Larryn looked down upon the pompous silver-trimmed doublet he had slipped on with a grimace. Sure, the outfit offered extra respectability compared to his sauce-stained shirt, but he hated having to wear it. He’d stolen it from the hypocritical elves during one of his many expeditions into the Dathirii Tower and used it whenever he had to deal with arrogant shitheads who preferred wealthy assholes to decent, normal folk. Most guards fell into that category, and Larryn hoped he’d cleaned up enough to get more than insults from them. As he dusted himself off one last time, a small voice called to him.

“You’re dressed funny.”

Larryn turned to greet one of the Shelter’s youngest patrons, and his favourite. Efua was just ten years old, but she’d been on the streets for as long as he remembered. Her curly hair had grown into a huge sphere in the last years, and he loved the way it framed her round face and curious eyes. Very few others dared to enter his rooms without knocking, but Efua could get away with anything where he was concerned. Larryn never had it in him to stay angry at the kid.

She approached him and ran her fingers over the silver trim. “This looks rich. You don’t like rich things.”

“No, I don’t. I need this to talk to Hasryan, though.”

She frowned, and he watched her work through his statement, and Hasryan’s absence yesterday. She would reach the right conclusion. No one could hide much from her quick brains, and Larryn had long ago stopped trying to conceal painful truths from her. Still, his heart twisted whenever she threw one back at him.

“Something happened, and the guards won’t let you see him if you look like one of us.”

In a better world, a girl her age wouldn’t understand so thoroughly the dynamics between the homeless, the criminals, and the city’s guards. This one sucked, though, and Efua lived through the worst of it. She already worked, delivering letters across the city—a job on which she’d been harassed before. Once, Larryn even bailed her out of jail after she’d been accused of stealing the messages. He couldn’t shelter her from these events no matter how much he wanted to. Better to let her know her perceptions of injustice were spot on and comfort her as he could. He crouched next to her and squeezed her shoulders, withholding a tired sigh.

“Exactly. Do you have any deliveries today?”

She shook her head.

“Then I have a mission for you. I might be gone for some time, but breakfast is ready. Wake Cal and make sure he distributes it to everyone. Don’t let him empty the entire pot! You know how he loves my cooking.”

Efua chuckled, then her face became more serious, as though she wanted to scold him. “Everyone loves your cooking. Cal would never eat our food. He’s too nice to do that.”

“If you say so.”

She was right, of course. Efua had seen Cal’s generosity firsthand, when they had first met him. He had saved Larryn’s life and offered his hospitality without question. Larryn couldn’t name many Middle City residents who wouldn’t sneer at the scrawny, shit-covered, dying teenager he’d been at the time. Since then, Cal gave everything he could to the Shelter, never asking for anything in return. Except the regular meals, that is, but how many did the shared gambling income pay for? Without him, the Shelter would’ve been impossible to manage the first few months.

At least people helped with that now. Every morning as he fixed breakfast up, the cacophony of tables rattling on the floor reached his kitchens. The night’s residents arranged the common room for the coming meal on their own. Larryn had once needed to provide precise instructions on how to clear the floor for the night, then prepare everything in the morning. Now everyone from the streets knew the Shelter’s rules. Those able had to contribute to the room’s set-up. Sleeping spaces were split between first arrivals and late-night workers, and two rooms stayed available for those who couldn’t stand a crowd. Stealing, fighting, and harassing were forbidden. Beyond that, Larryn served anyone regardless of background and encouraged those who could to pay to do so.

He’d spent many evenings watching Isandor’s forgotten folk gather on his floor, curled under the threadbare blankets he distributed every night. Some held younger siblings in their arms; others cuddled with perfect strangers for the warmth. The luckiest had snagged a place near the fireplace, so close Larryn always feared they’d wake at the darkest hour of the night, their clothes on fire. One would be hard-pressed to find a single inch of free floor.

The sight brought him back to his own nights sleeping on the ground, shivering as the packed dirt’s cold seeped into his bones. The Shelter was little more than a lean-to at the time, with no proper floor and more holes in the walls than he could count—not that Larryn could count very high anyway. He’d spent his youth half-protected by the Shelter’s planks, working and begging to help the first owner, Jim, however he could. Now Jim was gone, and Larryn had inherited the Shelter. He liked to imagine his foster father lived in the floor’s wooden boards, in the always-lit fireplace, and in every single meal Larryn gave away.

The Shelter was Jim’s legacy. Upholding it had meant accepting charity money from his guilt-ridden, asshole father, but Larryn could make that sacrifice. It was worth it. Every time Efua’s freckled face lit up with a smile, he remembered why he fought. Jim had been her foster father, too, and now Larryn was the closest thing to a family she had left. He refused to let her down—her, or anyone in his Shelter.

“Off you go,” he insisted. “Cal is hard to wake, and people are moving about already.”

Efua agreed with a high-pitched, enthusiastic exclamation, then scampered down the corridor. At least Cal had slept at the Shelter tonight. He often returned home, but he had known Larryn would need him this morning. With the Shelter in his friend’s capable hands, Larryn left for the police headquarters.

Despite the necessity of it, Larryn wanted to tear his disguise off during his entire trek up to the Middle City. The clothes itched like a lie he feared would grow into a part of him. As if they could bring out his heritage, change him. Anything but that. Nobles could shove their golden canes all the way up their asses for all he cared. Better to be covered in piss and freeze every winter than to turn into the kind of person who could pretend to care about someone—pretend to love her!—then dump her on the city’s most shit-ridden street the moment she became pregnant.

Larryn took a deep breath. Those were the people he needed to imitate. Arrogant and self-serving, with a false face of charming. He couldn’t let himself grow too angry. There would be time for rage later. For now, he created his best sneering mask, channelling his disdain for guards, the law they represented, and the rich they actually served, then entered the headquarters.

The guardsman at the entrance led him straight to the woman in charge of Hasryan’s case. He must have thought the Allastams had sent him because he was all yes-sir-of-course-sir with him. More courtesy than Larryn had received in his whole life, all in two minutes. Larryn gritted his teeth, battling his urge to punch the man or yell at him until he stopped treating him like his fake affiliation made him worthy of honours. If he grabbed him and spat in his face and told him he was just another nobody living on the street, however, he would never get to Hasryan. Larryn kept himself in check until he stood before Inspector Sora Sharpe. After one quick glance at him, she clacked her tongue. The derisive sound stung his nerves.

“Is this a joke?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you fooled the guard with this ridiculous disguise. Highborn kids don’t stoop their shoulders like you do, or have frayed sleeves. They stride in with their nose pinched from slight disgust, their back straight from undeserved pride, and they have none of that dirt under your fingernails.”

“Your guard doesn’t know shit, then.” Larryn removed the hat and threw it on her desk, drawing immense satisfaction from the papers it knocked to the ground. He unbuttoned his collar next, breathing in with relief. If his cover was blown, there was no point to all the pretense. At least he’d reached the right person. “Better now. I’m here for Hasryan.”

Sharpe stared at him for the longest time, wearing down his thin patience. She glanced at the fallen papers. “Of course you are.” Larryn caught a whiff of disdain in her tone. He spread his feet and tensed, ready to pounce. When she motioned for him to sit, he snorted and stayed put. Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “No one is allowed a visit. Tell your boss money won’t buy his freedom. I have questions for her, and won’t accept anything but answers.”

“My boss?”

What the heck was this arrogant, prickly investigator talking about? He wasn’t going to let her order him around like a vulgar underling. Larryn stepped forward, jaws clenched. She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“You heard me.” She threw the hat on her desk another derisive look. “I’m not sure what your goal here is, but please also convey my regrets to Brune. It saddens me that she’d think so little of me and put such slim efforts into reaching Hasryan. I expected men with a meagre amount of skill, not a street rat with some pathetic stand-in for classy clothes. My guard isn’t the only incompetent person in this building.”

“Look who’s talking!” His cheeks turned red-hot, the last shreds of calm escaping him as he moved to Sharpe’s desk. “I don’t have a boss. Wouldn’t take orders from anyone. You want messages carried? Do it yourself.” He slammed his palms on the desk, his throat tight. She didn’t budge, but her frown deepened. “I’m Hasryan’s friend. I watched his headbutt reduce Drake’s nose to tiny pieces. Let me see him. I know what you people are capable of.”

Sharpe’s lips tightened into a grimace. Her finger tapped the wooden surface, and her deep-set eyes studied Larryn. Her continued calm unsettled him, which in turn fuelled his anger. “Do tell,” she said. “What are we capable of?”

“Like you don’t know.” Larryn’s knuckles whitened. She wanted details? He would happily oblige. “Men die bleeding in your cells because the welcome beating was too much for their poor physical health. Women return home flinching whenever a man approaches them, a haunted look in their eyes. You pick up people from the streets for the slightest offence, and if we see them again, they’re more dead than alive—they just don’t have the rope mark around their neck! I had to save a nine-year-old girl out of your dirty prisons, and you want me to believe a dark elf is safe?”

She paled with every new sentence, her expression hardening into cold fury. Larryn waited for her denial. He knew the drill, had heard the words many times. Criminals were worthless and had earned every hit, and homeless people were a hideous stain on the city’s beautiful gardens. He leaned forward, his anger growing at her obvious guilt.

“They beat him up, didn’t they? How many broken ribs did he deserve because he smashed some pompous shit’s nose? And now you’ll let him rot into a dank cell to serve as an occasional punching bag until the day he dies, is that it?”

Sharpe’s colour returned, indignation plain on her face. “He did more than break a nose. Your friend—”

“Let me guess,” Larryn interrupted. “He ‘resisted arrest’. Another violent criminal assaulting a heroic guard, only there to defend the law and respectable citizens. Imagine if something terrible had happened to him! The poor guard might be wearing solid chainmail to protect himself, but you never know with these dangerous dark elves. Isn’t it heartbreaking, how your guard had to use brute force to neutralize the threat? How will he ever live with his guilt?”

“Are you done? Is the righteous fury over?” She paused, as though expecting an actual answer.

Larryn’s fingers clenched into a fist. “No.”

“Too bad. It’s my turn now.” She picked up Larryn’s hat, flung it back at him, then scooped up the scrolls lying under it in a smooth movement. She unrolled one in front of his eyes. “Do you see what it says there? How many names there are under it?”

Larryn stared at the scrambled letters as though they held meaning. The symbols made his head spin. The more he tried to decrypt them, the more they seemed to merge with one another. He straightened up, bitter anger eating at his insides. Better not to let Sharpe know he couldn’t read, or she’d have a free pass to lie about the content of her paper. Larryn flicked a finger into the parchment.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. Hasryan—”

“Is an assassin.” She tied the scroll back up. “He killed Lady Allastam ten years ago and is responsible for the deadliest feud in Isandor’s history.”

Shock silenced Larryn for an instant, then he burst into a mirthless laugh. How perfect! These people never ceased to surprise him. He thought he’d seen it all before, but no. They always came up with some new shit. “How much do they pay you to make such declarations with absolute conviction? I hope it’s worth it, because you can’t have much left in the way of dignity. Do you really think I’m that naive?”

“You’re not listening,” Sharpe said. “We have proof. I—”

“Invented it.” Larryn scoffed and stepped away. His legs felt like tightly coiled springs, all compressed energy waiting to be unleashed. He would be running back down to the Shelter to vent his frustration. “You needed to pin this murder on someone to stop the poor, desperate nobles from killing each other, and the perfect scapegoat came along. How many horror stories are told about dark elves, after all? This one even attacked Lady Allastam’s gentle son! Why would anyone doubt Hasryan’s guilt when he so obviously holds a grudge?” Larryn glared at Sharpe. Blood thumped against his temples. Fury blackened the edge of his vision until he saw nothing but her impassive face, her cold disregard for this injustice. “You don’t care if he did it. Some powdered-ass noble has a problem, and you’re solving it by making a Lower City scum pay.”

Inspector Sora Sharpe waited without a flinch, a grimace, or any indication of her mood. Only her fingers moved, straightening the ripples in her uniform’s pants. Once Larryn finished, she clasped her hands behind her back. The motion sent a wave of bitter hatred down Larryn’s spine.

“Whether you believe me or not doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can and will tie him to the other murders he committed, and he will receive just punishment. Your friend is an assassin. No visits will be allowed.”

Larryn cried out in rage and threw his hat once more, aiming for her inkwell. It toppled over, but it brought him no satisfaction this time, and he made for the door. He couldn’t stand her cool composure, how she hid her detached amusement behind it. This woman might not call others milord or milady twenty times in a minute, but she was just as corrupt as the guard who’d let him in. If he wanted to get Hasryan out, he would need other means.

Prison break was at the forefront of his mind.