I woke to the distant crash of wood splintering against stone.
For a moment, I lay still, heart hammering, eyes adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the cracks in the attic. Then another sound—shouting, hurried footsteps below.
A raid.
I moved fast. My boots were already beside me, my coat draped over the rickety chair in the corner. I snatched them both, slipping into the coat as I crouched beside the trapdoor leading down into the bakery.
"Search everything!" a gruff voice barked below.
Merde.
I had known this attic wouldn't be safe forever. The baker and his wife never asked questions about the coin I gave them to keep quiet, but fear was a dangerous thing, and the king's men had a way of forcing even the most loyal to speak.
I needed to disappear.
Carefully, I lifted the trapdoor just enough to peer down. The bakery was in chaos—sacks of flour slashed open, their contents dusting the wooden floor like fresh snow. The baker stood against the wall, his face pale, his hands trembling.
A soldier grabbed him by the collar. "Where is she?"
He didn't answer.
Good man.
I didn't wait to see more. I knew the layout of the building by heart, every hidden gap, every weak plank. Slipping back, I crawled to the farthest corner of the attic, where a loose board led to the neighboring rooftop. With practiced ease, I pried it up and squeezed through, landing in a crouch on the cold tiles.
From here, the streets stretched below, narrow and winding. The smell of smoke and filth clung to the morning air, mingling with the distant sound of market vendors setting up their stalls. Paris was waking.
And I needed to move before anyone knew I was here.
I ran.
The rooftops were my escape, my world. While the patrols scoured the streets below, I moved above them, a shadow slipping between chimneys and slanted shingles. A leap across a narrow alley brought me to another building, then another.
The guards wouldn't find me today.
By the time I climbed down into a quiet, empty alley, my pulse had steadied. I pulled my hood lower over my face and merged with the early morning crowd, just another figure lost in the sea of merchants, beggars, and laborers.
I walked without a destination, letting my mind settle. I had supplies hidden in another part of the city—a change of clothes, extra coin, a place to sleep. But I had lost the bakery. Another home gone.
Another reminder that I was nothing but a ghost in this city.
I turned a corner and nearly ran straight into a man in a powdered wig and fine navy coat.
He recoiled, eyes narrowing. "Watch where you're going, girl."
I smiled sweetly. "Apologies, monsieur."
And then I picked his pocket.
His purse was in my hand before he even walked away, the weight of the coins a small comfort. I had learned long ago that in Paris, you took what you needed.
I slipped into a quieter street and leaned against the stone wall of an abandoned building. The purse dangled from my fingers, but my mind was elsewhere.
I thought of the raid. Of how close they had come this time.
They were hunting me harder now. My name was spreading in whispers.
Lya.
Not my real name. That had died along with my family. But it was the only name I had left.
And soon, the people who had taken everything from me would learn to fear it.