tone wasn’t mocking. Just plain.

Dylan exhaled and straightened.

"No. We do what we do best. But smartly." He looked to Élisa. "You’ve been here before, right? You must know someone."

She squinted slightly, but didn’t deny it.

"Some contacts, yes. One or two old threads. But that was over thirty years ago. They don’t handle time as well as we elves do."

"Shit," Dylan muttered. "We’ll have to find work. Otherwise, we’ll be out on the street."

He stood, paced to the window. The city below was slowly waking, veiled in mist, punctuated by the soft chime of bells.

"We all have anima gems. But selling them? That’d bring questions. Too many. Me, with my powers—I’d be arrested. Accused of heresy. Tortured. Maybe worse."

He turned to Maggie.

"And you... you should stay out of sight for now. Your face, your body... they draw too much attention. Jonas could teach you a thing or two about blending in. In return, help him run his shop. He needs hands, right?"

Maggie shrugged. Not convinced, but not opposed.

"And you?" she asked.

Dylan gave a joyless smile.

"I’ll do what I do best. Infiltrate. Observe. Figure out how this city breathes—and why we haven’t seen a single Awakened since we arrived yesterday."

He turned away from the window.

"We need to understand how this place works before we try to fit in. Otherwise, we’ll get executed in the town square before we even see it coming."

A silence settled. Not heavy, but tight. A silence that meant decisions were taking root.

Then Élisa cut through it:

"Fine. But if we do this... we do it together. No solo missions. No whispered deals. Don’t accept anything without all three of us agreeing. No matter how tempting. Especially if it’s tempting."

Dylan nodded with a simple tilt of the head, his gaze still fixed on the window. His features had hardened, as if locked in a resolve still young, but firm. The kind of resolve one makes in the morning, when the nerves are still sharp and the illusions not entirely gone.

"Understood," he murmured, almost to himself.

Behind him, Maggie straightened slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer, less cutting.

"How much time do you think we have?"

Élisa blinked slowly, then answered:

"Two days. Three if Jonas does a good job distracting them. After that, someone’s going to start asking real questions."

Dylan turned around, leaning against the window frame, arms crossed.

"Then we’ve got two days to root ourselves. Find a role. A cover. A purpose."

He looked at each of the two women in turn.

"Maggie, you can start today. Jonas probably needs help unloading crates or keeping an eye on the back room. Make yourself useful, quietly. But be seen."

She nodded once. Not enthusiastic, but pragmatic.

"And me?" Élisa asked, gaze steady.

"You..." Dylan hesitated. "Try to track down one of your old contacts. A name, a place, even a rumor. If they’re dead, their shadows might still be lingering in this city."

She didn’t respond right away. Just a faint exhale through her nose. A form of acceptance. Or fatigue.

Maggie stood up, stretched, her back cracking softly.

"And you, master strategist? Planning to just walk in the shadows until divine inspiration strikes?"

Dylan smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting, his eyes drifting again to the pale, white morning light outside.

"I’ve always been better in the shadows than in the light. I’ll listen. Follow. And most of all—stay quiet."

He paused, then added:

"And if I find something... I’ll tell you. Immediately."