EVERY ALLEY, every quiet street, seemed to hold eyes that weren’t theirs.
Lily sat in the corner of the safehouse, a single lamp casting a warm circle over the worn floorboards. She had hoped that after everything—the fights, the betrayals, the revelations—the world might pause.
It hadn’t.
Jeremiah was crouched beside her, scanning his phone, fingers moving too fast to follow. He had a quiet intensity, one she had grown to rely on. But even he looked tense, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
“They’ve circulated it,” he said finally, voice low. “Cassian made it public. Your name. The one your father carried. The one the underground network recognizes.”
Lily froze. Her chest tightened, but it wasn’t panic—it was recognition. She knew what he meant without him spelling it out.
“The surname,”
