Chapter 6 6

Marlowe

The journey down the main arterial canal was an agonizing, slow exercise in terror.

Duskhaven at night was a city of predators, and tonight, every predator was wearing a guard uniform. Every time the sweeping beam of a harbor patrol lantern cut through the fog in the distance, Cassian halted the skiff under the rotting wooden overhang of a disused merchant bridge, letting the low hull merge with the black shadows of the water until the patrol boat creaked past. We spoke only when necessary, in low, raspy whispers, the soft lap-lap of the canal against the boat's timbers providing the only backdrop to our escape.

Nearly an hour after slipping away from the customs tower, Cassian guided the skiff into a narrow, choked back-water inlet in the lower district—miles away from the polished marble facades and gas-lit avenues of the upper nobility.

He tied off the skiff at a low, decaying dock hidden beneath the floorboards of a collapsed grain warehouse. The air here was foul, thick with the stench of rotting timber, sea brine, and rusted iron, entirely abandoned by the city's night watch.

"Up here," Cassian murmured, extending a hand to steady me as I stepped onto the slick, mossy dock in my bare, bruised feet.

He led me up a flight of narrow wooden steps to the rear of a small, cramped brick building squatted between two towering industrial warehouses.

He reached deep inside his coat, pulling out a heavy brass key featuring a distinctively notched, complex bit. He inserted it into a low, iron-reinforced door, turning it until a heavy, triple-latch lock gave a dry, metallic pop.

Inside, the safehouse was small, freezing, and suffocatingly quiet.

It smelled of stale parchment, cold lamp oil, and long-dormant iron. Cassian shut the door behind us, immediately throwing two massive sliding bolts into place before stepping toward a small pine table in the corner. He pulled a strike-match from his pocket, rasping it against the wall, and lit a single glass lantern. He turned the wick down until it threw only a tiny, dim circle of warm yellow light against the damp brick walls.

"It belonged to my father," Cassian said quietly, answering the unasked question lingering in the air as he set the match down.

"Before he disappeared. He kept four small properties scattered across the lower district that were never registered under the official Draven estate ledgers. Alaric doesn't know this key exists."

He surveyed the modest room, his jaw tight with unresolved tension. A single narrow cot sat tucked against the far wall, a small cast-iron stove sat cold in the corner, and dusty shelves crammed with old sea charts and trade ledgers lined the back masonry.

"It's small, but it's defensible," he added, his voice low. "And it buys us a few hours to breathe."

I didn't answer him right away. I stepped closer, the soft lantern light casting his sharp, aristocratic features into deep relief. The blood along his temple had begun to congeal, forming a dark, tacky crust that tracked down to his jawline and stained his neck.

"Sit down," I instructed, pointing to the solitary wooden chair beside the pine table.

He frowned, resting one hand heavily on his hip. "Marlowe, I'm fine—"

"You're bleeding onto your father's floorboards, Cassian. Sit down."

He stared at me for a long beat, his grey eyes searching mine, before letting out a soft, defeated sigh. He pulled the chair out and sat down.

I found a relatively clean linen cloth and a small stoneware pitcher of stale water resting on the side counter. I poured a small splash of water onto the cloth, gathered my torn silk skirts in one hand, and stepped directly between his knees so I could reach his temple.

Up close, the proximity was suffocating, quiet, and intense.

The frantic adrenaline that had carried us through the darkened records office and down the foggy river was finally evaporating, leaving behind a crushing, bone-deep exhaustion. My hands were surprisingly steady as I raised the damp cloth, gently wiping away the dried blood around the edges of the cut.

Cassian went completely motionless beneath my touch. His breathing was slow, warm, and steady against my bare chest. He didn't pull back or flinch; his grey eyes stayed locked on my face, tracking every micro-expression as I worked to clean the wound.

"It's not deep," I murmured, carefully wiping away a smear of dark crimson from his cheekbone. "A sharp edge of stone, most likely when you threw that guard."

"He had a decorative silver buckle on his collar," Cassian noted dryly, a faint, ghost-like trace of humor touching the corner of his mouth before vanishing just as quickly. "Occupational hazard."

"Don't make light of it," I whispered, rinsing the cloth in the stoneware bowl before bringing it back to his temple. "He knew my name, Cassian. Alaric didn't just stumble onto my identity tonight. He knew Jonas was dead, he knew my father's old research... he has been orchestrating this for years."

Cassian's gaze hardened, the faint warmth in his eyes instantly replaced by a cold, dangerous focus.

"My uncle has spent the last decade quietly building a secondary network outside the House Draven charter," Cassian explained, his voice low and dangerous. "He viewed my father's disappearance nine years ago as an opportunity to expand his reach, not a loss. If he knew your father was cataloging the Hollow Mark carriers before the old purge, then Alaric wasn't just collecting history—he was compiling an index of weapons. Or targets."

"And the girl in the canal?" I asked, my fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from his cut. "The body with the burned palm?"

"Insurance," Cassian spat, the word bitter and sharp. "If he couldn't apprehend you quietly tonight at the gala, he needed a public narrative that removed you from the board entirely. A dead double pulled from the river gives him a clean record. .

The city stops searching for Marlowe Kestrel, and Alaric gets to keep the real one bound in a cellar until he drains whatever power he thinks your mark possesses."

The full, horrifying weight of his words settled over the room, heavy and suffocating.

Marlowe's hands go still on the cloth she's using to clean his wound.

"He knows what I am. He knows my name. He knows I'm connected to you." I looked up, meeting Cassian's eyes directly in the low candlelight, my heart sinking into a cold, terrifying void.

"There is no version of tomorrow where I disappear quietly again, is there."

Cassian doesn't answer right away, and his silence is answer enough.