Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The first light of dawn stretched its fingers over the rooftops of Oryn-Vel, painting the sky in soft hues of gold and violet. Tess lay stretched out beneath a thick woolen blanket, her bare skin still warm from the night's indulgences. Beside her, Ishmael was awake, his arm folded behind his head as he stared out over the sleeping city. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but there was something in the way his fingers absently traced patterns against the fabric of the blanket that told her he wasn't entirely lost in thought.

Tess turned onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. "You're quiet."

Ishmael didn't glance at her. "I usually am."

She smirked. "True."

They lay there in silence for a while longer, listening to the distant sounds of early morning—the rustle of wind through the alleys, the occasional clatter of a cart wheel over uneven cobblestones, the murmurs of street vendors setting up their stalls. Oryn-Vel never truly slept, but there were moments like this, before the city fully woke, where it felt as if the world had momentarily forgotten to be loud.

Tess tugged the blanket up around her shoulders, shifting closer to Ishmael. "So," she murmured, "what do you think of our new little stray?"

That got a reaction. Ishmael exhaled slowly, finally turning his head to look at her. "Charon?"

She hummed in confirmation, watching his face carefully.

Ishmael was slow to answer, his gaze drifting back toward the horizon. "He's… unusual."

Tess raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it."

"He doesn't act like someone who's spent his life in a place like this," Ishmael continued. "His body language is wrong. The way he talks, the way he reacts to things—it's like he's watching everything instead of just living in it."

Tess tilted her head. "You think he's hiding something?"

Ishmael nodded. "But not in the way most people do."

That was interesting. She knew Ishmael had an instinct for people—it was part of what made him such a dangerous man. If he thought something was off about Charon, then there was a good chance he was right. But even so…

"You don't dislike him, though," she observed.

Ishmael was quiet for a long moment before finally shaking his head. "No."

Tess smirked. "Soft spot?"

Ishmael gave her a flat look. "No."

She laughed, rolling onto her back again. "We'll see."

The sun had risen higher now, spilling warm light across the rooftops. Tess sighed, stretching languidly before sitting up and letting the blanket fall away. The morning air was cool against her skin, but she didn't mind. She reached for the small pile of clothing she'd left nearby, slipping into her undergarments before standing and running her fingers through her hair.

Ishmael watched her, his expression unreadable.

Tess smirked down at him. "Coming down for breakfast?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

She rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself."

With that, she gathered the rest of her clothes in one arm and padded barefoot toward the rooftop's edge, where a ladder led back down to the main part of the safehouse.

As she descended, the world around her grew heavier with the familiar scent of the safehouse—the lingering trace of burnt wood, damp stone, and the faint but unmistakable musk of people living in close quarters for too long.

The interior was dim, the only light filtering in through cracks in the wooden shutters. Everyone was still asleep, sprawled out in various corners of the room.

Tess paused at the bottom of the ladder, leaning against the wall and taking them in one by one.

Callen was curled up in a pile of blankets on the floor, his mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his face. His usual confidence and sharp humor were absent in sleep, leaving behind someone who—if she didn't know any better—almost looked innocent.

Marin, by contrast, slept stiffly on a thin cot, her arms folded over her chest even in unconsciousness, as if she were prepared to wake up fighting at any moment.

Tess smirked. Of course she does.

Ishmael, still on the roof, was the same as ever—quiet, unshakable, existing just on the edge of things. He was the closest thing she had to an equal, though she suspected he'd never frame it that way.

And then there was Charon.

He was still fast asleep, curled in on himself like someone unused to sharing space with others. His breathing was steady, his features relaxed in sleep. He looked younger like this, more uncertain, as if whatever sharp edges he had were dulled by exhaustion.

Tess tilted her head, studying him. What's your story, little stray?

He was an enigma, and Tess wasn't sure if that excited her or annoyed her. Maybe both.

Pushing off the wall, she turned and made her way toward the small kitchen area, intent on scavenging something for breakfast.

Today was going to be interesting