Raevyn's boots echoed hollow down the cobbled path as she made her way from the Lower Ring toward home. The streets were quieter now, though the pulse of the city never fully slept. Lamp-posts flickered with soft faelight, bathing the uneven stone in shades of amber and silver. Her senses still tingled from the encounter—a remnant of adrenaline curling like smoke in her chest. She ignored it.
The Lower Ring had always felt like a wound stitched shut with thread too thin. Crumbling buildings leaned against one another like drunks, alleyways too narrow to be anything but traps. Graffiti glowed faintly on broken walls—wards, tags, maybe just the madness of the street. It was the kind of place that watched you back. And Raevyn had never liked being watched.
She passed beneath a bridge choked with roots and forgotten spells, crossed a square where a blind fae bard still strummed sorrow into a lyre, and finally reached the lift that would take her back to the Heights. Back to her sanctuary.
Her building loomed in quiet elegance: obsidian and pale quartz, curved balconies like flower petals frozen in bloom. Glamours danced along the columns, chasing away dust and spying eyes. She stepped inside the threshold and was met by silence—not emptiness, but the warm hush of a place that knew its owner and did not ask questions.
The door to her apartment opened with a sigh. Inside, the scent of bergamot and rain-drenched wood wrapped around her. She didn't bother with lights. The apartment didn't need them. Enchanted sconces flickered to life, casting golden shadows over velvet throw pillows, an ivory fireplace, shelves lined with antique grimoires, and a dragonbone harp that hadn't been played in years.
She shed her coat, letting it slide into a puddle of dark silk on the polished floor. Her limbs felt like stone—bruised, heavy, cracking under the weight of memory. Past the arched mirror that sometimes whispered truths in her mother's voice. Past the wall-hung tapestry that shimmered with the threads of old war. Past the kitchen counter where a basilisk tooth still lay embedded from a fight four years gone.
She reached her bedroom—a space carved out of shadow and silence. Thick drapes, thick carpets, a bed large enough for a queen but occupied by only one.
Raevyn collapsed onto it without ceremony. Not graceful. Not composed. Just... down. Her sheets were cool. Her pillows perfumed and plush. She buried herself in them like armor.
With a groan, she reached for the communicator embedded in her nightstand. Her thumb found the sigil carved into its center, and a soft hum vibrated through her bones.
The call connected.
Leo answered on the fourth ring.
"Didn't think you'd call," he said, voice husky, maybe tired, maybe amused.
"I'm in," she said. No greeting. No hesitation.
Silence on the other end. Then, "You sure?"
Raevyn stared at the ceiling, where spell-light traced constellations long forgotten by mortal maps. "I'm in, Leo. You don't get to ask twice."
He exhaled. "You sound... off."
"I was attacked in the Lower Ring by a half-formed wraith. Alone. Middle of the gods-damned alley. Do the math."
"That shouldn't be possible. They can't form without—"
"I know what they need."
Another silence. The kind that bristles with everything neither of them are saying.
"You alright?" Leo asked finally.
Her laugh was soft. Bitter. "I'm exhausted, I'm bleeding, and I probably just promised myself to a war I retired from ten years ago. So no. But I'll live."
"Classic Rae."
"Don't call me that."
"Old habits."
"Old habits get people killed."
He sighed. "Get some rest. I'll send coordinates in the morning."
"Make sure they come with breakfast."
"Cinnamon foam and a side of 'you were right'?"
"Damn straight."
The light of the communicator dimmed. Disconnected.
Raevyn lay there in the dark for a long time. Listening to the hush of her warded walls, the slow hum of the city outside, the ache blooming behind her ribs.
She didn't regret calling. Not yet.
But morning always brought something uglier than regrets.
She rolled over, pulling her sheets tight, and whispered into the silence—
"Let the storm come."
...
The morning light slipped through the slits in her drapes, cautious and reluctant. Raevyn stirred, the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest. She stared at the ceiling again, the same constellation spells still twinkling, fainter now in the daylight. Regret coiled in her gut like a waiting predator.
She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled barefoot toward the kitchen, mind still fuzzy with the ghost of sleep. She hadn't even touched the coffee machine when the soft chime of her front door wards fizzled. Not knocked. Not buzzed. Just opened.
Leo.
Of course it was Leo.
He strolled in like the place hadn't been off-limits for a decade, carrying two steaming cups and wearing that unbothered, smirking expression that made Raevyn want to throw something sharp.
"You've got nerve," she muttered.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," he said, placing the coffee on the counter. "I brought a peace offering."
She sniffed the cup. Cinnamon foam. Gods damn him.
Leo leaned against the edge of the counter and slid a sleek photo from his coat pocket. It was old. Worn around the edges. She barely glanced at it—until her eyes truly saw what it held.
The cup in her hand wobbled. Her throat locked up.
"Kairos Faelen," Leo said calmly, "will be your new partner."
Raevyn's blood ran cold.
Kairos. Not someone from her past in the way Leo thought—not a lover or a rival. But once, he had worked for her parents: the King and Queen of the House of Mist. He was sharp as a blade and just as cold. An analyst. A man whose mind had mapped war and peace with equal detachment. A ghost who had watched her from behind Council meetings and curtain shadows.