Sabine wrapped the last of the bandages around Sasha's face. He did not flinch, did not blink. The quiet between them was so heavy it hummed. She had tended soldiers, courtesans, even spirits that bled salt instead of blood—but it was the silent ones who haunted her most. Silence meant remembering.
Before the thought could root, Sasha spoke, his voice low, a faint Irish softness curling around his words.
"I remember you. You worked for my brother once, didn't you?"
Sabine startled. It wasn't the question—it was the seeing. Most men never looked long enough to notice her. In certain light she could pass easy: skin pale as bread dough, hair pressed smooth as silk. But under lantern-light, the truth gleamed through—a warmth in her tone, a brown-gold undertone in her skin, the weight of Creole blood that had survived too many borders. Some called her good-haired, as though that were a blessing. To Sabine, it had always felt like camouflage.
"That was a long time ago," she said, tightening the cloth. "Now I'm just a wise woman trying to keep you breathing. Lord, those French fae did a number on you."
Sasha's gloved fingers found her wrist—not to stop her, only to feel.
"I might have webs across my face," he said quietly, tracing the ridges of her palm, "but your hands—rough, like you've carried people who never thanked you. My father once spoke with yours… about what my brother did."
The words struck like a church bell—clear, merciless.
Sabine's throat tightened. She turned toward the stove, pretending to mind the broth.
"It was cruel of him," she said, voice trembling. "Cruel to make me bear the blame. For that girl. For her child. I was just—"
"Trying to help." Sasha's interruption was gentle, but it carried the ache of recognition. "That's what everyone says when they meet folk like me. Like her. My papers said servant, but we both know what that means. Don't bleed yourself for his sins, Sabine."
She looked at him then—at the faint shimmer where glamour met scar, at the eyes too old for his youth. For a heartbeat she saw the brother who'd ruined her, and the man who'd paid for it instead. Pity and anger tangled inside her chest.
She pressed the spoon to his lips, hands shaking.
"I know," she whispered. "But this war—" her breath hitched "—wars don't set folk free. They just trade masters and call it peace."
The lamp flickered. The air grew thin.
A slit of darkness split the corner wall, widening into a doorway slick as oil. Out stepped the Shadow Man, smile carved bright as steel, Malik sleeping limp in his arms.
Sabine's spoon clattered to the floor. She lunged forward, gathering the child close, her voice breaking into Creole.
"Mon ti bon ange… Bondye, mèsi."
(My little good angel… God, thank you.)
The Shadow Man rolled his eyes, though his grin faltered when he met Sasha's stare.
Sasha went still. He knew that figure—not from meeting, but from whispered debts. The man who offered salvation like poison in a silver cup. Once, he had tempted Sasha with a contract; his brother had taken it instead. Sometimes Sasha wondered if survival and guilt were the same thing.
"You should leave," he said, tone even but edged. "Take the child and go."
The Shadow Man's smile widened, slow and knowing. Shadows stirred at Sasha's feet, tugging loose from his body like smoke. Then Sabine stepped between them.
"Enough," she said.
Her voice cracked the air. The Shadow Man halted, studying her as though weighing the cost of obedience. Then, with a sigh almost theatrical, he snapped his fingers. His shadow slipped from the wall, gathered the sleeping child, and vanished into the rift like smoke poured backward. When the air stilled again, he drew a chair across from Sasha and sat down, crossing one leg over the other as if he'd just come in for tea.
Sabine poured a cup for Sasha, another for herself, and placed one before the visitor without invitation.
"Well?" she asked. "You didn't come here for pleasantries."
The Shadow Man smiled thinly. "No, I came for a report and some herbs. Viktor's… in need of assistance." He tapped the table. "Something to heal a man's more delicate treasures. Our dear Ayoka's been rather—spirited."
For a heartbeat, the room went silent—and then both Sabine and Sasha burst out laughing. It wasn't cruel laughter, just the helpless kind that bubbles up when life itself becomes absurd. Neither of them wished Viktor harm, but the thought of the stiff, brooding man being bested in bed was almost too much to bear.
When the laughter faded, the Shadow Man unfolded a small parchment and slid it toward Sabine.
"Here's what I'll need. The usual medical supplies—and this."
Sabine scanned the list, frowning. "A mirror made by my father? Why?"
The Shadow Man groaned, the sound long and theatrical, like a husband tired of hearing the same sermon.
"Because Baba Yaga is sending her granddaughter to apologize. A proper visit, gifts, the whole affair. She wants forgiveness."
Sasha dropped his cup; tea splashed across the table. Sabine looked up sharply.
"Forgiveness?" she repeated. "After what that girl did?"
The Shadow Man shrugged. "You don't have to forgive her. But Sabine—of all people—you know why Baba Yaga does what she does."
Sabine slammed her palms on the table so hard the cups rattled.
"My family might've helped that bitch when she was strung out, but we're not at fault for how she turned out! We cut her off the moment she started treating people like toys. Don't you dare lay that on me. That little white whore was already cruel to start with—and look what the fuck she did to Sasha!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip. Even the shadows recoiled.
Sasha nodded grimly. "I know. I've never used my true strikes against her, not like my brother—but why speak with her at all?"
The Shadow Man raised a hand, and the room dimmed. From the darkness bloomed a moving image—shadows shaped into Viktor and Ayoka, entwined and whispering, the light of their bond pulsing faintly between them.
"Because you owe him," the Shadow Man said softly. "Viktor took on your debts—all of them. He's a selfish man, yes, but not without purpose. And I happen to like these two. They feed me well."
He leaned back, grin widening to something cold. "If you refuse, I'll simply collect from your fathers. They owe me favors still."
Sabine's fingers twitched toward the knife by the stove. She wanted to drive it straight through that grin. But she knew he was right. If she ever hoped to free her family from their old debts—to rule her own house rather than serve it—she would have to bow her head.
The Shadow Man tipped his hat, his edges already blurring into smoke. "Pleasure as always, my dear. Do send the herbs before the moon wanes."
Then he was gone.
The room felt emptier than before. Sasha stood, his face half hidden in bandages, and touched Sabine's shoulder with surprising gentleness.
"Let's just go into hiding," he murmured. "Leave the wars, the debts—let it all rot behind us."
For a moment, the idea almost sounded like mercy. But Sabine straightened, brushing his hand away. "Just because we shared some words doesn't mean you know me," she said. "I'll speak with my father."
Sasha hesitated, watching her. The Red Place seemed to breathe around them, its crimson curtains shifting in the lamplight like slow fire. He'd felt close to her these past nights—too close. Yet he could not tell if it was real closeness or simply another wound trying to fasten to warmth. He told himself it was gratitude, or kinship, or the comfort of being seen. But deep down, he feared it was hunger—the kind that had once ruled his brother.
He looked away before the thought could bloom, fingers curling in his lap. Perhaps he was only latching on, mistaking mercy for something more. The line between needing help and needing someone blurred too easily in the Red Place, where tenderness and danger always shared a bed.
Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere in the dark, church bells began to ring.