The snow tastes like metal. I keep sucking on the button in my mouth—something to keep my saliva flowing. The wind howls through the broken shutters above the alley. My corner, my spot. It’s not warm, but it’s out of sight; that’s what matters. I curl tighter into the rag bundle I stole from a laundry line. My breath’s already fogging in front of my face, and my fingers won’t listen when I try to clench them. The hunger’s worse tonight. And the space inside is big enough to echo the complaints my stomach is making. The light from the Citadel glows gold through the snowfall. Bright enough for its rays to be seen above the alley. I can’t see the source of the rays—not from this low—only its reflections off of whatever blocks its path; that’s how I know they're doing something again, the priests. Bright lights, no noise, suspicious magic. Another summoning, probably. Another ghost dragged from the stars, someone else for them to put in chains.

  I roll over. I try to bury my face in the cloth. I try not to feel my own bones shiver from the cold. Then everything stops. No—wait. It’s me. I stop. My gaze doesn’t follow my command—it doesn’t go left or right. My breathing feels foreign, it’s not the same pattern of breaths. My body moves on its own as well.

  “W-what?” I say, or rather, my mouth says.

  I try to speak to myself, but I could only think. (H-hello?)

  My body suddenly jerks from the sleeping position I spent minutes perfecting. He, I, it, starts to panic.

  “Wh-who’s there!?”

  (No, no! The cloth! Calm down, damn it!)

  They scream, I scream back trying to calm them down; my voice echoes throughout the alleyway, and my thoughts echo within the walls of my own mind. Normally, it would hurt: my throat is hoarse from lack of water. My body thrashes against the wall, the snow, my own limbs. They slap at my head like they can beat my own consciousness out of my own body. Whoever is in my body isn’t leaving.

  “What is this? I was—I was just at home. This isn’t real. What the hell is this?”

  They sob. That’s worse than hearing them waste my own voice. I don’t cry. It’s a waste of water. Whoever is in my body curls up in the snow like a kicked dog. They squeeze my eyes shut, and the voice’s panic spills into mine.

  (Can you hear me? Hello? Please—)

  “Shut up,” They whisper, hoarse. “Shut up shut up shut up—”

  (Who are you?) I think.

  “I said shut up!” They slam my hand against the bricks. “Get out of me! I’m not— argh my head!”

  (I’m not doing this, please, calm down!)

  I don’t know how, but I know it’s feeling the said pain in my head, the same one I would have on nights like this. I also hear my own heart in their—my—ears. They collapse after trying to leave the alleyway, shaking, and breathing hard. Snowflakes melt against my cheeks. They’ve gone quiet now. I know—feel—that they’re scared. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know that I’m not alone anymore.

  I wait for the shaking to stop, but it doesn’t. I lie there until I feel a falling sensation explode through me, forcing me to jerk my body and sit up—

  My body. I feel the cold again; I feel me again. I can tell, but it’s not complete control yet: my left arm jerks like it’s cramping from his fear, not mine. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do when something climbs inside your head and doesn’t leave, but I will get colder if I stay in the open. I take my cloth back and wrap it around my shoulders like a shroud, and I try to listen if they’re—he—is awake. He doesn’t say anything else, but he squirms and writhes; a kicked dog in a cage. Every time he finishes a thought, it brushes against mine: A room with square lights in the ceiling, a blanket too clean to be real. Heat, fear, some kind of guilt. ‘Where is my mom?’ He thinks.

  I press my face deeper into the cloth again. I don’t want to see what he sees. I don’t want to feel his questions. I’ve had enough. Still, I whisper, as low as I can.

  “…you’re not a ghost, are you?”

  Silence reigns for a minute. Then, I hear a thought. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I exhale. (Who are you?) I think.

  There’s a pause. It feels longer than it is.

  ‘William.’

  (That’s your name?)

  ‘Yes. What’s yours?’

  I think about not answering. I think about saying nothing at all. That’s how you stay safe—keep things to yourself. If you don’t give your name, they can’t call you. They can’t sell you. They can’t pray you into the fire.

  But then again, he’s already inside. I don’t even own my bones anymore.

  “…Kes.”

  He repeats it in thought. ‘Kes.’

  It feels strange, hearing my name from someone who didn’t earn it. I shift a little. I…I think I can tell that William’s mind is sore. The panicked haze is lifting, and there’s a new kind of cold under it—a weird kind.

  He says, ‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out. I don’t know how I got here.’

  “I didn’t ask,” I say.

  We lie there, inside the same skin, for a while. Not speaking. Not moving.

  I think he’s trying not to think. So am I.

  “…Are you gonna leave?”

  Another pause.

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  I nod.

  “…Okay.”

  I wake up with my teeth relaxed and my breathing slow. That means no one kicked me in the night. Good start. The snow hasn’t stopped, but it’s light now—more slush than powder. I stretch, slowly. My fingers are stiff but moving. My voice is dry but working. I’m still me.

  'Morning,' the ghost says.

  I grunt, pulling the cloth tighter. That’s all he gets.

  In a city like this, the trick to staying warm is never staying still. You move. Doesn’t matter how slow or cold or tired. Doesn’t matter if your legs ache or if your boots don’t match. Doesn’t matter if you can’t feel your fingers anymore. You move. I scale the drainpipe behind the bakery like I’ve done a dozen times before. Careful not to rattle it. My knees slide over the stone ledge, and I wait—five counts—until the old baker hauls the crate to the window. Steam rises from the trays. I slip a hand through the gap, hook two rolls, and slide off the roof like smoke.

  'Are you… stealing?' he asks.

  I almost laugh.

  “You wanna eat or not?” I mutter under my breath.

  I dry my socks on the vent from the public bathhouse. It’s dangerous—the attendants shoo beggars with staves—but the steam is worth the risk. I line my sleeves with ash so I won’t get grabbed. I do it fast. Always ash before sunup. Makes you look sick. Makes people stay away.

  ‘That’s… smart,’ William says.

  Still chewing. Still not answering.

  Next is the well square. Not for water, that’s for the rich and dying. I sell information here. Where the patrols shifted, which street rats got snagged, who’s bleeding near the saltworks; I know how to talk to the right ears and dodge the wrong ones. Sometimes, I lie. Sometimes, I don’t. William is quiet for a while. Maybe he’s watching. Maybe he’s learning. Maybe he’s just sad again. I can feel him in the back of my skull. By the time the bells ring midday, I’ve sold two clean leads, two lies, and a broken tooth, all for twelve-and-a-half actual copper pieces. My lip still tastes like blood.

  'You didn’t have to take that deal,' he thinks.

  “I did,” I mutter.

  'I mean, there has to be a better way—'

  “There isn’t.”

  He doesn’t reply. Good.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I trade those coppers for ten for salted fat-wax to rub into my boots. Two left for a peach pit and a dead lizard.

  ‘Are you eating that?’

  Still chewing.

  I climb up one of the old forge stacks and squat at the top, my breath curling in front of me like smoke. Below, the Sanctum bells toll again. A service, a death, doesn’t matter which. I chew the crust of the bread like it’s leather.

  William’s quiet for a while. Then I hear him again.

  'We should try it.'

  “Try what?”

  'The blessing.'

  I stop chewing.

  “…Blessing?” I say, bitter. “That’s what you think this is?”

  'I mean… yeah. Ymos called it that. She showed me things before I ended up here. I think we’re supposed to—'

  “Supposed to?” My voice rises sharp, louder than I mean to. “You think I’m supposed to what? Let you take me for a walk like some dog you found in the snow?”

  'I’m not trying to take anything. I just thought—'

  “Well don’t.”

  I push the bread back into my mouth like it’s a gag. He goes quiet again. Good. I don’t want to hear that word. Blessing. It sounds too much like something someone could take away. Like food. Like warmth. Like names. I sit there chewing hard until my jaw aches. I watch the snowfall over the city I know like bones. And I tell myself: (He’s not mine. This isn’t his. This is me. Still me.) Even if—for all I know—that could change.

  I’m halfway through my meal, and down the forge stacks, when I hear it: a scream, of someone scared for their life. It’s close, maybe somewhere in the warehouses. The kind of place people go missing for good. I stop under the awning of a shuttered cobbler’s stall. William tenses behind my eyes.

  'That didn’t sound right.'

  “Nothing sounds right here,” I mutter. “Might be a job going bad. Might be a corpse. Might be bait.”

  'Or someone who needs help.'

  “Or someone with coin,” I say.

  I follow it as fast as I can, slipping into the side alley, keeping low. I know this stretch: loose bricks, soft snow, good vantage if I take the crates. I peek over and see a girl, nine? Ten? Clean hair, clean shoes. Too clean. Clothes a size too small but stitched with real thread. Regal, but ragged from running. Two figures appear behind her. Hooded. Light-footed. Fast. My instinct: (Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Let it pass.)

  'Don’t move?!? She’s just a kid!' William says.

  (No different than me, then. And if the other guilds hear of something like this, thye’ll pay well for the info.)

  Then I feel a sharp pain. It’s pressure behind my eyes, a spike in my temples, crawling through my skull in waves. I grip the bricks and hiss.

  “What the hell was that!?”

  'I heard thatYmos said I could nudge. If it was important.'

  (You did that!?)

  'Fuck you, and sick the way you think. I can’t move your body but I can sure as hell motivate you to.'

  I breathe in slowly. Out slower. I look at the girl again. She’s tripped. They’re closing in, blades out. I jump; no plan, no prayer. I leap off the crate and land onto the closer grunt. The girl’s eyes go wide—too stunned to scream again. I try ripping out his eyes, but my fingers are numb from the cold, he easily grips my arms and tosses me forward, beside the girl I’m forced to rescue, but not before ripping a thin slice of skin from the bastard’s cheeks with my dirt-filled, uncut nails.

  The bandits slow down. One grins.

  “Well look at that,” he says. “Little rat wants to be a hero.”

  I don’t know what to say, except for: “You’re not touching her.”

  First one swings low. Lazy arc, like I’m too small to matter. I duck under it and drive my elbow into the back of his knee. He yelps as he kneels down and decks my temple with a backhand. I stagger back, but I still have enough wits about me to grab a piece of a crate slat. Unfortunately, my vision has blurred from that backhand.

  'Left!' William shouts.

  I feel it before I hear it: his eyes pulling my focus. He sees the knife glint. I dodge just in time. They’re not trained. Just mean. I dart between them, breathing hard, waiting for one to lunge—then I go for the other’s shins with the slat’s sharp end. Hard. I hear a squelch and a scream. I leave the wood there when William warns me of the bandit behind me. I didn’t react in time. A boot slams into my side. I skid against the stone.

  Pain. Real pain now. My ribs buzz like wire.

  'Get up, they’re coming in!' William yells.

  I get my footholds and dodge a right straight, but the grunt follows up with another swing right into my face. I skip across the cobblestone, to the side of the girl this time. The first bandit curses and stumbles after me.

  'There’s a loose pipe near the wall, by your left foot!'

  I kick it up, catching it midair. It’s cold, heavy. Perfect. Two hits. One to the jaw, one to the back of the neck. He slumps. I weave away from his strikes, then land two—no, three—hits to his knees. Then I make him spit blood and teeth with one more swing.

  I stagger back to the girl. I’m shaking, but alive.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods fast. Doesn’t speak. Not to me.

  “Get out of here,” I say. “Don’t look back.”

  Then I hear the thuds of feet behind me. (Great,) I thought, thinking it was more bad guys, but then I see the girl’s face light up, and she says:

  “Sister!”

  I turn, barely catch a flash of a white cloak.

  ‘Kes!’ William shouts.

  Then everything goes black.

  I wake to metal, a chain, clinking, the smell of wet stone and blood. My cheek stings. My wrists burn. My arms are raised above my head, shackled to an iron hook. My feet just barely touch the floor. My whole body screams like it’s been twisted into knots and left that way. William’s voice is already there. Loud. Frantic. Endless.

  ‘—please wake up please wake up please wake up—!’

  I groan. Not from pain, but from the noise.

  “I’m awake,” I rasp.

  The room’s dark, except for a lantern hanging off a rusted nail. It flickers. I count three chairs. One door. No windows. A man standing beside a small table, laying out metal tools like they’re lunch cutlery. He wears no uniform. No sigil. Just gloves and the look of someone who’s done this before.

  “You’re awake,” the man repeats. Not a question. He doesn’t introduce himself, and he doesn’t smile.

  “Tell me something,” he says, picking up a thin rod. “What would a street rat like you want with the daughter of the House of Neimma?”

  “…Who?”

  “The girl,” he says, a touch of boredom in his tone. “You don’t know who she is?”

  I shake my head, or try to. “No,” I mutter. “Didn’t ask her name.”

  He sighs. He touches the rod to a small rune on the table. It glows red. I brace. The rod burns through my shirt and skin like butter. I scream. The sound bounces off stone. Fills the air like smoke. William’s scream is worse.

  ‘Tell me to switch with you! Please! Kes—! Please!’

  He’s losing it. His voice cracks in ways I haven’t heard before.

  ‘You don’t have to do this alone—please, I’m begging you, let me take it!’

  Another hit. Shoulder this time. My teeth grind hard enough that I taste iron.

  “I don’t know her name,” I spit.

  The man watches me with clinical boredom.

  “Lies,” he says flatly. “Your guild has had an eye on her highness for months, waiting to make a move. So don’t even try ignorance, boy; what. Is. Your. Goal?”

  The third strike is aimed for my stomach, and I know I won’t be awake after it. My knees are buckling. My skin’s peeling. My chest is on fire. William is still begging. The sound’s drowning everything else out. I think, just barely:

  (Take it then.) I think, more as a flinch if anything.

  The room tilts. The air pulls. My soul slides backward like water down a drain. I see through my own eyes. But I’m not moving again. William coughs. His first breath is ragged. But his posture stiffens.

  “Please,” he says, voice cracking. “I told you everything. I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t ask.”

  The interrogator watches. Tilts his head. More curious now. William takes the next strike without screaming. And the next. And the next. From the dark part of my mind, I watch him endure it. He’s shaking, but he doesn’t beg. He just keeps pleading, honest and stupid.

  I feel nothing. That’s the worst part.

  My ribs stop throbbing. My head clears. (He’s taking it for me.) I rest. My pain ebbs. But I can’t stop thinking:

  (He’s soft. He’s going to break. He’s not built for this.)

  But then the guilt creeps in slow, thick, and bitter. He’s screaming now. The interrogator switches tools. I think William passes out for a second. He comes back sobbing.

  (Say something,) the guilt whispers. (Tell him to switch again.)

  I stay silent.

  William’s voice breaks after the sixth strike. He has no words anymore, just noise. He just gives up and lets pain speak for him. He sags forward, arms still bound above. His breaths are short. Wet. I think he’s sobbing again, but it’s quieter now. Quieter than before. Then I hear footsteps. Rapid, sharp. Then a door slams open.

  “You’ll unbind him, now,” a girl’s voice says. It’s small, clean. Regal. It’s her!

  The interrogator says nothing. Then: “Your highness?”

  “By right of House Neimma and the doctrine of the Ruhan Faith. You are harming the one who saved my life.”

  I hear a scoff. Another voice.

  “You can’t be serious.” An older voice: smooth iron sliding on a whetstone.

  “I’m very serious, sister.”

  A pause. Then the clatter of keys. Chains dropping. And then William starts talking. Not to anyone, I think. To me, or maybe just the room.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he slurs. “I had school tomorrow. I was gonna see Max—”

  He coughs. Blood drips out of my mouth. I think I taste it too. His words shortly turn to thoughts.

  ‘This place isn’t real; this is some medieval horror movie. How could you live like this? Why’re you all okay with this?’

  He couldn’t move my body anymore.

  ‘Fuck,’ he continues. ‘Kes…?’

  (…I’m here.)

  ‘Ah, good.’

  William goes silent. I watch the lantern light twist as our head hits the ground. I feel the weight, the motion swaying my vision. William is passed out, but I’m still here: eyes closed, body broken, mind awake. That’s new. My body is then hoisted between two guards. Someone curses at the blood. Someone mutters a prayer. I can feel none of it, but I see the shift: Stone walls… giving way to smooth marble. Torches... replaced by glowing crystal sconces. The stink of mold and blood… replaced by perfumed halls. It’s sickeningly sweet. We’re laid on something soft. Velvet, maybe. I can’t feel it. The ceiling is carved with suns and owls. Gilded and holy. I feel William drifting in the dark. He’s not dreaming. I want to say something. But what could I say?