The newcomer obliged. The guard held their hands up to the torchlight, turning them this way and that, inspecting their nails. Apparently satisfied, the guard clapped the newcomer on the shoulder and let them inside. The door swung shut, and again that sense of wrongness wafted forward, swirling around Ranka.

She rocked back on her heels. “Something is off with this place.”

More humans approached, holding their hands up for inspection, many already proudly wearing gold pins on their chests. Seaswept grew quieter, but the tavern swelled. Ranka and Aramis waited in the alley, knees aching against the wet stones. Light and laughter spilled into the street each time the door opened, but so did that uncomfortable reek, a hint that within the tavern walls, something sinister brewed.

“We need to get inside,” Aramis murmured.

“Not dressed like this we aren’t.” Everyone entering was dressed in gray. She’d thought it was a coincidence until a man approached dressed in orange, threw his hands up, exclaimed he’d forgotten the day, and returned later in gray clothing to be admitted. Smart, to have a code. Also incredibly inconvenient.

Aramis peered through the dark. “We’ll have to borrow someone else’s clothes.”

A man and a woman stumbled out of the tavern, badges gleaming on their chests. They stunk of ale even from across the street, and they moved sluggishly, arms thrown around each other, giggling like teenagers.

Aramis nudged Ranka in the ribs. “Well? You’re the muscle, right? Go, uh, be muscly.”

Ranka scowled and swatted her hand away. “I hate you.”

Aramis beamed. “I know.”

Ranka’s heart did an odd little flip, and she rose, backtracking around the building through the dark. Giggles rolled toward her. She turned the corner, one hand on her axe, but there was no need. The couple could barely stand, and they’d made her life easier by already beginning to undress each other.

Ranka leaned against the wall. “Hi.”

They spun, blinking against the dark.

“I need your clothes. Seems like you don’t want them anyway. If we do this the easy way, you’ll save yourself a headache.”

The man was still holding a mug. Its contents spilled over the lip of the container and dripped to the street, gathering in an amber puddle on the stones. He took an unsteady step forward and gave Ranka the finger. “Piss off.”

It always had to be the hard way.

Thirty seconds later, both humans were stripped down to their underthings and stowed against the alley wall—unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. Ranka changed quickly into the man’s clothes, rolling her shoulders against the fabric that was too tight against her shoulders. She doubled back to meet Aramis. The princess eyed Ranka and grinned.

Heat rushed to Ranka’s cheeks. “What?”

“Nothing,” she snorted. She held out a hand for the other set of clothes. “Don’t look.”