The morning came soft and grey over Calligro, the rain clinging to windows like breath on glass. Ilia stood beneath the crumbling arch of a defunct tram station, dressed in a dull charcoal coat too big for her shoulders. She hated blending in. It felt like lying badly.
"Stop pacing," Rien said, seated cross-legged on the stone bench beside her. "You're drawing attention from pigeons."
She glanced down at him. "Aren't you supposed to be my lookout?"
"I'm your moral support," he replied, offering her a stale pastry. "And decoy, if you get shot."
The wind blew sharper through the station. Ilia pulled her collar higher. "What does this 'informant' even look like?"
Rien shrugged. "Used to work for the Outer Records. Went underground when the purges started. Lives behind the old glass shop."
"Name?"
"Garron."
"Useful," she muttered.
Just then, a boy—maybe fourteen—emerged from a doorway across the street. His coat was torn, his hands stained blue with dye. He looked at her once, then looked again, and tilted his chin to the side.
Ilia stiffened.
"That's him?" she whispered.
"Or bait," Rien said cheerfully. "Go find out."
She crossed the street, heart quickening. The boy didn't speak, just slipped into a narrow alley behind the glassworks. Ilia followed.
The alley was slick with rainwater and broken shells of stained-glass windows. Shards crunched beneath her boots. The boy led her into a rear courtyard, where vines climbed the walls and empty birdcages hung from rusted hooks.
"Are you Garron?" she asked.
"No," the boy replied. "I'm his son."
Ilia waited. He watched her with calm, unreadable eyes.
"Your father agreed to pass a message," she said, keeping her voice low.
"He's dead," the boy replied.
Something about the way he said it made her pause. Not grief — not even anger. Just cold finality, like reading from a ledger.
"Then who sent the reply?"
"I did," he said. "My father taught me everything. I know the code. The message is real."
Ilia didn't like it. But the city had rules, and one of them was: don't waste time hoping things were simpler.
"What's the location?" she asked.
He pointed to one of the birdcages. It hung slightly lower than the others. Inside was a rolled paper tube, sealed with melted wax.
Ilia reached in. The paper was dry. She unrolled it carefully.
"Three breaths beneath the vault. Eighth bell. No lights."
"What vault?" she asked.
The boy shrugged. "They only told me to wait for someone young, wearing red boots, who looked annoyed."
Ilia blinked. "I'm not annoyed."
"You look annoyed."
She shoved the note into her coat. "Tell whoever's watching that I got it."
"No one's watching."
She turned.
The alley was empty. The boy was gone. So were the cages.
All that remained was a faint shimmer in the air — and a single shard of colored glass on the ground, shaped like an eye.
Ilia bent to pick it up, heart hammering. The shard was warm.
She turned and ran.
Rien was waiting where she'd left him, chewing on the rest of the pastry.
"Did you get it?" he asked, mouth full.
She showed him the note. He squinted at it.
"Charming. Very cryptic. Did the dead man's ghost give it to you?"
"No," she said quietly. "His son."
Rien's eyebrows twitched. "Garron didn't have a son."
Ilia didn't reply.
She just turned the glass shard over in her fingers, watching the light bend through it — a dozen tiny reflections looking back at her.