Chapter 1 Heidi #2
The bronze cuffs around my wrists catch the light as I approach the entrance, the metal warm against my pulse points.
I've practiced this walk for years—the subtle sway that suggests wings even when there are none, the way to hold my head so the shadows fall just right across my face.
Confidence without arrogance. Allure without desperation.
The bouncer barely glances up as I near the rope barrier. His wings are massive, charcoal gray with silver threading through the primary feathers. Military background, probably. The kind of muscle that doesn't just look intimidating but knows exactly how much pressure it takes to snap bones.
Perfect. Military types respect authority, and I can project that in spades.
"Evening." I let my voice drop to a purr, the kind that suggests secrets and promises in equal measure. "Quite the crowd tonight."
He looks up then, his gaze traveling from my face down to the burgundy dress that clings to my curves before hugging my thighs. The neckline shows just enough skin to be interesting without screaming desperation. His eyes linger on the bronze cuffs, cataloging their quality, their heat signature.
"Invitation?" His voice rumbles like distant thunder.
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall across one shoulder in a cascade of dark waves. "Do I look like someone who needs paper to prove her worth?"
The smile I give him is practiced, honed through years of survival.
Not the desperate grin of someone begging for scraps, but the lazy confidence of someone who's used to getting what she wants.
I let my fingers drift to the coins hidden in my bodice—not enough to buy my way in, but enough to suggest I have resources.
He hesitates, and I press the advantage.
"I've heard such interesting things about Vestige.
" I step closer, not quite close enough to touch, but near enough that he catches the subtle scent I'd stolen earlier—expensive perfume from a noble's dressing room, something that smells like midnight blooms and sin.
"About how it caters to those with... refined tastes. "
His nostrils flare slightly. Xaphan have enhanced senses, and the perfume tells a story of wealth, of access to the kind of luxuries only the upper castes can afford.
Combined with the heat-signature cuffs and my carefully cultivated confidence, it paints a picture of someone who belongs here even if her specific identity remains mysterious.
"What's your name?" he asks, but his hand is already moving toward the rope.
"Does it matter?" I lean back just enough to be playful rather than evasive. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Just looking for somewhere to... forget the outside world exists."
The last part isn't even a lie. That's exactly what I want from places like Vestige—noise loud enough to drown out memory, chaos bright enough to burn away the past. He seems to recognize the hunger in my voice, something familiar and safe in a city built on people running from their histories.
The rope drops.
"Enjoy your evening," he rumbles, already turning his attention to the next patron.
The first rush of success floods through me as I step across the threshold. One hurdle down, countless opportunities ahead.
The heat hits immediately—not just temperature, but something deeper.
Magic radiates from the enchanted sconces lining the walls, their flames dancing without fuel, casting everything in shades of amber and crimson.
The air itself seems to pulse with energy, making my skin tingle where the dress leaves it bare.
And the noise. Oh, the glorious, overwhelming noise.
Music pounds up from the sunken dance floor, drums that match the rhythm of heartbeats, strings that wail like pleasure and pain given voice.
Bodies move in the pit below, a sea of wings and skin and desperate motion.
The upper levels buzz with conversation, laughter that edges toward hysteria, the sharp crack of magical discharge from the private rooms.
I pause just inside the entrance, letting it all wash over me.
This is why I love the nights in New Solas, why I brave the risks of being discovered.
In places like this, surrounded by sin and shadow and beautiful chaos, the whispers in my head can't find purchase.
There's no room for Cordelia's poison when every sense is flooded with immediate, overwhelming sensation.
A server glides past, her tray loaded with drinks that glow like liquid starlight. Perfect.
I slip into the crowd, using the press of bodies to mask my movements. The burgundy dress helps—expensive enough to suggest I belong, revealing enough to distract from closer inspection. I catch fragments of conversation as I move, voices raised over the music.
"—told him if he wanted exclusive trading rights, he'd have to—"
"—never seen wings that pure before, must be Praexa blood—"
"—in the pain parlor on the second level, apparently she likes to—"
The words wash over me without sticking.
I'm focused on the server now, tracking her path through the crowd.
She's young, probably new, her movements just uncertain enough to suggest inexperience.
Her tray tilts slightly as she navigates around a group of silver-winged merchants, the glowing drinks sliding toward one edge.
I move in like water finding a crack.
"Careful there," I murmur, steadying the tray with one hand while my other plucks two glasses in a motion so smooth it looks like helping rather than stealing. "Busy night?"
She flashes me a grateful smile. "Completely mad. I've never seen it this crowded."
"Special occasion?" I ask, already backing away with my prizes, the glasses hidden against my body.
"Some sort of celebration upstairs. Private party for the Praexa." Her voice carries the awe typical of lower-caste xaphan when discussing their betters. "They've been ordering bottles of Amerinth all night."
Praexa. The word sends a little thrill through me.
The golden-winged elite, the ones who practically glow with divine favor.
If there's a gathering of archangels in the building, there will be serious money changing hands tonight.
The kind of wealth that makes my usual pickpocket targets look like street beggars.
"Sounds impressive," I say, but the server is already moving on, her attention pulled by someone else calling for drinks.
I melt back into the crowd, cradling my stolen prizes.
The glasses are warm to the touch, their contents swirling with an inner light that suggests magic rather than simple alcohol.
I take a cautious sip of the first one, and liquid fire blooms across my tongue.
Not Amerinth—something smoother, sweeter, but with an edge that makes my pulse quicken.
Perfect for what I need tonight.
The second glass I keep for show, something to occupy my hands while I work the room. I need to look like I belong here, like just another patron enjoying Vestige's particular brand of excess. The drink serves as both prop and liquid courage for what comes next.
I find a position near one of the raised platforms, where I can watch the crowd while appearing to watch the performance.
A xaphan dancer moves on the platform above, her wings spread wide as she wraps herself around a golden pole that pulses with its own inner heat.
Her movements are hypnotic, drawing eyes and loosening purse strings in equal measure.
The crowd presses closer, and I let myself be carried with them, using the momentum to brush against potential marks.
A male with copper-streaked wings has his attention fully absorbed by the dancer—perfect distraction.
I drift past him, my fingers light as whispers against the coins hanging from his belt.
Three silver pieces, warm with xaphan magic. Not a fortune, but a start.
Next, a group of merchants arguing over territory rights.
They're gesturing wildly, their focus entirely on their debate.
The female on the left has a small purse tucked behind her wing joint—visible but forgotten in the heat of negotiation.
I stumble slightly, catching myself against her shoulder with an apologetic murmur while my other hand relieves her of the burden.
"So sorry," I breathe, steadying myself with practiced embarrassment.
She waves me off without really looking, already turning back to her argument about shipping routes and tariff disputes.
The purse weighs heavy in my palm—more than silver this time. I can feel the distinct shape of nodals through the fabric, real money that could keep me fed for weeks if I'm careful with it.
This is what I live for. Not the violence, not the desperation of my early years on the streets, but this—the elegant dance of deception, the way I can move through crowds like smoke, taking what I need without leaving ripples behind.
There's art in it, skill that goes beyond mere survival.
I'm good at this. Maybe the only thing I've ever been truly good at.
The music swells, and bodies press closer to the stage. I let the crowd carry me toward the bar, where well-dressed xaphan cluster three deep, shouting orders over the noise. Perfect hunting ground—lots of money, lots of distraction, lots of alcohol to dull their reflexes.
I squeeze between two males arguing over the merits of different Amerinth vintages, using the press of bodies to mask my work.
The one on my left has a money clip tucked into his inside jacket pocket—visible when he gestures, accessible when he turns to signal the bartender.
His companion is wearing enough jewelry to buy a small house, rings and chains that catch the light with every movement.
Too much, I decide. Jewelry is harder to fence than coin, and valuable enough that its absence would be noticed quickly. Better to stick with what I know, what I can turn into food and shelter without drawing attention.
The first male's money clip slides free as easily as breathing, my fingers finding the gap in his jacket and relieving him of the burden in one smooth motion.
He's too focused on explaining why the 847 vintage is superior to notice the brief contact, his gestures growing more animated as he tries to make his point over the music.
I drift away before either of them can register my presence, the money clip already tucked safely against my ribs. Another successful extraction, another step toward the kind of payday that will let me disappear for weeks.
The energy of the place is infectious, and I find myself actually smiling as I move through the crowd.
Not the practiced expressions I use for marks, but genuine pleasure at being here, at being good at what I do.
The music pounds through my bones, the magical atmosphere makes my skin tingle, and my pockets grow heavier with each successful theft.
This is going to be a very good night indeed.