Two passengers met in a dirty alley, in a little city by the sea.

The first was small, thin as whispers, cut in the shape of a cat. It had worn the seeming for over seven years now. It could barely remember the thing it had been before. A fraction of a deeper darkness, with only enough awareness to crawl from the black beneath Godsgrave’s skin and seek another like itself.

Mia.

She’d lost her father, the turn they met. Hanged and dancing before the hoi polloi. She’d screamed, and made the shadows tremble, and he’d followed her call until he found her at her mother’s side. The image of her father burned bright in her mind as he reached out and touched her. But she’d lost her kitten, too. Its neck broken in the hands of the justicus who’d stolen her father’s title along with his life. A tinier wound. The kitten seemed a far more sensible shape to steal, in the end. Far better than the father. Far easier to love a simple thing.

She’d named him Mister Kindly. It fitted well enough. But somewhere deep inside, the cat who was not a cat knew that was not his name.

The second passenger was larger, had worn its shape for longer. She’d found her Cassius when he was but a boy. Beaten. Starving. Abused beyond reckoning. A child of the Itreyan wilds, dragged to the City of Bridges and Bones in chains, and there, almost drowned in misery. The boy’s folk had hunted wolves—he’d remembered that much, even in his nadir. And the boy remembered wolves were strong and fierce. So she became a wolf for him, and together, they’d hunted all who stood in their way.

He’d named her Eclipse. It was close to the truth. But somewhere deep inside, the wolf who was not a wolf knew that was not her name either.

She missed him.

“ . . . HELLO, MOGGY . . . ,” the not-wolf said, resting on the wall of a lean-to inn.

“ . . . hello, mongrel . . . ,” the not-cat replied, atop a stack of empty barrels.

“ . . . IT IS DONE, THEN . . . ?”

“ . . . it is done . . .”

The shadowwolf turned her not-eyes to the ocean, nodded once.

“ . . . I WILL TELL ASHLINN SHE CAN REMOVE THAT RIDICULOUS TINKER’S PACK, THEN . . .”

“ . . . if you could convince her to drown herself in the ocean at the same time, i would sincerely appreciate it . . .”

“ . . . YOUR JEALOUSY FASCINATES ME, LITTLE MOGGY . . .”

“ . . . careful, dear mongrel, i do believe you just used a three-syllable word . . .”

“ . . . HOW COMES IT THAT ONE WHO FEASTS ON FEAR CAN BE SO AFRAID . . . ?”

“ . . . i fear nothing . . .”

“ . . . YOU REEK OF IT . . .”

“ . . . be a darling and fuck right off, would you . . . ?”

“ . . . NOTHING WOULD PLEASE ME MORE . . .”

The wolf who was not a wolf began to fade, like a whisper on the wind. But the not-cat’s plea held it still.

“ . . . wait . . .”

“ . . . WHAT . . . ?”

Mister Kindly hung still for a moment, searching for the words.

“ . . . are . . . are you not afraid . . . ?” he finally asked.

“ . . . OF WHAT . . . ?”

“ . . . not of. for . . .”

“ . . . YOUR RIDDLES BORE ME, GRIMALKIN . . .”

“ . . . are you not afraid for her . . . ?”

The shadowwolf tilted its head.

“ . . . WHY WOULD I BE . . . ?”

The not-cat sighed, searching the horizon.

“ . . . i wonder sometimes, what we are making of her . . .”

“ . . . WE ARE MAKING HER STRONG. STEEL. RUTHLESS AS THE STORM AND THE SEA . . .”

“ . . . the thing we take from her . . . i wonder if she does not need it . . .”

“ . . . YOU SPEAK OF FEAR . . . ?”

“ . . . no, i speak of fashion sense . . .”

“ . . . WHAT NEED HAS SHE OF FEAR, MOGGY . . . ?”

“ . . . those who do not fear the flame are burned. those who do not fear the blade are bled. and those who do not fear the grave . . .”

“ . . . ARE FREE TO BE AND DO WHATEVER THEY WISH . . .”

“ . . . she is different than she once was. she was never this cold. this reckless . . .”

“ . . . AND YOU BLAME ME FOR THAT . . .”

“ . . . two of us feast where only one once fed. perhaps we take too much. perhaps we make her like this. callous. conniving. cruel . . .”

“ . . . AND I AM CERTAIN THAT RECENT REVELATIONS ABOUT THE RED CHURCH, HER FAMILIA, HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH HER CHANGE IN DEMEANOR . . .”

“ . . . three-syllable word again . . .”

“ . . . ARE WE FINISHED HERE, LITTLE MOGGY . . . ?”

The not-cat looked to the sky, burning red and brilliant gold and blinding blue.

“ . . . a reckoning is coming, eclipse. it waits for us in the city of bridges and bones. i can feel it. like that accursed sun on the horizon. drawing closer with every breath . . .”

“ . . . A GOOD THING, THEN, THAT WE DO NOT BREATHE . . .”

Mister Kindly sighed.

“ . . . i hate you . . .”

Eclipse laughed.

“ . . . GOOD . . .”

And without another sound, she was gone.

A lone passenger sat in a dirty alley, in a little city by the sea.

It could barely remember the thing it had been before. A fraction of a deeper darkness. A larval consciousness, dreaming of shoulders crowned with translucent wings.

And she who would gift them.

Mia.