Scene 1 - House that birth monsters
"What a funny name they gave you, Mom."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
She didn't even flinch. Just kept moving around the kitchen like the world hadn't renamed her into a myth.
"Tiamat. The Mother of Monsters." I repeated, tasting how absurd it sounded.
Mom set a tray down and shot me a look that carried the same old authority it always had—soft, tired, and unmovable.
"You say it like I picked it."
"I say it like Baldur picked it," I muttered, taking the mug she slid toward me. "That man names things like he's auctioning them."
The house smelled like baked bread and old wood. The kind of smell that belonged to childhood, not politics. Not gods. Not the Astral Sea.
But there it was—right on the counter.
An envelope.
Neatly stacked bills. A list. Names. Addresses.
Relief money.
Not for her.
For the block.
For the neighbors who were too proud to ask, and too broke to pretend they weren't hungry.
Mom noticed my eyes on it.
"They don't listen to me when I tell them to take more," she said. "So I leave it on the counter where they can see it. Makes it easier to accept."
I leaned back, letting the chair creak.
"You're still doing this."
"Someone has to," she replied, like the answer was obvious. "Your brothers aren't exactly… quiet people."
That was the polite version.
Tasey could run a district like a general. Tam could walk into a room and make it a battlefield just by existing. And Tasi—Tasi pretended he was harmless until you stepped too close, then you learned why people called him a crybaby with a knife.
Mom slid a plate of cookies into the middle like it was peace offering.
"How's Crow?" she asked, casual. Too casual. Like she hadn't been waiting.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because saying his name here felt like dragging the future into a room that still belonged to the past.
"He's alive," I said.
Mom nodded like that was enough. Like she'd take alive over safe and still be grateful.
Then her gaze sharpened.
"Grandma met him," she said. "Briefly."
I blinked. "When?"
"Not long ago." Mom took a sip of tea. "Long enough to know he's yours."
My jaw tightened.
Grandma didn't meet people briefly unless she already knew what she wanted to confirm.
Mom watched my reaction and sighed like she was already tired of me.
"And before you start doing that thing where you turn quiet and pretend it's wisdom—" she pointed at me with her mug, "—don't forget: you're still her son."
I didn't smile. I didn't deny it.
The silence between us wasn't cold. It was old. Built from years of things we didn't say because saying them would make them real.
Mom finally broke it.
"You've stayed uninvolved," she said, voice steady. "Distant. Like the world is glass and you're afraid to touch it."
My fingers tightened around the mug.
"I'm not afraid," I said.
Mom's eyes softened, just a fraction.
"I know," she replied. "You can't. Not the way you used to. Not with what you carry."
That line hit harder than any insult.
Because it wasn't accusation.
It was understanding.
And understanding from your mother felt like a blade when you'd spent years pretending you didn't need it.
I exhaled through my nose.
"Tasey still sending people?" I asked, changing the topic the way cowards do.
Mom's mouth twitched.
"He's always sending people," she said. "He thinks control is love."
I nearly laughed.
"That's his problem."
Mom's stare turned flat again.
"It's all your problems," she corrected. "Because you raised them wrong."
I opened my mouth—
A knock hit the door.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
Just… timed.
My smile didn't move. My posture didn't change.
But my senses slid outward on instinct, thin as a blade.
Outside the house, the street was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not empty.
Just arranged.
Wide spacing. Multiple presences. Not close enough to be seen through the window unless you knew where to look.
Watching.
Waiting.
Mom stood, calm as ever, and started walking toward the door like she hadn't noticed a thing.
"Mom," I said softly.
She didn't turn.
"I'll get it," she answered, like I was still thirteen and she was still the first law in this house.
My gaze stayed on the steaming tea.
My senses stayed outside.
They weren't panicking.
They weren't breathing heavy.
They weren't here to rob the place.
This wasn't a raid.
This was a message.
Mom's hand touched the doorknob.
And something in me—something old—smiled without my permission.
Crow
"Amber."
I stepped out of the taxi first.
Cold air hit my face.
Then the smell followed.
Alcohol. Smoke. sweat. cheap perfume. blood too faint for regular people to notice—but not faint for me.
The district always smelled like that.
Amber hesitated inside the cab like the door was a cliff.
"You sure?" she asked, trying to sound like she wasn't asking.
"I'm already here," I said.
She scoffed like it was my fault.
"Yeah, well… you're you. I'm not you."
She finally got out, academy jacket on, hood half up like it could hide her from the eyes tracking us.
And there were eyes.
Some obvious. Some pretending not to be.
Some hungry.
I didn't flare my aura. Not yet.
Because the first step in places like this was to see who had enough sense to back off without being told.
Amber started walking fast, like speed could outrun fear.
I caught her wrist and pulled her closer.
Not rough.
Just final.
"Stay on my right," I told her.
Amber looked up at me, annoyed, then swallowed whatever she wanted to say.
"You don't have to treat me like a kid," she muttered.
"I'm not," I replied. "I'm treating you like bait."
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
Because she knew I wasn't joking.
We moved deeper.
Neon light painted the street in colors that didn't belong to anything holy. Music thumped from open doors. Laughter spilled into the air like it was cheap and endless.
Amber's eyes flicked across women standing under lights like decorations. Men watching them didn't look like customers.
They looked like owners.
Amber stared straight ahead harder.
I kept her close anyway.
"What is this?" she whispered, barely audible. "Why are we here?"
"Context," I said.
"For what?"
"For your world," I answered. "And mine."
Amber swallowed.
"This isn't even the worst part," she admitted.
"I figured."
A group of boys—young, stupid, trying to prove something—took a step toward us.
I let a sliver of aura leak.
Not power.
A warning.
Their faces paled. Their courage died quietly. They turned away like they were suddenly very interested in a different street.
Amber exhaled like she'd been holding her breath since we arrived.
"See?" she said. "You don't even have to fight. You just… exist."
I didn't respond.
Because she said it like it was a compliment.
And it wasn't.
We cut across a side lane, quieter, tighter.
Amber tried to talk to fill the silence.
"Meg said—"
"Don't take her word as law," I cut in. "She's cynical on purpose. If she wasn't, she wouldn't still be alive here."
Amber glanced up at me.
"You talk about her like she's family."
"She is," I said.
Then after a beat, "In the way uncles are family. You don't like them, but you still answer the phone."
Amber snorted once despite herself.
We rounded the last corner.
The sign above the door was simple. Not flashy. Not inviting.
But the moment we stepped near it, I felt it.
A boundary.
Not a magical barrier.
A social one.
The kind created when enough dangerous people agree a place is off-limits.
Amber felt it too. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
"This is it," she said quietly.
I pushed the door open.
And walked in like I belonged there.
Amber
The warmth hit first.
Then the noise.
Not the chaotic noise outside—this was controlled. Like a bubble carved out inside a stomach full of knives.
Meg looked up from the bar, eyes sharp, smile easy.
"If it isn't my bratty little chick," she said, voice amused. "And you brought company."
Crow didn't answer like a normal person.
He walked straight to a corner booth and sat down like the seat had been waiting for him.
"Shut it, old man," he said. "I'm here to relax."
Meg laughed, leaned her hip against the counter like the world didn't scare her.
Then she looked at me.
"And you," she said, softer. "Take that jacket off in here. You'll overheat."
I hesitated.
Crow had told me to keep it on.
But Meg said it like she was giving me permission to breathe.
I slipped it off and hung it, suddenly aware of how small I felt without the academy's symbol on my back.
"Amber," I introduced myself fast, because silence was worse. "I've been training with him and his friends for the last year."
Meg's smile didn't move.
"I know," she said.
Of course she did.
My throat tightened.
"Why does he call you a grandpa?" I asked. "You look like… you know. Not one."
Meg's laugh was real, bright.
"He's known me since I ran around with his uncles," she said, pouring a drink without asking me what I wanted, then pausing. "Light?"
I nodded quickly.
She poured the light mix anyway and slid it over.
"And yes," she added, amused, "I'm biologically one. He's the only asshole in the city who says it to my face."
Crow flipped her off without looking.
Meg smiled at that like it was affection.
I took a sip to give my hands something to do.
"Does he come here often?" I asked.
Meg's gaze shifted toward Crow for a moment, fond in a way that made my chest tighten.
"Not as much since the academy," she said. "But him, Alexis, and Thomas were regulars since high school."
High school.
That landed wrong.
Because I was still trying to understand the Traveler world, and every time I thought I did, someone reminded me they'd been living a different life since childhood.
I blurted the thought before I could stop myself.
"I heard Travelers don't care about ages besides—" I swallowed. "Besides sex. That they grow up fast."
Meg's smile thinned. Not angry.
Measuring.
"Pretty true," she said. "They train for A and S rank before most civilians learn how to file taxes."
She glanced around the room.
"That's why I keep this place. So the kids don't end up deeper in the district chasing something worse than boredom."
I nodded slowly.
Then tried to keep up.
"This… is Huginn's territory?" I asked. "I thought most Traveler-related districts were Baldur's responsibility."
Meg smirked like she was about to explain a lesson—
A man at the next table chuckled.
"A real newbie," he said, voice amused. "What kind of education are they teaching these days?"
I turned.
He wore a hood pulled low. Beard. Cheap drink.
Normal.
Too normal.
His glass was the same as mine.
He leaned back like he owned the chair.
"Why would a king in public be the king of handling demons?" he continued. "You have catching up to do."
The air shifted.
Not like magic.
Like attention.
Meg's hand stopped mid-pour.
Crow's chair scraped.
I felt my heartbeat in my throat.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice smaller than I wanted. "Who are you?"
The hooded man lifted his glass.
"You served me already, Meg."
Meg's eyes narrowed like she was trying to remember a face that refused to exist in her memory.
Crow moved first.
A shadow blade formed in his hand like it had been waiting behind his ribs.
"Not going to ask again," Crow said, voice low. "Who are you. Why are you here."
The hood tilted up just enough.
I didn't see the whole face.
But I saw the eyes.
Two crimson orbs, amused.
"Just a customer," the man said lazily. "What, you can't remember an old comrade like Huginn?"
My stomach dropped.
Meg's expression hardened.
Crow's shadow blade trembled—not from fear.
From rage.
The hooded man sighed dramatically like we were ruining his fun.
"You're driving a wedge into my heart with that new beautiful face, Meg," he said, half laughing. "Doesn't look like you lost your edge either—"
Crow didn't let him finish.
The shadow blade slammed down.
The man burst into a flock of crows.
Not metaphor.
Not illusion.
Actual black shapes exploding outward, multiplying, filling the room, scraping at windows like the bar had become a cage.
The music died.
People screamed—but it wasn't panic screaming.
It was recognition.
Like everyone here knew exactly what kind of nightmare this was.
A voice echoed through the chaos, amused and too familiar.
"Ahh… it's good to play for once. Especially when it's an old buddy and—"
"CALL HUGINN NOW!" Meg snapped.
Her voice cut through everything like a whip.
The flock surged, then scattered toward the open window in one violent wave.
Crow lunged—but the last crow slipped through and vanished into the night.
Silence slammed down.
My hands were shaking.
Meg moved fast—too fast—barking orders, checking people, keeping the room from turning into a stampede.
Crow stood rigid, staring at the window like he was memorizing the direction of escape.
I couldn't stop thinking it.
That wasn't a customer.
That was a message.
And whoever sent it… wasn't afraid of Crow.
Tasi
"Did you have to put everyone to sleep just to say hi?"
I poured the drink slow on purpose.
Not because I was calm.
Because if I rushed, he'd smile wider.
Across from me, Ten sat like the second floor of my bar was his living room.
Boots on my clean floor.
Elbow too close to my good glassware.
Relaxed.
Smiling like rules were a joke other people told themselves.
Around the room, my men were down.
Not dead.
Not hurt.
Just… off.
Slumped along walls. Collapsed in chairs. Dropped mid-guard.
Even Craig downstairs.
Clean work.
That part irritated me more than the audacity.
He didn't do it messy.
He did it neat.
Ten lifted his glass toward me like we were celebrating.
"What's an older brother," he said, "if he can't outshine his little brothers?"
I stared at him.
"Stop calling yourself that," I said.
Ten's grin sharpened.
"You prefer Tenebris?" he asked, like the name tasted good.
I didn't answer.
He took a drink like my silence was permission.
"Tasey's going to be pissed," I said flatly.
Ten laughed.
Not loud.
Not manic.
Just… amused. Like my warning was the punchline he'd been waiting for.
"That's the point."
Of course it was.
Tasey had been "guarding" me again.
Sending people into my territory like it was his.
Like I was some fragile asset he needed to keep on a leash.
Ten's eyes flicked once toward the sleeping bodies, entertained.
"He still doing that?" Ten asked. "Vetting everyone. Acting like he's the door to the world."
I poured my own drink.
"I run a bar," I said. "Not a battlefield."
Ten's gaze slid over me.
"You run a bar in a district that eats soft men alive," he replied. "That's a battlefield."
I hated that he wasn't wrong.
Ten leaned back, casual.
"I swear," he continued, "he sends all his unruly brats to Grim because Grim won't break them."
His smile widened.
"Spoil the rod," he quoted, voice smooth, "and the child rots."
I set my glass down harder than I meant to.
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Of course I am," Ten said, like it was obvious. "Tasey thinks control is love."
He gestured lazily around my quiet, sleeping room.
"So I show him what control looks like when it's real."
My jaw tightened.
"Why now?" I asked.
Ten's eyes shifted—just slightly.
Not to me.
To the window.
To the street beyond.
To the invisible line of presences I couldn't see, but could feel.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ten smiled like he'd heard the same knock I hadn't.
"Because someone else started moving," he said softly. "And when old names start walking again…"
He tapped his glass once.
"…the children don't get to pretend they're just kids."
I felt my throat go dry.
"Who's moving?" I asked.
Ten's grin turned sharper.
"The kind of person who knocks politely," he said, "right before they burn your house down."
And somewhere deep in the city, I swear I felt it—
A pressure.
A timing.
Like the world itself had just taken a breath.
Ten raised his glass again, eyes amused.
"To family," he said.
I didn't clink mine.
Because in my family, a toast like that was never a blessing.
It was a warning.