Requiem for a Circus - Act I

Initial Revision of Act I of Requiem for a Circus, Book 3 in the Blessed Series.

Prologue - Blessed Fate

High atop the Mountain of Fates, at the center of the temple plaza, stood a great bronze brazier. Within it burned the Arcane Fire—green and blue, wild and defiant, refusing to bow even to the wind. It danced like something half-feral… too proud to kneel, too angry to die, too wild to be controlled.

Some came seeking power. Others, absolution.

A few arrived broken—offering only their ruin—and prayed the fire would understand.

Most resolved to ash.

But the rare few who emerged—the Blessed—never spoke of what transpired within. Whatever they endured belonged to the flame alone.

A figure stood at the edge of the plaza, poised on the final step.

She was small. Trembling. Pitiful.

Hair matted with dirt. Clothes soaked in blood.

Her face, smudged with ash and grief, was streaked with salt—as if even her tears had burned a path through the wreckage.

This is it, she thought. This is how it ends. Or begins.

She had no memory of climbing the stairs.

No memory of the screams, or the bodies she left behind.

Only the fire before her—an impossible, churning green flame.

An acolyte watched from the temple’s edge, silent and still.

There was only the flame now.

And somewhere inside her—a broken, furious shard still clinging to life—something whispered:

Let it try her. Let it test her. Let it burn.

Let it find what remained of the girl she’d been—and decide if she was worth saving.

Then her feet moved of their own accord. Driven by a fate she hadn’t chosen… and finally, embracing one she had.

But in the hollow of her heart, she already knew:

The flame would not consume her.

It would bless her.

---

When Alise touched the Arcane Fire, the world vanished in a flash of impossible color.

There was no pain. Only heat—searing and sublime. It rushed through her like a flood, unmaking and remaking her in the same breath. Her scream never made it past her lips. Her body never hit the ground.

She simply ceased.

And then—

She was somewhere else.

The sky was not a sky. The ground, not ground. She floated on the edge of meaning itself, suspended in a place where thought and memory bled together. Wisps of mist coiled around her limbs, tasting her skin, retreating when they found her touched by flame.

The fire had not left her. It pulsed beneath her skin—green and blue, steady and alive.

She stepped forward—or thought she did—and the mist parted.

A throne emerged from the gloom. No, not a throne—a monument. Carved from something older than stone, it rose in sharp, geometric lines, silent and absolute. Upon it sat a figure vast enough to command silence, yet silent enough to terrify.

He leaned forward, resting a hand on one knee. His eyes were not merely blue—they were truth, honed into blades.

She recognized him without knowing how.

“Seris.”

The name rose unbidden, like a secret remembered in a dream.

His voice rolled through the stillness—velvet and thunder. “You are mine.”

Her spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“I shaped you. I’ve walked with you every step. You are the Fates’ promise—to me.”

Alise’s fingers curled into fists. “I’m no one’s promise.”

He smiled—not mocking, but almost… proud. “There she is.”

She began to pace a slow circle around the base of the throne. "So is this divine kidnapping? Or a cosmic mansplaining session?"

"You sought the Fire. The fire brought you to me."

“I sought to know if I mattered. If there was anything in me worth saving.”

Seris spoke again, his voice lower now—almost reverent.

“I’ve waited a long time for you, my daughter of the flame. And here you are—not yet saved, but worthy.”

She glared up at him. "So what now? You test me? Judge me? Chain me?"

"No chains. Only truth and a binding. The binding must be mutual. No tricks. No lies. Only… alignment." He paused, studying her. "I will need to convince you."

She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerously like seduction."

"It is. But not of the body."

He rose. The movement rippled the space around them, the mist bending to his will. He stepped down from the throne until he stood before her—not towering, not looming. Just present.

“Do you love him?”

The question stole her breath.

“What?”

“Do. You. Love. Him?”

Her voice came low, hollow. “Melio is dead. So what difference does it make who I love?”

“Not him,” Seris said.

Alise felt confused. If not Melio, then he must mean—

The flame surged behind her ribs. Her breath caught, and suddenly the heat was unbearable. It licked up her spine, coiled around her heart, flared beneath her skin like truth trying to claw its way out.

A memory surfaced—unbidden, sharp.

A boy with dust on his cheeks and mischief in his eyes. Holding a stolen apple beneath a sun-bleached arch. Smiling at her like she’d always belonged to him.

Not Melio.

Jack.

The name struck her—not from thought, but from somewhere older. Somewhere truer.

It filled her mouth before she could stop it.

Her knees faltered. She staggered, catching herself with one hand on the mist-slick ground, refusing to fall.

“Jack…” she breathed, her voice trembling, raw.

Seris gave a single nod. Not triumphant—solemn. Like someone honoring a secret that had just spoken itself aloud.

She clenched her jaw. “That’s none of your business.”

He smiled. “It is precisely my business.”

And with a low, almost affectionate chuckle, he added, “Though I believe you’ve already answered my question.”

Her glare snapped up, sharp and defensive. She hadn’t meant to say Jack’s name. Hadn’t meant to feel what she felt. The flame had drawn it out—dragged it into the light before she could armor herself against it.

Her heart pounded. Not from longing, but from exposure. As if he’d peeled her open and shown her something she wasn’t ready to admit—not even to herself.

A flush rose to her cheeks—part fury, part guilt.

She hated that he saw it.

“Why?” she snapped, the word harsher than she intended.

“Because if you’re bound to me,” Seris said. “And he—”

His expression shifted—something softer threading beneath the divine austerity in his eyes.

“You’re jealous,” she said. “Of a mortal.”

A pause.

“I’m not jealous,” Seris replied, voice level. “I’m concerned. He is more important than he realizes. And the world… it’s already cracking.”

Alise narrowed her eyes. “Cracking how?”

Seris turned slightly, gaze drifting to something only he could see. “Prophecies unravel. Timelines collapse. The veils grow thin, and the false gods stir. There’s a storm coming, Alise. And Jack will be standing at the center—holding both the match and the wick.”

She folded her arms. “So he’s going to end the world?”

“No. But he might have the chance to stop it.”

Silence stretched between them. The fire stirred in the mist, casting uneasy shadows.

His tone thickened, a thread of something fragile woven in.

“He needs someone wild. Someone unafraid. Someone who would burn the world to protect what they love.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with fury. Ache. Understanding.

“I won’t be your puppet,” she said quietly.

“Your choices are yours,” Seris said. “I ask very little in return.”

“Oh yeah?” She folded her arms. “So what do you want from me?”

Seris paused, as if weighing how much truth he could offer.

“Children.”

Alise blinked, thrown off balance. She wasn’t angry—not yet. Just… deeply unsettled.

“You want me to have your babies?”

“Not mine,” Seris said softly. “Jack’s. Yours.”

She stared at him, eyes narrowing.

“You want—wait. Jack? Why him?”

Seris didn’t answer. He only watched her—unblinking, still, like he was waiting for the truth to bloom.

“I’m your chosen daughter?” she asked.

Seris nodded once. “You are.”

“And Jack?” Her voice was tight. “Is he chosen too?”

A pause. Then—

“No,” Seris said. “Jack is mine.”

The words hit like a stone in still water. Rippling outward. Reshaping everything.

Alise staggered back a step.

“Oh gods,” she whispered.

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she stumbled back a step, eyes darting through the formless fog.

“Make something for me to sit on. I need to sit down.”

“What?”

“Something to sit on. A rock. A chair. A fucking mushroom, I don’t care. You’re a god, right? Snap your fingers or grunt or whatever it is you do—just give me something solid.”

Seris rolled his eyes and raised a finger. The ground rippled. A slab of stone pushed upward, reshaping itself into a crude bench.

“Thank you,” she muttered, collapsing onto it.

She looked up at him. “You’re his father.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m your daughter? And he’s your son? How does that work? Is celestial incest just… fine? Something you sweep under the rug? Don’t mention at parties?”

Seris smiled—broad and amused. The girl, at least, was entertaining.

“You are not my daughter in the conventional sense.”

“And Jack?”

“The result of a… natural act. With a human woman.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it works,” she muttered. “Birds, bees, interdimensional demon seed—whatever.”

She dragged her hands down her face. “So I’m not your daughter-daughter, so this whole thing isn’t as creepy as it sounds?”

Seris shrugged. “Creepy is relative.”

“And now you want me to have Jack’s children—your grandchildren?”

“Yes. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She threw up her hands. “Nice? You basically want me to enter into some divine breeding contract where I get pregnant and pop out a few demigod babies?”

“That is one interpretation.”

She blinked. “Oh good. What are the others? Sacred vessel? Cosmic baby oven? The mother of fate’s apocalypse triplets?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I had hoped for two.”

Alise groaned and tilted her head back. “Unbelievable. I touch one magic fire and suddenly I’m booked for divine maternity leave.”

“You did walk willingly into the Flame.”

“I was sad! People were dead! I didn’t think the Flame came with a fertility clause!”

“It could be worse.”

“Really? How—wait, don’t answer that.”

She threw up her hands.

“What’s in it for me, huh? Besides spending years fat and hormonal, leaking from every orifice, and eventually winding up with boobs that wobble like half-filled water balloons?”

She pulled a face—somewhere between pout and heartbreak. “I just got these. And I love them…” she whined.

Seris tilted his head. “It would be deeply inappropriate for me to comment on your breasts.”

A pause.

“But I am aware they’re… objectively awesome. Even if there are only two.”

Alise stared at him. “Gods. You are Jack’s father.”

He shrugged. “As for what you get out of this—that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Alise narrowed her eyes. “No, it’s really not.”

“You get Jack.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her head tilted side to side in a slow, skeptical wobble, like she was mentally turning over a half-burnt piece of toast and trying to decide just how hungry she really was.

“Mm,” she said. “Tempting. Definitely up there with free cake and minor head trauma.”

Seris stepped closer, just enough to cast a shadow. “Legacy. Power. A place in the story that outlives you.”

She scoffed. “I already have a place in the story. I got branded with your cosmic matchmaker stamp and yeeted into this melodramatic dumpster fire of fate—that’s my place.”

“Indeed,” he said, unbothered. “But this would make it permanent. Tangible. Yours.”

She stared at him. “You’re pitching pregnancy like it’s a monument.”

“I’m offering you the one thing mortals rarely get: the ability to shape the future—not just live in it.”

Alise let out a long breath. “You know, for a god, you’re really into making this sound like a pyramid scheme.”

“If the pyramid holds, does it matter?”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Wait. That’s you.”

He smiled, utterly pleased with himself. “Technically, I’m a demon.”

“Technically, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet… you’re still listening.”

She let out a groan, half-whimper, half-frustrated sigh. This was too much.

“Why? Why me?”

“I chose you because you’re dangerous. Because you believe in something. Because you don’t break.”

“Not exactly romantic,” she muttered.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” His voice lowered, almost gentle. “But you love him. Jack. And he’s going to need that.”

"You think he'll go along with this?"

"I think he already has. In his heart. The rest will follow."

She turned away, thinking, then back to him. "And if I say no?"

"Then the flame fades. Your path dies here."

"No pressure, then."

"None at all. Only fate."

"So there is a plan," she said, eyes narrowing. "A destination. A shape to all this."

"There is always an outcome," Seris said. "But the path to it… that's yours to walk."

She sighed. "Okay. Fine. You want me to carry Jack's apocalypse babies and think I'm the right woman for the job. Cool. Anything else I should know?"

Seris tilted his head.

"There may be… a complication."

She stiffened. "What kind of complication?"

"Nothing insurmountable. With a little determination—and your usual charm—it should be manageable."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I'm not here to answer all your questions. Only to prepare you."

"For what, exactly?"

He glanced into the mist, as if seeing a horizon she could not.

"He's not alone."

Alise blinked. "What does that mean? Is he married?"

"No. Not in any traditional sense."

"Then he's with someone?"

"There is another. Someone who is more than she seems."

"Oh wonderful. And what's the expected outcome, oh cryptic one?"

"You. Him. A choice. And a storm."

"If you really knew me, you'd know I hate riddles."

"I do know you," Seris said softly. "But if I simply told you everything, you might try to change it."

"Isn't that the point of free will?"

"It is. But the Fates enjoy irony. So do I."

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “So let me guess—Jack’s with some mysterious, moody goddess-girl who’s impossible to compete with. The kind who floats around being all unknowable and tragic and ancient or whatever. Meanwhile I show up looking like an idiot—with fire in my blood and a uterus full of prophecy.”

Seris didn't answer.

"Oh gods. That's exactly what's happening, isn't it?"

"I said it was manageable."

She stared at him. "You are the worst father-in-law."

"I've been called worse."

She slumped back onto the bench, muttering. "This is gonna be a nightmare."

Seris nodded. "Most things worth doing are."

Chapter 2 - Farmore House

Jack walked alone, tracing the southern rim of the great western desert before turning south, toward Cabal.

Home—but not home.

Two months gone, and it felt like a lifetime. This wasn't a hero's return. Not even a happy one. Just necessary.

His soul had shattered in the void. When it came back together, it took liberties. Not everything returned. Some memories were gone. Others surfaced—early ones, strange ones, things buried so deep they didn't feel like his.

Now they haunted him, dragging him back to where it all started.

He passed through the days like smoke—shapeless, silent, ungrasped. Walking. Thinking. Directionless. When the coast rose to meet him, he avoided towns and villages. As the city neared, he cut into the woods, staying off the roads, out of sight.

He approached Cabal from the east.

The hovels. The filth. The part of the city that had shaped him.

The Farmore district.

So named, as the bitter joke went, because you were far more likely to die there than to leave.

---

Nightfall. Cabal lay ahead, a silhouette of slanted rooftops and rising smoke. The city's glow barely cut through the haze. Jack stayed invisible—a shadow in the shadows—until the city swallowed him.

Nothing had changed. The stench of brine and smoke still clung to the alleys, thick with rot and coal ash. Rusted rails lined the canals. Stray dogs growled from under stairs. The houses leaned like drunks, their glassless windows like missing teeth, and their sagging doorways hung with old sheets.

He wanted nothing from this place but to be left alone.

No crowds. No greetings. No old haunts.

He turned down a narrow lane hemmed by crumbling stone, weeds sprouting thick in the cracks.

At the far end, it loomed—three stories tall. A patchwork of boarded windows. The roof sagged beneath its own weight. Dark. Silent.

A rotted sign hung from rusted chains: Farmore House – Boarders Welcome.

He circled to the back, into what used to be a garden. Found the loose stone beneath the bench. The key was still there. He took it out of habit—he didn't need it.

The lock yielded with a whisper, and he slipped inside.

The kitchen greeted him with the smell of stale grease and boiled cabbage—always the same, only quieter.

He moved through the dark by memory. Down the hall. Left at the pantry. Past the crooked grandfather clock. Toward the stairs.

He stopped in the hallway, listening to the old bones of the house groan around him. A breath caught in his throat. Then—

"Look who's back."

The voice came from the dark. Dry. Smoke-worn. Sounding older than the man behind it.

Jack turned.

Elijah Black sat in the threadbare armchair that hadn't moved in twenty years. One hand rested on the armrest, the other curled around a chipped mug.

A spark flared. First came the lamp, then three short puffs to light the pipe.

The smoke curled upward as his pale eyes caught the light. Nose sharp. Brows wild. The bitter, cloying scent of burning weed filled the air.

Jack wrinkled his nose. "Elijah."

"Thought I heard you come in."

A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with old ghosts.

"You here for a bed?" Elijah asked. "Or just haunting the place?"

Jack hesitated. "The first. Maybe both."

Then the sharp tang hit him—spirits. Strong.

Elijah had been drinking.

"Well," the old man said, "if you're here to haunt it, someone beat you to it."

Jack stepped off the stairs and dropped into the waiting chair across from him.

Elijah looked smaller than Jack remembered. Skin drawn tight over bone. Shirt thin and clean, but weary. Like everything else.

"The house looks worse," Jack said.

"So do I," Elijah replied. "But we're both still here."

He sipped from his mug. "You want the Farmore suite?"

Jack nodded.

He watched the old man's fingers tighten around the bottle. Watched the way he stared into the cup as if it might explain something the world never had.

Elijah raised the cup.

"It's come to this, Jack. It's all I've got left."

Jack didn't argue. He probably wasn't wrong.

Elijah poured another drink. Pushed it across the table.

Jack looked at it for a long moment, then took it. Drank it straight.

The taste hit like rust—bitter, sour, and lingering. He winced and settled deeper into the chair.

"For the record," Jack said, "I'm not back. I only need a place to lay low for a few days. I need time to figure some things out."

Elijah grunted. "What happened to adventure? Glory? All that horseshit?"

Jack gestured at the peeling wallpaper and cracked floors. "This is the glory. The adventure brought me back here. To the start."

Silence fell again. Familiar. Comfortable, in a bleak sort of way.

Elijah tapped the bottle. Jack nodded.

This time, a double.

He sipped it slower.

"There've been whispers," Elijah said, eyes sharp over the rim of his cup. "Jack of Cabal. Took down a Dark Witch, or so they say."

Jack grunted. "You'd think I'd remember something like that."

The lie sat heavy between them.

Elijah squinted at him. Knew better. Knew enough not to push.

"Yeah," he said. "Must be some other Jack of Cabal."

"Must be."

Jack set his cup down. "Look, Elijah. Jack's not here. Jack didn't show up in the middle of the night. He's not staying in the Farmore suite."

Elijah cocked an eyebrow. "Running from something? Someone?"

Jack considered it. "No. Running toward something. But I haven't figured out what yet."

Elijah leaned back, smoke curling from his lips. "Well. I'll keep your secret. But you'd best stay off the streets. You've got a pretty face. Lotta friends. More enemies."

Jack gave a humorless huff. "I can be a ghost when I need to."

Elijah raised his cup. "That you can."

"So… the Farmore suite, then?"

Jack nodded and stood.

Elijah studied him. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

With a grunt, the old man waved toward the stairs. "If it lets you in, it's yours."

That stopped Jack. "If?"

Elijah's expression darkened. He sank a little deeper into his chair.

"Yeah. If. Far as I can tell… she's pretty territorial."

---

Jack headed up the stairs, leaving Elijah to his grief.

The drinking explained the rasp in his voice and the edge to his words. The old man wasn't mourning something—he was mourning everything.

Jack moved through the dark without hesitation. He no longer needed the orb. Maya's night vision spell flowed easily now, and the world unfolded in gradients of blue and gray, each line sharp and silent.

The closed door of the Farmore Suite stood at the end of the hall.

He reached for the handle. It turned without resistance.

The room was quiet, but felt lived-in.

Dust curled in the corners, and a few things lay scattered across the space: small, mismatched shoes beneath the dresser, a lone cup on the table. The bed was made—or had been. The blanket sagged, as if someone had slipped out without fixing it.

Jack brushed off Elijah's warning. Cryptic, half-drunk, half-raving. If there had been a real threat, the old man wouldn't have been so vague.

Farmore House had always taken in odd souls—people who needed somewhere to disappear. A little shelter. A little dignity. A makeshift family.

Most were misfits. But none were dangerous.

Merri wouldn't have allowed it. And Elijah always had her back, ready to toss anyone out at her word.

Still… Jack’s eyes kept drifting back to the shoes. Small. Child-sized. Perhaps they belonged to a particularly small woman. Perhaps something stranger. After everything he’d seen, it didn’t seem impossible.

He took his time unpacking, methodically taking inventory of his meager possessions.

A few shirts. Spare trousers. A surprisingly clean robe from the abbey. A worn waterskin.

A demon fang. His stomach twisted. He left it in the bag.

The very thought of demons still made him queasy.

Provisions: leathery lizard jerky and a crumbling heel of Demana bread—dense, dark, and sweet with molasses.

At the bottom, a few stray pieces of candy from the Sanctuary. Soft. Sticky. Honey-sweet.

He'd forgotten they were there.

They were Kleo's.

A sharp, sudden pang of loneliness rose within him. He pushed it down.

He set them beside the bread.

He'd save them for her.

He checked his person, then slid the sacred Woog blade beneath his pillow. Within reach. Just in case.

Then came the bag of coins Kleo had left him.

Astirian gold. A lot of it. Enough to make him, on paper, the richest man in Cabal. Useless without exchanging it for smaller coin. Dangerous to even carry.

He knew the weight of that kind of wealth. It painted targets. In Farmore, even silver could get you killed. Gold? Unheard of.

He'd need to hide it.

He knew every crevice in this place—loose floorboards, cracked walls, hollow stairs. He'd find a spot. Somewhere unlikely. But not here. Not in the suite. Too obvious. First place anyone would look.

For now, he tied the pouch shut again and tucked it back into his bag. He’d move it in the morning—behind the old hearth on the first floor, or in the crawlspace above the pantry.

Someplace only a ghost could find.

Finally, he withdrew the folded parchment. He laid it flat on the table and smoothed the creases.

Thespis's drawing of Kleo's tattoo. Symbols and lines twisted through the page like a riddle.

Somewhere in its strange geometry lay the key.

Ke'moto had promised it.

The key to what came next. To his origin. To the place waiting at the edge of his memory.

The Well of Darkness.

Chapter 3 - Little Thief

Jack slept hard, but the creak of the door was enough.

One eye opened. He didn't move.

"Go away," he muttered, voice dry. "I'm trying to sleep."

A click. A shuffle. A whisper of fabric.

He sat up. Nothing there. But something had moved back down the hall. Quick. Barefoot.

He waited, listening.

He lay back down with a sigh, pulling the blanket to his chest.

The door creaked again.

Wider this time.

Just enough space for someone to slip through.

He turned his head. Nothing.

The room was still, shadow-washed in the soft blue of night vision.

He closed his eyes. Counted backward from ten.

Then—movement. To his left. Low to the ground. A form under the table?

He exhaled. Threw off the blanket.

"I swear—"

He swung his legs out of bed.

Whoosh. A rush of air as something darted out.

Light footsteps down the hall. Bare. Fast.

A child's giggle. Giddy. Gleeful.

Then silence.

Jack blinked, frowning.

He was not in the mood.

"Godsdammit."

He muttered the incantation. The orb flared to life, flooding the room in pale light.

He stared at the table.

The bread was gone.

"So that's how it is," he muttered. "You little thief."

He leaned forward without thinking, a flicker of color catching his attention.

Something lay beneath the table, half in shadow. He reached for it.

A teddy bear. Torn and threadbare. One eye missing, the other dangling by a loose stitch. Dark scars—ink or ash—marked its side. A thick patch had been sewn across the belly in clumsy, uneven stitches.

He turned it in his hands. "What the…"

Skittering.

Quick and uneven, coming back.

The door flew open, slamming into the wall with a crack.

She stood in the doorway.

Small—no more than ten or eleven. Barefoot. Wild hair. Filthy clothes. Her face pale, too pale, eyes sunken into shadow.

She was panting. Unblinking.

Then her jaw—

It shifted.

Hinges that weren't meant to move cracked wide. Her mouth stretched impossibly far, splitting open to reveal row upon row of teeth—too many, too long.

Her eyes became black pools. Endless. Wounded.

She didn't speak.

She wailed.

The sound clawed at the edges of speech. Mournful. Terrible. And deep within it, tangled in the cry, Jack heard a word: "Miiiine!"

Jack stared, not even breathing.

"Okay," he said quietly.

He placed the teddy bear at the foot of the bed and stood with open hands, non-threatening.

He stepped back toward the window.

She didn't move.

The distortion in her face had faded, the fangs and maw gone—but her eyes remained abyssal. Still watching. She crouched like a feral thing, coiled and trembling. Her gaze flicked between him and the bear, measuring distance, weighing risk.

She stepped forward. Stopped.

Her face twisted again. Jaw unhinging, teeth flashing. Darkness seeping out.

She raised a shaking hand.

"STAAAAYY!"

The sound was deep. Afraid.

Then she bolted—rushed forward, snatched the bear, and vanished down the hallway.

Her footsteps thundered across the floorboards. A door slammed.

Jack crossed to the doorway and peered down the hall.

Empty.

He closed the door. Leaned against it, heart still racing.

"Fuck me," he muttered.

Still half-stunned, he tried to settle himself—attuned to any sound, remaining wary.

His eyes drifted to the table—the candy—soft, sticky, honey-sweet.

Then he had an idea.

She was scared. Alone. He knew what that felt like—being the one on the floor, with nothing but teeth to keep the world away.

He picked up a piece and stepped into the hall.

No weapons. No light. Just the candy and the faint smell of mold, dust, and memory.

He walked slowly toward the far door. Cleared his throat. Then gave two soft knocks.

No answer, but he heard movement. Shuffling. She was in there. Hiding.

He pushed the door open.

She huddled in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow. She clutched the bear like a lifeline, her small arms wrapped tight around its broken body.

Jack raised a hand. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to…"

The words dried up.

What could he even say?

"Uh… do you want some candy?"

That sounded creepy.

He winced. "Shut up, Jack."

He gently tossed it toward her.

She flinched, pulling the bear tighter, but didn't move. She watched him with wide, hollow eyes—no longer black, only… empty.

The candy landed near her feet.

"They're good," Jack said. "My wife loves them."

Still no answer.

"Alright," he said, stepping back. "I'll leave you be."

He eased the door shut behind him and returned to the Farmore Suite, dropping into the chair.

His mind wouldn't stop.

The face, the teeth, the way she said mine—like an accusation and threat all at once.

That bear.

She clutched it as if it were the last anchor in her world.

Sleep finally crept in—fitful, slow.

Then, as his thoughts began to slip—

Desert honey.

His eyes snapped open.

"Oh gods," he whispered. "Did I drug a ten-year-old girl?"

---

Jack woke with a jolt, heart hammering.

Still dark.

He sat up, blinking. An hour? Two? The silence pressed in.

Then he heard it.

Low moaning.

A soft wail—somewhere between a sob and a breath. Uneven steps across wood. Then the unmistakable thump of a body tumbling down stairs.

"Damn it, Jack," he whispered. "What have you done?"

He leapt up, half-tripping over his boots, racing to the door.

Another crash echoed from below.

On the second-floor landing, mana surged through him, sharpening the world as his eyes drank in what little ambient light persisted.

The first floor was chaos. A chair overturned. A cup shattered. A picture frame lying face-down on the floor.

Elijah sat slumped in the armchair, snoring like the end of the world. Mouth open, chest rising and falling in thick, uneven wheezes.

Jack slipped past him, toward the back.

The door stood ajar, rocking gently in the breeze.

He stepped outside, barefoot on cold stone.

Beyond the stoop, through the weeds, a small, hunched figure wobbled toward the back gate. Moonlight touched her faintly. The bear dangled from one hand, trailing behind her.

Then, soft as breath: "Mommy…?"

Jack froze.

Again, fainter: "Mommy, where are you?"

The voice didn't fit. Too deep. Like it had been dragged up from somewhere far below.

She stumbled, collapsing against the gate.

Jack stepped down into the weeds, heart thudding.

She didn't turn.

The wind stirred the vines. The gate creaked on its hinges.

He moved closer. The bear sagged from her grip, its head dragging across the stones.

"Mommy... I... I found him," she whispered.

Then, into the shadows of the alley, she was gone.

Jack stood frozen at the gate, one foot in the alley, the other still in the garden.

And for the first time in a long time... he didn't know what to do.

Chapter 4 - Glare

Morning came slow and gray.

Jack sat up, neck stiff, sleep half-clinging to him like fog. He couldn't place where he was for a moment—then he remembered.

Cabal. The Farmore Suite. And the girl, her voice echoing through the weeds.

He was on his feet in seconds, pulling on his boots, moving fast and quiet down the hall.

The door at the end was ajar.

He pushed it open.

Empty.

No girl. No bear. Only dust and silence.

Downstairs, he heard a cough—wet, scraping—and the clink of glass. Elijah was awake.

The old man sat slumped in the same chair, his eyes bloodshot, a blanket draped across his knees. A bottle rested on the side table, a cup clutched in his trembling hand.

He caught sight of Jack and offered a thin smile. "So," he rasped, "you met our guest?"

Jack laughed once. Hollow.

They sat in the old lobby, now transformed into a living room. The original furniture stood frozen in time.

Dust blanketed everything, and the filthy windows filtered daylight like gauze.

Through the grimy panes, Jack could just make out people on the street, hunched against the wind as they went about their day.

He placed three coins on the table.

Gold. Astirian. A Demana crest on the back—a stylized flame. A man's face on the front.

Jack assumed it was Markus Leness, though he couldn't be certain.

He had never met Markus.

Only his brother, Barto.

If he squinted just right, he could see the family resemblance.

Elijah stared at the coins as if they were venomous serpents.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with those?"

Jack frowned.

Elijah picked one up, turning it over in his fingers. "They're gold, Jack. Gold. Nobody in Farmore sees gold. Hell, you might get your throat cut for carrying silver."

Jack shrugged. "It's what I've got."

"I was joking when I said you'd be rich someday," Elijah said. "Seems the joke's on me."

Jack didn't reply. He didn't feel rich, yet the truth was undeniable—he carried more wealth than most here would see in a thousand lifetimes.

"If these are for me," Elijah said, "I suppose you own the place now."

"What?"

"Jack of Cabal—business owner."

"No."

Elijah leaned back, his face unreadable. "I'm not going to be here much longer, Jack. I have no children."

Elijah hesitated.

"She loved you, you know."

Jack's mouth tightened. "I know."

"It's what she would have wanted."

Jack nodded. "I know."

Elijah's eyes drifted toward the grimy window, his expression wistful.

Jack felt the weight in Elijah's voice, the ache behind it.

"She used to sit there," Elijah said softly. "Right there, around suppertime. Watching. Waiting. Hoping."

Jack's memory stirred.

Hard days. Lean days. Alone on the streets, young and bitter, scrounging what he could. The boarding house always tempted him, but pride kept him from knocking most nights—though not all.

"All she wanted was to feed you," Elijah said. "Give you a warm meal. A soft bed if you wanted it."

Jack swallowed, the words catching in his throat.

"Merri was a good cook."

Elijah nodded, his gaze distant. "Yes, she was."

Elijah paused, his eyes still fixed on the window as his thoughts drifted back to the coins.

"We'll need to break these," he said finally. "Won't be easy. No proper money handler will deal with someone from Farmore carrying gold."

"Raphor Stills?" Jack offered.

Elijah grimaced. "Unpleasant. But necessary."

"I'll handle it."

Elijah gave him a dry look. "He doesn't like you much. Neither did his father."

At the mention of the dead man, he made a small gesture—two fingers traced from brow to chest—a sign for the dead from the old ways.

"Besides," he added, eyes narrowing, "your presence in Cabal won't stay secret for long after that."

Jack said nothing.

He already knew.

Then the back door creaked open.

Jack and Elijah both turned, their eyes meeting across the silence.

Footsteps. Small. Faint. Scampering.

She appeared at the edge of the hall, standing in the kitchen's shadow. Bare feet. Wild hair. Clutching the bear tight against her chest.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs.

Glared.

Mostly at Jack.

Then, without a word, she turned and raced up the stairs—light, hurried steps echoing all the way to the third floor.

A door closed. Firm. Not slammed. Claimed.

Elijah smirked, leaning back with a wheeze of amusement. "I think she took her room back."

Chapter 5 - Following Jack

The late sun cast thin gold lines across the chamber floor. From the high walls of the Sanctuary, the desert sprawled out like an endless ocean of shifting sands.

They stood in a loose circle: Lilith, Rugr, Dungr, Gaineth, Margo, and Thespis. The air held the sharp weight of decisions not yet spoken aloud.

"The Sa Kamal will not invade," Gaineth said, voice as stern as the lines carved deep into his weathered face. "But they'll test us. Probing. Waiting for permission that will never come."

"It should never come," Dungr growled. "The Dark Lords are not sanctioned to operate on this world. It is forbidden."

Margo's expression was unreadable. "They have never honored the spirit of such things."

Silence followed.

Then Lilith's soft voice cut through. "Regardless, the Sanctuary must prepare. Defenses, provisions, and watchers in every quarter. The Sa Kamal are not their only weapon. They have quiet allies here."

Dungr's jaw tightened. "The Gray Lord."

Lilith inclined her head. "Yes. And only three or four days west. Yet, I expect The Sign will remain vigilant. Nothing will cross the open desert unseen by her."

Dungr said nothing. Sela's transformation unnerved him still.

"We will run patrols anyway," he muttered.

Lilith gave a soft nod. "Yes, Commander. Make it so. Even if it is not yet war, the game has begun."

Thespis shifted his weight, unsure if he should speak up.

Lilith's gaze found him. "Speak, Thespis."

He hesitated, knuckles whitening against his belt. "I've chosen to remain with Rugr for training. My father agrees. I'm at your service... but I can't shake the feeling I should have followed Jack."

Lilith's expression softened for a breath. "I know."

She let the words hang before turning to Rugr. "You're needed here, Rugr. Jack of Cabal will manage. Let him wander, heal, and find his footing. You know better than anyone he needs time."

Dungr snorted. "With that one, time and idle hands spell trouble."

The corners of Lilith's mouth curved faintly. "He does have a way of stumbling into things."

Rugr met her eyes, his silence eloquent enough to need no words.

"If that is all, I have preparations," Lilith said. With a graceful turn, she slipped into the shadows beyond the doorway, Gaineth trailing behind.

A long beat.

Thespis exhaled hard and muttered, "Do you get the feeling she doesn't want me to follow Jack?"

Rugr and Dungr shared a knowing look.

"You're worried about him?" Rugr asked.

Thespis stared out the window at the endless, empty horizon. "I'm worried I'll die of old age. Everyone else has a role. Sela became something I don't even recognize. Kleo is becoming, whatever that means. Jack became Jack. Even you—" his voice softened "—even you have importance to them. I'm still standing here waiting to be told what I'm for."

Dungr chuckled. "We could throw you into the dunes and let you herd lizards."

Thespis cracked a thin smile. "Only if I can keep running until I reach Cabal."

Rugr remained serious, despite Dungr's attempt to lighten the mood.

"That's the problem, Thespis—you're waiting to be told. It's your life, your path. You can either choose for yourself or let others choose for you."

Thespis nodded in understanding, but the look on his face did not reflect that of someone confident in making his own choices.

Rugr's expression softened. "After Lilith spoke… how did you feel?"

Thespis frowned. "She spoke to you. You're needed. Now I feel even less useful. Like I should leave tonight.”

Rugr tilted his head. "And if she'd said, We truly need you here, Thespis. But someday, you can leave to go find Jack…?"

Thespis blinked, considering. "I'd have stayed. I'd feel less urgency."

"But she didn't."

Thespis scowled. "So she wants me to go?"

Rugr nodded. "Yes."

Thespis rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. "Why not just say it? Why all the games?"

Dungr laughed. "How many times have I asked that same question?"

Margo laid a hand gently on Thespis's arm. "Lilith guides the pieces but needs them to move of their own will."

Thespis sighed. "Okay... so she wants me to follow Jack. But why?"

Margo's gaze darkened. "That is the perfect question."

Thespis looked at her hopefully. "Do you know the answer?"

Margo shrugged. "I suspect she either wants you to keep an eye on Jack... or to keep you and Jack as far from here as possible. Which? I cannot even guess. But I would ask myself: What would Kleo do?"

Thespis knew the answer to that question.

"So, I guess she either wants me to help him do something really stupid—or stop him from doing it."

Dungr nodded. "Now you're getting it."

Thespis turned to Rugr. "So… we're going?"

Rugr nodded. "Damn right we are. Tonight."

Thespis hesitated. "You're worried about Jack?"

"Oh… yes. Deeply concerned." Rugr's tone was bone dry.

Thespis narrowed his eyes. "Uh-huh."

He folded his arms. "Does this have anything to do with a certain tall blonde woman? Green eyes? What was her name again... Deidra?"

"Dreya."

Thespis grinned. "Isn’t she a little young for you?"

Rugr gave him a flat stare. "Do you want to come or not?"

Thespis laughed. "Not sure I want the responsibility of keeping you both out of trouble."

"You focus on Jack. I'll handle myself."

Thespis arched an eyebrow. "Of course, but the real question is... can you handle Dreya?"

Dungr's rumbling laugh shook the room as he clapped Rugr on the back. "He's got you there."

Rugr sighed, shaking his head. "Just get your gear packed before I leave you behind."

Chapter 6 - Shoplifting

The air beneath Cabal was damp and rank.

Jack moved along the narrow walkway, boots splashing through shallow puddles. The reek of the sewers wrapped around him like a damp cloak. He passed a series of rusted doors—old storerooms for the shops above. Most were sealed. Forgotten.

He was making his way north toward Raphor Stills. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was a practical necessity. Still, the smell down here always reminded him of rot and bad decisions—a pungent warning for what he might be stepping into.

He walked past the door beneath Margaret's shop, then stopped.

He sighed. Turned back.

Maybe he was procrastinating, but his meeting with Raphor could wait.

The door groaned as he opened it. He whispered an incantation, and a pale orb bloomed into existence, casting soft light across a room filled with broken crates and scattered trash.

His eyes found the stairs tucked into the back corner.

Another sigh.

He climbed—steady and slow—and stopped at the top step. He pressed his ear to the door.

Muffled voices. Upstairs.

He cracked it open and slipped into the back hallway, crouched low.

The shop was small, its narrow aisles lined with mannequins and shelves. Bolts of faded fabric leaned against the far wall.

He moved between racks, careful to stay below the window's sightline.

His fingers brushed a dress.

White. Simple. A few stitched flowers on the sleeve—violet and blue.

It reminded him of Kleo.

His chest tightened—a sudden, rising ache—love, sharp and uninvited.

Not now.

He crushed it down and kept moving.

Knickers. Where were the damn knickers?

He found them. Shoved them under his arm with the dress.

A voice at the top of the stairs.

Then he saw them—red boots. Small. In the display window.

Perfect.

Socks. He'd need socks, too.

He moved fast, grabbing the boots as someone began descending the stairs.

He froze.

A voice called again—sharp, irritated.

Margaret paused on the steps. Answered.

Jack darted forward, snagging a fistful of socks from a bin as he slipped into the back hallway.

Then down the stairs into the basement.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

---

Elijah looked up as Jack came in the back door, arms full of clothes and a pair of red boots.

He raised an eyebrow. "You wear dresses now—Jack of Cabal?"

Jack didn't slow. "Funny."

"Margaret's place?"

"Yeah."

"I'll leave a few coins, then."

"I can cover it."

Elijah nodded, watching him settle the bundle on the table. "Well, you are a rich man now, eh?"

Jack shrugged. "After I see Raphor. Maybe. We'll see."

Jack climbed the stairs slowly, the bundle tucked under one arm. He eased the door open, careful not to wake her.

She lay curled beneath the blanket, teddy bear clutched tight to her chest, hair tangled across the pillow. Asleep. Peaceful, for now.

He stepped inside and crossed to the table.

The dress he laid out first—folded neatly, flowers facing up.

The boots came next. Red and scuffed. Socks stuffed inside.

Finally, he placed the knickers on top.

At the door, he paused and shook his head.

"For the goddess's sake," he muttered, "please put the knickers on."

Then he slipped out, closing the door gently behind him.

Chapter 7 - Breakage

The office reeked of boiled meat and stale smoke.

Jack stepped inside without knocking. The door clicked shut behind him, and he claimed the seat across from the desk uninvited.

Raphor Stills took his time looking up.

He was a heavy man, thick with sweat and authority, his shirt clinging damp to his back despite the breeze from the window. Rings adorned every finger. His eyes were like black buttons sunk too deep in dough.

When he finally looked at Jack, it was with the expression one might give a rat that had wandered into the pantry.

"Well, well," Raphor said. "If it isn't Jack of Cabal. Thought you were dead."

Jack didn't answer.

Across from him sat the son of Prager Stills—the old king of Cabal’s eastside, now buried but still whispered about. A ruthless womanizer and killer with a twisted code of honor. He’d fed half the orphans in Farmore while putting knives in the other half. But he’d never given Jack a thing.

Neither had Raphor.

They'd never liked Jack. He refused handouts, wouldn't fall in line. In Cabal, that kind of pride was dangerous—principle was nothing more than a form of disrespect.

Jack reached into his coat, pulled out one of the Astirian coins, and set it on the desk.

Raphor's eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Jack.

"That for me?"

"Break it," Jack said.

Raphor lifted the coin, studying it in the light. "Astirian gold. Rare."

A smirk twisted his face. "Only about eight of these in existence, far as I know. You earn it?"

"No."

"Stole it from someone who did?"

Jack's gaze remained steady. "It was a wedding gift."

Raphor raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I've heard the stories, you know. Jack the demon-killer. Jack the witch-slayer. Jack the lucky. You believe any of that horseshit?"

Jack shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Raphor stared, long and hard.

"No," he said finally. "Because gold's real. Gold doesn't lie."

Raphor huffed. "But this isn't mere gold, Jack. I could rip you off, but something tells me I wouldn't live to regret it."

He tossed the coin back across the desk.

“It’s a collector’s item. And if it’s genuine? Worth ten times its weight in gold. Maybe more.”

"I don't care about that," Jack said. "I need you to break it."

"Hmm. Tempting. Almost worth the trouble."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What trouble?"

"Authenticating it."

"Then melt it down."

"A simple solution," Raphor said, leaning back. "But five gold pieces for me, five for you? That's hard to walk away from."

"Four for you," Jack countered. "And no one needs to know I'm here."

Raphor smirked. "Running from something? Other than poverty?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Right now, the only thing I'm running from is this conversation."

He stood to leave.

"Sit down, boy."

Jack didn't sit. He crossed his arms and remained standing.

"The deal stays fifty-fifty," Raphor said. "I'll make the arrangements—we meet with the collector. Just the three of us. I'm certain your presence will be proof enough."

Jack bit his lip, then gave a single nod. "You breathe this to no one. Private meeting. In the open. Daylight."

Raphor gave a lazy nod. "And?"

"I'll need an advance," Jack said. "Half the value of the gold. Now."

Raphor paused, considering. "Where can I find you when it's time?"

"You don't," Jack said. "Put something red in your window when it's set."

Raphor chuckled. "Clandestine. I like it!"

He lumbered to the safe behind a painting—so cliché it hurt—and spun the dial with his thick fingers. He pulled out a small stack of silver and a tin of coppers.

Jack counted the coins, then turned to leave.

He stopped in the doorway. "I want you to break five."

Raphor's eyes widened. "Five? Of these?"

Jack nodded.

Raphor let out a raucous laugh—loud and phlegmy.

"Oh, Jack. You are my new best friend."

Jack grimaced and left, letting the door hang open behind him.

---

Jack returned to the Farmore House and tossed a pouch on the table.

"Coin?"

"Half-breakage. More later."

Elijah opened it, making a quick count. "So. What now?"

"You ever heard of the Temple of Arcane Fire?"

Elijah leaned back. "Yeah. There's one in the northwest quadrant. Along the coast."

"Hmm. Gray stone? Gardens?"

"That's the one."

Jack nodded.

He reached into the pouch and pulled out a mess of coppers and a few silvers.

"Pay for the clothes. Get some food. Don't blow it all on spirits."

Elijah snorted. "You're no fun."

"So I've been told."

Jack looked around.

"Also, find a contractor and ask if we need to tear this place down or just gut it."

Elijah blinked. "We're renovating?"

"We're deciding."

Jack turned toward the front windows. Still filthy.

He found a prominent location and raised his fingertip, carefully tracing a shape in the grime. The process was awkward—it had to be mirrored to appear correct from the street. He took his time, mapping each line, trying to visualize the symbol in reverse.

Elijah tilted his head. "What's that?"

Jack stepped back and studied it. Crooked, but recognizable.

"A sign," he said. "The right people will know."

"What does it mean?"

Jack stared at it for a beat—the stylized curve.

"Sanctuary."

Elijah looked at the mark again, and something in him softened. "Merri would approve."

Jack nodded. "I know."

---

Elijah pushed open the shop door. The bell above it gave a half-hearted jingle.

Margaret looked up from behind the counter, her eyes narrowing. "Elijah Black. Still alive, are you?"

He smiled. "For the moment."

"Hard to tell with you. For all I know, you’re just a ghost pretending to still be among us."

"You look well," he offered.

"You look like something that crawled out of an alley." She gave him a once-over, then smiled. "Still handsome, though."

He held up a small pouch and set it on the counter. "Just settling a debt."

She untied the pouch, counted the coins with practiced fingers, then paused—brows knitting as her lips curled in thought.

"So... Jack's back, I take it? Or will you try to tell me you snuck in and raided the children's section?"

Elijah cleared his throat. "Well... you see..."

He slid another couple of coppers across the counter. "Couldn't have been Jack. Haven't seen him in months."

He winked.

She pushed the coins back with a single finger.

He frowned.

"I suppose I could keep your little secret," she said, "if you took me to dinner."

His jaw shifted, unsure. Words failed him.

Don’t worry,” Margaret added, leaning in far enough to make him blink. “I promise not to reveal all the other secrets we make afterward.

Elijah's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Seven o'clock," she said, turning toward the back. "Don't be late."

Elijah left the shop, the door swinging shut behind him with the bell giving a last, soft jingle. He stumbled back into the street, dazed by what had just happened.

Chapter 8 - Temple Run

Jack crossed Cabal westward, moving deeper into the wealthier neighborhoods. Here, the shadows were cleaner, the alleys more like garden paths, and anonymity came easier.

His cowl hung low, boots soft on cobblestone, eyes flicking toward every rooftop and archway.

No one followed.

At first glance, the temple appeared modest—gray stone, elegant but restrained, surrounded by a low wall and an overgrown garden that once aspired to sacredness.

He approached at an easy pace, scouting the perimeter—one main entrance. No guards. Two acolyte lanterns flanked the doorway, their flames guttering weakly in the breeze. Otherwise, all was quiet.

Inside, the temple was darker. Warm. An overpowering scent of incense hung in the air.

The main chamber replicated the temple plaza on the Mountain of Fates, complete with a scaled-down version of the Brazier of Arcane Fire. This flame was artificial—fed by chemicals, colored glass, and incense—but someone had done their best. The green-blue flicker shimmered with earnest devotion, if not actual power.

A young woman knelt at the flame, robe loose and shoulders bare beneath the ceremonial wrap. Her eyes closed, her breath calm and measured.

Jack watched her for a moment.

She looked young. Seventeen, maybe. Perhaps not even.

Then she peeked—one eye cracked open.

Jack didn't move.

"Would you like to test your fate in the Arcane Fire?" she asked, trying to sound mysterious and ceremonial. But her voice wavered. She was clearly in training.

Jack shook his head. "Not my thing."

He stepped to the coffer, reached beneath his cloak, and let a single coin drop.

"Just an offering," he said.

Clink.

Astirian gold.

She watched it land.

"Was that gold?" she asked, sitting up straighter. "Are you, like... someone?"

Jack gave her a half-smile. "Nope."

Her eyes flicked up and down. She smiled back—coy, awkward, too bold. She played with her braid, letting it fall across her shoulder.

"My watch ends at seven," she said, voice low. "We could... hang out."

Jack laughed, masking a flicker of panic. “Sorry. I’ve got a kid to watch.”

Her brow furrowed. "You have a kid?"

"Yeah. My wife went through some space-time portal thing. Said she'd be back eventually. So, you know—kid duty until then."

She pouted. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe," Jack said, already walking. "But only if you're okay with my wife killing both of us when she gets back."

He gave a small wave over his shoulder and slipped through the door before she could respond.

The girl waited a beat, then crept to the coffer.

She opened the lid and gasped.

"Oh my goddess. It is a gold coin!"

She jumped to her feet, bouncing up and down. "I got a gold offering!"

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Two other acolytes appeared, breathless.

"What? That's impossible."

"No, he left it! Just now! This really hot guy in a cloak—"

That's when Alise entered—regal, measured, sharp.

Dreya followed a step behind.

The girls fell silent.

“What is this?” Dreya asked, eyes narrowing. “You’re supposed to be silent, observant. What if your Blessed arrives and you scare them off?”

The girl flinched. "But—he did!"

Alise stepped forward and took the coin from the box. Her eyes narrowed as she turned it over once, then again.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

“He came in. All super sexy and mysterious. Dropped the coin in the offering. He was tall, dangerous, and super cute. I tried to hook up—for the benefit of the temple—but he said his wife would kill us both. Then he left. Said he had to watch his kid or something.”

Alise showed Dreya the coin, their eyes meeting.

A pause.

Then, in perfect unison:

"Jack."

Dreya frowned. "Wait. So… she did receive a Blessed?"

Alise shrugged. "Technically."

Dreya turned on the girl. "And you just let him walk out the door?"

"I didn't know he was Blessed!" the girl said, hands up. "You told me to be quiet and respectful!"

Then it clicked, and the young acolyte stepped closer, emboldened. "So... I did receive my Blessed?"

Alise hesitated—just enough to give the girl hope.

"I mean, he came during my watch. He gave me the offering. He spoke to me. That counts, right?"

"No," Dreya said flatly.

"Yes," the girl grinned. "Totally."

She turned to the others. “I told you I’d get a Blessed. You all doubted me—but bam. Mine’s tall, mysterious, handsome… and apparently married to a time-traveling assassin.”

“I felt the moment,” she added, eyes gleaming. “There was a connection. I think he truly saw me.”

Alise sighed, rubbing her temple. "And did your Blessed happen to say where he was going?"

The girl thought for a second. "…No. Just that he had to go watch his kid."

Dreya blinked. "Jack doesn't have a kid, does he?"

Alise shrugged. "Who knows? It's Jack, remember?"

She pocketed the coin and looked at the girl.

“Congratulations,” Alise said, voice thin and strained. “You’re now spiritually entangled with the most hunted man in three kingdoms.”

The girl lit up.

“Cool! I’m joining his harem and having his babies.”

Alise swung.

Dreya caught her wrist—calm, firm.

“Easy, lover. Punching acolytes is bad form.”

Alise tore free, blinking hard.

He came here. Was right here.

And didn’t seek her out. Didn’t say her name.

Just left a coin like it meant something.

He should’ve swept her up in his arms. Held her. Told her he loved her.

She held the coin, trembling—tempted to hurl it into the garden.

But she didn’t.

Tears welled in her eyes.

You know what? Fuck Jack. And fuck Brittany too.

She turned and swept off, headed for her chamber.

For solace. For a good cry.

Dreya moved to follow—

but stopped. Let her go.

Brittany blinked. “What’s wrong? Is it me?”

Dreya looked at her, ready to say yes.

But her gaze softened.

“No, girl. It’s just… complicated.”

Chapter 9 - Watch Your Fingers

Jack slipped back through the rear door of Farmore House, his cloak damp from sea air and smelling of incense.

Elijah sat at the table, clean for once—beard trimmed, shirt pressed, boots wiped down and polished. He didn't smell like sweat or drink. He smelled... decent.

Lavender? Soap?

Jack stopped mid-step. Blinked. Stared.

Then his eyes fell to the table.

A large bundle of butcher's paper sat in the middle, slightly greasy.

"We're having ham?"

Elijah didn't look up. "No."

Jack frowned. "Okay."

He circled the table, eyes narrowing. The boots. The shirt. The not-awful scent.

"You bathed."

"No I didn't."

"You smell like soap."

"I spilled something."

"You're wearing your good shirt."

"I only have one."

"You tucked it in."

"I looked sloppy."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Margaret."

Elijah froze.

Jack grinned. "You have a date. With Margaret."

Elijah flushed scarlet. "It's not a—well—I didn't say yes, she just—look, she said dinner, not—"

Jack started laughing. "Oh gods. You're going to do a Dirty Dreya."

Elijah squinted. "What's a 'Dirty Dreya'?"

Jack grinned. He made a circle with one hand and slid a finger from the other through it. Slowly. Suggestively. Eyebrows dancing.

Elijah stood and took a swipe at him. "You're an idiot."

Jack ducked, retreating toward the stairs, still laughing.

"Wait!" Elijah called.

Jack paused two steps up.

Elijah picked up the ham—a thick, half-smoked hock wrapped in cloth and twine—and held it out like a loaded crossbow.

"Take this up with you. Leave it on the second-floor landing."

Jack blinked. "You're feeding her a whole ham?"

"She gets hungry."

Jack took the bundle, feeling its heft in his arms.

"And... watch your fingers," Elijah warned.

"Wait. What?"

"She'll smell it before you hit the second floor. Trust me. Put it down and back away."

Jack started up the stairs, slow and cautious. The old boards creaked beneath his feet. The dim hallway was lit only by a flickering spill of light from the entry below.

By the time he reached the second-floor landing, he heard it.

Sniffing.

Quick, sharp snorts. Wet.

Jack froze.

Something padded above him—footsteps slapping against old wood. Fast. Back and forth.

Low. Guttural. Not human. Too deep for a child. Hungry. A sound dredged from some dark animal memory.

Jack's stomach knotted.

He crept up the last step and set the bundle gently on the floor.

The sniffing stopped.

The padding stopped.

Silence.

Then—something rushed down the stairs. Charging.

A blur of movement—limbs too long, hair trailing like shadows—hurtled down the hallway toward him.

Jack stumbled back, nearly falling down the stairs.

She hit the ham full-force, a pink, snarling blur of teeth and flesh, rolling with it like a captured beast, skidding to a stop by the first door.

She was breathing hard. Drool slicked her chin.

She didn't even look at him.

Propped up on all fours, she snatched the bundle like prey and ripped it open. Raw meat tore in her teeth. Strings of fat stretched across her mouth.

She didn't even chew. Just growled. Gulped. Moaned.

Jack stood stunned.

Horrified.

Prepared, in the next breath, to run for his life.

Then he saw them.

Red boots.

Too big for her, slopping loosely around her ankles.

But she wore them.

And nothing else.

Chapter 10 - Dreams of Kleo

The desert was warm and quiet beneath a quilt of stars.

Jack stirred, fingers flexing in the sand, a breath catching in his throat as a shadow leaned over him.

"Jack," Kleo whispered, brushing hair from his brow.

He blinked up at her. Moonlight gilded her face in silver. She looked exactly as she had that night—the night she left.

"Come on," she said softly. "Walk with me."

Half-lost in the dream's embrace, he took her hand.

They wandered the dunes in silence, the wind gentle as a lover's sigh. The world hushed around them like a held breath. Then came her teasing remarks, those quiet jokes that had always been theirs alone. A shared memory surfaced between them, tender and half-forgotten. She laughed at something he said and tossed a pebble at his chest, the sound bright as silver bells.

He kissed her beneath the slope of a dune. Her body curved into his, warm sand cradling them both, her smile caught like starlight in her breath*.* Time moved like honey here. They had always moved like this—unhurried, certain, as if the world would wait.

The sand beneath them softened, warmed, and transformed into linen that smelled of home. Above, the stars flickered and dimmed, becoming oil lamps that cast golden pools of light. When passion spent itself, they lay tangled and breathless in his bed—the familiar sag of the Farmore mattress, the creak of old floorboards singing their ancient song beyond the walls.

Kleo rested against him, her breathing slow and deep. He held her as he had so many times before, as he had dreamed of holding her a thousand times since.

"I've missed this," she whispered against his chest.

"Me too."

For a moment, the dream was perfect. Complete.

Then the light changed.

A soft white spotlight—cast from nowhere and everywhere—spilled over the far corner of the room. It pooled around his worktable like spilled milk. There sat the girl, the strange, wild child who'd been haunting his steps.

She hunched over scattered papers, scribbling furiously. Her head was down, jaw set in fierce concentration. Her lips moved in a flurry—muttering, growling, sometimes breaking into soft laughter. Charcoal scratched and tore across paper. Pages crumpled, were discarded, replaced. Her fingers were stained ink-black. Her normally scraggly brown hair now flared red like flame in the strange light.

Jack frowned, slow and dream-dazed.

"What is she doing?"

Kleo's voice beside him, but distant now: "Decoding the key to the Well of Darkness."

He turned to look at her—

But it wasn't Kleo anymore.

It was the acolyte from the Temple of Arcane Fire.

Naked. Hair loose and wild. Skin perfect as porcelain. That smile—too knowing, too sharp. Eyes that flashed between desire and something darker.

"Hello, Jack," she purred, already moving, crawling over him with predatory grace.

His eyes widened. The dream lurched, reality tilting sideways.

"Wait, what—?"

She straddled him, leaned close enough that he could taste her breath. "I told you we could spend time together after my shift." Her voice was honey over steel. "Don't you want to?"

The dream shattered like glass.

Jack jolted upright, breath ragged and harsh in the sudden darkness. The room was empty. Quiet. Real.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his bare feet touched the cool floorboards, and incanted the orb. Light bloomed soft and steady.

The table sat as he'd left it. The drawing of Kleo's strange tattoo lay undisturbed, charcoal lines stark against pale paper.

Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed.

Then—a soft creak.

He turned.

The door stood open. Just an inch, no more.

And in that thin slice of darkness—two eyes. Wide, bright, and far too curious.

The girl giggled, light as silver coins dropping, then scampered down the hall. Her bare feet made soft thumping sounds against the old wood.

"Hey!" Jack's voice cracked, still thick with sleep and dreams.

But she was already gone, swallowed by shadows and silence.

He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Then he looked down and groaned.

Naked.

Grabbing the nearest blanket, he shuffled to the door and pushed it shut. The latch clicked with satisfying finality.

"I need a lock on this door," he muttered to the empty room.

Then, still grumbling about privacy, strange children, and dreams that felt too real, he collapsed back onto the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows dance in the orb's gentle light.

After a long moment, he added, "And I need to find a priestess."

Chapter 11 - Contractors

Jack sat at the table studying the parchment copy of Kleo's tattoo. The rest of the house lay quiet. No sign of the little bread-stealing ham-goblin, and if Elijah was home, he was either dead or sleeping. Then Jack remembered Elijah's date with Margaret and smiled. Perhaps the old man had spent the night away from the house.

He had stared at the tattoo for quite some time, but nothing about it made sense. Somehow, the lines and odd markings needed to shift to form a portal key. His attempts to decode the tattoo always ended in frustration. If he was going to make any progress, he needed to find a cheat sheet—access to the set of known portal symbols might help him visualize how to transform the tattoo into the proper shapes. There were portal locations in or around Cabal, but he had no idea where to find one. The nearest—and only portal he knew of—lay within the Cave of the Anth, which was now very far away.

Giving up, he headed downstairs to find something to eat. Life at Farmore House had always been lean—Merri somehow making meals from nothing—but now, for the first time he could remember, the kitchen was well-stocked. He was happy that Elijah might finally enjoy a bit of prosperity. After all, Jack would soon be one of the wealthiest men in Cabal. Although he hadn't received the meeting details from Raphor, a red scarf hung in his office window.

Grabbing some bread and cheese, he was disappointed to find there was no tea. He'd have Elijah get some later. Tea in the morning was both a pleasure and a cherished reminder of Kleo—of those quiet mornings they'd shared in the Woog village.

When the back door opened, he expected the old man but found the girl instead. He was relieved to see her wearing the dress, boots, socks, and, he hoped, knickers. She studied him without smiling, then scampered up the stairs to the third floor, her clomping boots echoing through the house. If someone addressed her tangled hair and layers of dirt, she might look presentable.

After finishing his meal, the back door opened again, and Elijah walked in—disheveled but still looking sharp. It was quite a change from that first night, and Jack felt pleased to think that his return, along with some coin, might have helped Elijah turn his life around.

"So, how was your sleepover?"

Elijah tried and failed to hide a smile.

"A gentleman never kisses and tells, Jack, but Dirty Dreya should be quite jealous right now."

"If I know her—and I do—she certainly is."

Elijah sat at the table and glanced toward the stairs, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

"Upstairs. She came in about ten minutes before you."

"She's a night owl. No idea where she goes, but she always comes back smelling like young Jack."

"Sewers."

"A kindred spirit, then."

Jack remembered the tea.

"Hey, could you pick up some tea next time you're out?"

"The kind you smoke, or the kind old ladies drink?"

"You can smoke tea?"

Elijah laughed. "It's not actual tea, Jack. Just an expression."

Jack had never heard that particular euphemism.

"So, the drinking kind then," Elijah said. "No problem. I'll grab some later."

Elijah suddenly straightened. "I almost forgot. I found a contractor. He and his apprentice should be by shortly. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Yeah. It's either fix the place up or bury you in it when it collapses."

"Hah! That'd be a fitting end."

Jack gave him a sideways look. "Honestly, I figure the booze will take you first. Merri would not approve."

Elijah's grin faded to something softer. "She was right to love you, Jack. I only wish she were here to see you now. She'd be proud."

Jack cleared his throat, not trusting himself to answer. Instead, he glanced toward the ceiling.

"Well, if she were here, she wouldn't let you feed whole cured hams to a sewer goblin."

Elijah chuckled. "What, you think vegetables are the answer?"

Jack laughed. "Probably not, at least not the green ones. Maybe try those when she turns fifteen. Worked for a friend."

Elijah looked concerned. "You don't think she'll be here that long?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "If she is, you'd better buy a pig farm."

---

A knock sounded at the door.

Elijah rose, wiping his hands on his shirt. "That'll be the contractor. I think you're going to like him."

Jack looked up as a shadow crossed the table.

"Zack, this is the man I told you about—Roger, and his assistant, Travis."

Jack's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His lips pressed into a thin, knowing line.

"Nice to meet you, Zack," Rugr said smoothly.

"Same—Roger."

Thespis stepped forward, grinning. "I'm Travis." He gave Jack a wink.

Rugr's gaze drifted lazily to the grimy front window, where Jack had drawn the sanctuary sign.

"I like what you've done with the windows."

Elijah cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes... I suppose a proper cleaning is overdue."

Rugr shook his head. "Better to just board them up. Let folks know you're closed for business."

"Yeah," Jack said dryly. "So they don't have to come all the way in to find that out."

"Would you gentlemen care to sit and discuss arrangements?" Elijah offered, attempting to sound formal.

"No need if you take my advice," Rugr said.

"Oh?"

"Burn it down."

Elijah barked out a laugh, clapping Jack on the back. "I like this guy!"

"Yeah… Roger's a real treasure," Jack deadpanned.

Rugr gave the ceiling a casual glance. "We'll need a few days to do a proper assessment. Room and board. Two rooms. Three meals daily. Access to a bath... assuming people in Cabal still bathe."

Elijah drew himself up proudly. "I'll have you know I took a bath yesterday. Had a date with an old flame."

Rugr raised an eyebrow.

Elijah nudged him slyly. "As Jack says, I did a Dirty Dreya."

Rugr stiffened. Jack held up both hands instantly, innocent.

Thespis, trying not to laugh, coughed. "Sounds like my kind of girl."

"Shut up, Travis," Rugr muttered.

Thespis fell dutifully silent, then, when Rugr's back was turned, flashed Jack a wicked grin and made an exaggerated obscene gesture behind his back.

Jack barely suppressed a chuckle.

Rugr exhaled loudly and fixed Elijah with a mock-glare. "Now, about those rooms. We'll need somewhere private. Maybe Zack can show us around."

Elijah waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Zack doesn't work here. He's a guest. Third floor. The Farmore Suite—the finest room in the house!"

Jack rolled his eyes and stood. "It's fine, Elijah. I'll handle it."

---

Jack led them to their rooms. Thespis's was barely big enough to turn around in, containing little more than a cracked bedframe and what could only be described as an insult to the word "mattress."

Thespis blinked. "Is this the closet?"

Jack ignored him, grabbed his elbow, and kept walking to the end of the hall. Rugr's room wasn't good, but it was better.

Jack closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

"So," he said flatly, "mind telling me why you're here?"

Rugr shrugged. "We were worried about you."

"Uh-huh."

"Well," Thespis chimed in from the doorway, "I was worried about you."

"More like bored," Jack muttered.

Thespis shrugged. "Mostly. Rugr's only here because of Dreya," he added with a grin.

"Not just Dreya," Rugr said, sitting on the bed and testing the frame with a casual shake of his head. "You're going to need my help."

"With what?"

"For starters, you'll need to break some of those coins."

Jack waved him off. "Already arranged."

"Let me guess—Raphor Stills?"

Jack hesitated. "…Yeah."

Rugr's expression darkened slightly. "Did he mention a collector?"

Jack nodded. "Ten for one. Half-split."

Rugr exhaled. "Then half of Cabal already knows you're here."

"I told him, no names."

"It doesn't matter. People will know."

Jack shrugged. "Not sure I had much choice."

"He's setting up a meeting to authenticate the coins?"

Jack nodded.

"They don't care about the coins, Jack. They're authenticating you."

"I figured."

Rugr stood and stretched lazily. "I'll take the meeting."

Jack frowned. "You think it's a trap?"

"No, merely curiosity. If I'm right about who the collector is, it'll be an interesting conversation."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Why do they care about me?"

Rugr shook his head. "Let me handle it first. We'll talk after. Meet me later at the local temple of the Arcane Fire."

Jack groaned. "Another complication I don't need."

"You'll live, and just think how happy Alise will be."

"That's half the problem. We have history. Unresolved history—and with Kleo gone, I have a feeling things are going to get messy fast."

"Well, you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't. Knowing you, you'll pick the most complicated and painful path possible."

"Thanks, 'Dad.' Good talk."

Rugr shrugged. "Any sign of Will and Maya?"

"No. I figured they'd gone back to Ilimar."

"I doubt it. They came with the Faith girl. They're probably in Cabal. Looking for you."

Jack sighed. "Of course they are."

"Get the meeting details from Raphor, and we'll go from there."

"Fine." As Jack turned to go, he paused. "Oh, a few house rules. One: stay on the first floor. The others aren't safe. Two: if you see anyone besides me or Elijah, look the other way and do not make eye contact."

Rugr and Thespis exchanged a sharp look.

Jack pointed at them. "I mean it."

"And?" Rugr asked, already suspicious.

"And the most important one—no ham."

Both stared at him.

Thespis blinked. "No... ham?"

Jack nodded, deadly serious. "No ham."

Thespis gave an awkward half-shrug. "I don't even like ham, but... Jack, that's got to be the weirdest rule—"

Jack cut him off, ice in his voice. "Trust me, Thespis, you don't want to fuck around and find out."

Thespis opened his mouth to reply. Then, wisely, closed it.

As Jack stepped out the door, he called back, "Oh, and one more thing. Drop the fake names. I'll explain everything to Elijah."

"Really?" Thespis groaned. "I liked Travis. He's so much more interesting than I am."

Chapter 12 - Ellie

The meeting with Raphor had been quick. In and out, brushing past guards who’d clearly been told to expect him. He’d pass the details to Rugr when he got back.

For now, he just needed to clear his head.

A short walk—just a few minutes through the quieter tunnels behind Farmore House.

That was the plan.

Until he saw her.

The ham-goblin. Red boots, white dress, clutching that tattered plush against her chest. Slipping through an old access gate like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Jack froze mid-step, heart skipping.

Where the hell is she going?

He turned to head back—leave her to whatever strange habits filled her vanishing hours.

But something deeper clawed at him.

Not curiosity. Not concern.

Something older.

So, instead… he followed.

Her footsteps echoed off the stone, each one triggering a pull he couldn’t name. The way she paused at every junction—glancing down dark corridors, as if searching for ghosts—unearthed a familiar ache in his bones.

He knew this path.

He’d walked it before.

Too many times.

Once, he had even brought Alise here. Not knowing why at the time—just wanting to show her the place where he felt at home. The memory flickered like a candle in water—her hand in his, the distant sound of rushing water, a whisper through stone. He didn't remember the details. Just the weight of it. The pull. The strange, aching calm of sitting in the dark beside something vast and silent.

Alise called it peaceful. Said it felt like waiting inside a story that hadn't been told yet.

The air changed as they passed deeper—warmer somehow, heavier, like breath before speech. The walls were smoother here. Darker. Seamless. Not sewer stone. Not city work. Something older. Something… watching.

Jack's feet moved on their own now, always a few turns behind her. Once she passed through the final twists and hidden crevices, she never looked back. Never hesitated. Her path was straight and true. Downward.

He remembered the feeling. Anxiety softening into calm. Fear unraveling into something quieter.

She reached the chamber.

Jack stopped just before the final bend, the corner slick with moss. He didn't need to see it to remember. The black circular wall. Perfect. Quiet. It had scared him, once. Not because it threatened him—because it didn't. Because it welcomed him.

She stood before it now. A small figure against the vast curve of obsidian.

She knelt.

"…Mommy?" she whispered.

The word echoed faintly.

Jack tensed.

She pressed her palm to the wall, and it moved.

Ripples. Like rain across oil. Like a dream waking slowly.

"…Mommy?"

And then the hand appeared. Feminine. Dark. Smooth and long-fingered. Not clawed. Not monstrous. Just… there.

It brushed her cheek.

"Home?" she whispered.

"You are home, Ellie," the voice said. Calm. Warm. "I was never your home. Only a road to take you there. Where your family will find you. And where you will find them."

She began to cry softly. Jack felt it in his chest.

As the hand started to withdraw, her lip trembled.

"…Mommy?"

The hand paused.

"…Love?"

It returned. Stroked her cheek.

"Always."

---

The ripples faded. The air stilled.

The girl remained kneeling before the Well, the obsidian wall returned to its perfect, impassive silence. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled, dirt smudged into her skin like bruises. She stared at the stone, unblinking, as if listening for something that no longer spoke.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Breathing, shallow and uneven.

Then a quiet sigh escaped her lips.

She rose slowly, one knee at a time, limbs stiff from stillness. The plush bear dangled from her hand. Without looking back, she turned and began the climb upward, red boots whispering against the stone.

When she was gone, Jack stepped into the chamber. His own boots quiet against the polished floor. The space felt strangely warm, though no heat touched his skin.

It wasn’t temperature.

It was presence.

Like something enormous holding its breath.

He stood where the girl had stood. Looked where she had looked. The black surface loomed before him—seamless, wide, still. Just a wall.

But he knew better.

Jack's hand hovered inches from it.

Don't be stupid.

Don't wake it up.

Don't wake up whatever part of you remembers.

Because something inside him did remember. Something that didn't want to be awakened.

He'd seen it before. Felt it, even as a boy. The comfort of it. The terror of that comfort.

Jack raised his hand, extending a finger.

Paused.

Hovering an inch from the surface, he whispered to no one, "What happens if I draw the wrong thing?"

The wall didn't answer.

He let his hand drop.

Not today.

Not yet.

Jack stepped back, slowly and carefully, as if trying not to offend it. The stillness followed him as he retreated into the tunnel. At the threshold, he glanced back one last time.

It looked like just a wall.

But his bones remembered.

---

Jack climbed the final stair slowly, each step heavier than the last. The sewer’s damp still clung to him. His fingers tingled where they’d hovered near the wall, as if memory had left a bruise beneath his skin.

He made his way through the alley, past the house, and stepped into the garden through the open gate.

She was there.

Sitting at the far end along the wall, just past the broken fountain—small, still, and out of place.

The white dress pooled around her like the petals of a fallen flower. The red boots—now even more scuffed. Her teddy bear—torn and sagging—rested in her lap, its arms limp.

She didn't notice him at first. Or pretended not to.

Jack hesitated.

He took a few slow steps, gravel crunching beneath his boots. Her head turned—just enough to acknowledge him.

She was frowning. Pouting. Or caught mid-thought, her face uncertain what shape to hold.

Jack stayed a few paces away.

"You got back fast," he murmured.

No answer.

He crouched beside a low planter, not too close. "Is this where you go when you're done down there?"

Still nothing.

Her arms curled tighter around the bear.

Jack sat with a quiet sigh. "You really don't talk much, do you?"

She tilted her head slightly. Watching him. Or watching something behind his eyes.

He nodded toward the bear. "What's its name?"

A long pause.

Then her mouth moved.

"…Jack."

He tensed. "Wait—Jack?"

She didn't answer. Just rested her cheek against the bear's head again.

Jack stared at her, then gave a strange, unsettled smile. "That's… that's my name."

Still no response. But she pulled the bear a little closer.

"You were down there," he said. "At the wall."

Her eyes slid toward him.

"There was a voice," he continued. "She called you Ellie. Is that your name?"

A pause. Her lips pressed tight.

Then, at last—

"…Ellie."

Jack's throat tightened.

He gave her a gentle nod. "That's a beautiful name."

She didn't reply.

She turned her body away, as if the conversation had cost her something.

Jack waited, then tried again. "Do you know why you're here?"

Her gaze dropped to the ground.

"...Home."

Jack leaned forward a little. "Do you know where home is?"

A long pause.

Then she whispered:

"…Here?"

Like she wasn't sure. Or like she was, and it disappointed her.

Jack said nothing. He couldn't.

She looked at him again, eyes narrowing.

"I suppose I should apologize for the candy. It's not meant for kids. Go figure, right? I mean, who makes candy that isn't safe for children?"

He held his arms up as if to say how was I supposed to know?

The barest hint of a scowl tugged at her brow.

"…Liar."

Jack didn't move. Didn't respond. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound false.

She stood, hugging the bear—Jack—against her chest. Her mouth was tight, expression hard—but her fingers trembled where they gripped its arm.

Jack watched her retreat toward the house, disappearing into the dark hallway beyond the door.

He stayed there long after she was gone, staring at the spot where she'd sat.

Not sure if she hated him.

Or if there was a reason she should.

Whatever she was. Whatever was going on here was beyond him. He needed help, and there was only one person he could think of who might understand.

Alise.

Chapter 13 - Just a Stupid Girl

The night was still. A single candle burned low beside the bed, its light flickering across the worn stone walls of the temple suite. The window stood open, and the sea breeze teased the curtains, carrying the faint tang of salt and tar.

Alise lay curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest, the blankets twisted around her legs. The room felt too big—too empty. No warmth. No weight beside her. Only silence.

She should have been sleeping. Tomorrow would be another long day, but her thoughts refused to quiet.

She held the gold coin up, letting it catch the moonlight.

It wasn't practical currency—no money handler would take it without suspicion. But to her, it wasn't money.

It was a signal. A breadcrumb. A cruel kind of hope.

She turned it between her fingers, its edge winking in the candlelight.

Why didn't you see me, Jack? Why didn't you say anything?

She hated how much she still thought of him. Not only the man he'd become—but the boy he'd once been.

Wild-eyed. Half-starved. Reckless and golden and impossible not to love.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

That day.

The memory rose, unbidden, sharp and sweet and almost unbearably vivid. She closed her eyes, and the past unfurled like a ribbon pulled loose…

A night, almost ten years ago, mirroring this one—the same restlessness, the same thoughts of Jack keeping her awake. Her father was on a business trip to Cabal and had finally granted her a day of freedom while he conducted his affairs. She lay in the soft bed of the inn, staring at the ceiling, making a plan: how she would wear her hair, how she would dress, what she would say.

Every thought circled the strange boy who followed her everywhere she went.

The next morning, when Alise presented herself to her father, nothing was amiss. Her clothes were clean, her curly hair fell neatly over her shoulders, and as she awaited his approval, she tugged at the ends—a nervous habit.

His gaze swept over her, searching for anything out of place. She had chosen her outfit with care, knowing he would be the final arbiter of whether she was fit to set foot in the streets of Cabal. He had always been particular about how she dressed, especially when she ventured out alone. She was fourteen, balanced precariously between childhood and womanhood... a dangerous ledge in his mind.

Her blouse was oversized and unrevealing—not that there was much to reveal. Her breasts were still modest, and if anything about her might catch the boy's attention, it was her rear, accentuated by pants that were one size too small. She liked how the pants hugged her lithe frame, concealing the slight roundness of her belly. When her father asked her to turn around, she tugged the oversized blouse downward, hoping it would adequately cover her backside.

He murmured something under his breath, and when she turned to face him, seeking approval, he gave a slight nod and a weak smile. "Good to see you kept the jewelry simple. The streets of Cabal can be dangerous—you don't want to attract the wrong kind of attention."

She nodded, resisting the urge to bounce on her toes.

"I'll be at the docks for most of the afternoon. A ship from Tamir arrived this morning. Rumor is the hold's full of 'spices'—most illegal here, but Old Town won't care. Meet me at the Cracked Crab before dark. We'll have dinner, and I'll tell you what deals might be struck. Your insights are always valuable."

"Yes, Father," she replied, keeping her voice steady, though her heart was racing.

"Before dark, Alise. Don't make me worry."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment and left the room, careful to move at a calm, respectful pace. But as soon as she reached the hallway, her composure cracked, and a slight grin pulled at her lips.

The thought of seeing the boy made her chest flutter. He always appeared disheveled and dirt-smudged, yet strangely beautiful, with that shy, crooked smile and eyes full of wonder. She often caught him watching her as she walked through the streets with her father, always at a distance, always quiet.

One moment, he'd be at a fruit stall, pretending to inspect an apple as if it were treasure. The next, he'd vanish, only to materialize farther down the street, browsing scraps of cloth. His ruse was paper-thin—he was too poor to buy anything. And each time he disappeared, part of her went searching too.

The kinder merchants would offer him bruised fruit they couldn't sell. The cruel ones would wave sticks and curse at him, but he was quick, slipping away before their blows could land. She'd cover her mouth to hide her giggles, careful not to draw her father's attention. The boy would catch her eye, flash a wild grin, and vanish into the crowd again.

Later, she'd hear the merchants grumbling about missing goods, swearing they'd make him pay dearly if they ever caught him. Her response was no more than a sardonic smile. These fat, lazy cheats would never catch him. He was made of something different—something elusive, something beyond the ordinary.

But she would catch him. She would catch him today.

Alise stepped into the quiet courtyard behind the inn. The hum of the avenue was close but muffled—still a world away.

Finally free of her father's watchful eye, she crossed to the stables and glanced around.

Empty.

Satisfied she was alone, she pulled the blouse over her head and tossed it into the back of the wagon. The thin white undershirt beneath clung to her skin, revealing her midriff. Doubts crept into her mind about how much it exposed, but she pushed them away. She'd spent half the night planning this. She wasn't going to second-guess herself now.

The sun kissed her arms, and the snug docker cap tugged her into someone new. A thrill surged as she slipped from the alley and vanished into the crowd—no longer her father's daughter, but someone else entirely.

Someone daring.

She kept to the plan. Found the stall. Ordered food, then waited.

And then he was there.

Eyes dark and searching, unsure whether to speak or run. He smelled like smoke and sweat and salt, like the city itself. And he looked at her as if she were something impossible—a mirage made real.

Even now, remembering how he'd blinked, how his voice had failed him... it made her smile.

And then North Street Park. The food, the music, the silly jokes. The way he kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

And the sewer. Gods help her, she'd followed him into the sewers.

A maze of stone tunnels beneath Cabal—cold, damp, echoing—where he whispered as if the shadows were listening. And then the wall—that strange, impossible wall with lines that shimmered faintly when you weren't looking directly at them. He'd stood beside it like an old friend. No explanation. Just... this is where I go when I don't want to be anywhere else.

She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from her shoulders. The ache of those days—the first, the second—rose like a tide.

Two days. That’s all it took.

Two days.

That’s all love needed.

You were fourteen, Alise. Just a stupid girl.

Everything was different now. She was Blessed Alise. And he was Jack of Cabal—more myth than reality.

And then there was Kleo.

Alise shuddered. Kleo was terrifying. Powerful. Untouchable. Whatever bound Jack and Kleo felt carved into the bones of fate.

And yet…

It didn't seem to matter to her heart. Not then. Not now.

The moment she saw him in the sanctuary, her pulse had spiked. Her knees had buckled. And worst of all—that warmth had returned. The one she'd tried to forget. The one that had only grown into something unbearable.

Why am I doing this to myself?

Why couldn't she sleep? Why was the coin still clutched in her hand like a lifeline?

Why couldn't she just… let go?

She got to her feet and crossed to the window, the coin still warm in her palm. Outside, the city slept—quiet and gray. Somewhere down the slope, a cart clattered over stone. A dog barked once and fell silent.

Morning was approaching.

But something in her had already awakened.

The memory of that day pulled at her like a current, and she was tired of swimming against it.

She turned from the window, thumbed the coin once more, and reached for her boots.

Granton Avenue.

If Jack was in Cabal, that was the place to start. The crowd. The rhythm. The corners where the forgotten clung to hope—waiting for a handout, waiting for a miracle, waiting for someone to see them.

And maybe that was it.

I can't wait anymore.

She grabbed her cloak, unsure of what she was chasing.

Jack. A memory. A feeling. Perhaps all of it.

Or maybe—just maybe—some part of her still believed that, like that first time all those years ago…

…he'd find her again.

Chapter 14 - Jack Remembers

Jack slipped through alleys and back streets , making his way toward the bustling merchant district along Granton Avenue. The great avenue wound its way from the southern docks—bordered by warehouses—to the northern edge of the city. There, government buildings loomed like watchful giants, their grand facades making it clear where true power lay.

Beyond the government buildings, the city unfurled into noble estates, elite academies, and towering temples. As a boy, Jack had never wandered that far. He was the poorest of the poor—marked by threadbare clothes, unwashed hair, and grime that clung to his skin like a second coat.

Having grown up on these streets, Jack knew the inner city like the back of his hand. Aside from meager kindnesses from Merri and Elijah, he'd survived alone, memorizing every brick and cobblestone, every crooked doorframe and narrow alley.

To escape the brutal truths of street life, the sewers beneath the city became his domain. In their twisting labyrinth, he moved unseen, with only rats for company. By night, they offered shelter and silence. Few dared enter this realm, and those who did rarely survived its filth and disease.

As the morning sun climbed into a heat-thick sky, Jack kept to the streets above, moving with the tide of people, eager to maintain a low profile. Elijah had mentioned rumors of his return circulating in Farmore. He didn't understand why anyone would care about his presence—but he preferred to remain unnoticed.

Reaching Granton Avenue, he paused to survey the scene. Here, among the stores and stalls, the streets teemed with merchants, buyers, messengers, and the usual rogues—pickpockets, swindlers, and hucksters peddling miracle cures for everything from gout to heartbreak.

As the mingled aromas, merchant cries, and crowd murmurs washed over him, he knew he was home. In that moment, he longed to disappear into the throng, to lose himself in the avenue's ebb and flow.

But most of all, he wanted to see her again—the merchant's daughter, now Blessed Alise. He couldn't deny the nostalgia, nor the lingering ache of his teenage self. Yet he had practical reasons, too. He needed her help with the strange girl now living in his room. The coin for the offering had been a message, and if Alise was in Cabal, Granton Avenue was where she would come looking. She knew his patterns. She knew where to find ghosts.

Over nine years ago, on a day just like this one, she had drawn him in before he'd ever seen her face.

On a bright morning, while drifting through the stalls, he felt it—a pull in his chest, strange and certain. It drew him through the crowd, straight into her father, a broad-shouldered man who eclipsed the sun like a stone tower.

And then she stepped out from behind him.

She was young, perhaps fourteen, and a head shorter than Jack. Her hair curled tight at her ears, then tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders. She wore a dress the color of rich cocoa—plain, well-made—paired with scuffed leather boots and a matching belt. There was nothing showy in her appearance. And yet, she drew his gaze like gravity itself.

She didn’t try to be beautiful.

She simply was.

When she turned, Jack saw her eyes—soft, rich, and familiar in a way that froze him in place. His heart stumbled in his chest. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Panicking, he had ducked into the crowd and fled north, heart pounding against his ribs. He didn't stop running until the city's noise faded to silence around him.

For the next three days, he followed her.

Careful not to draw her father's attention, Jack would make silly faces or gestures to make her laugh. He'd shake his head in warning when they encountered dishonest merchants. She'd smile, nod, and whisper into her father's ear.

Then, on the fourth day, she vanished.

Jack waited, scanning the crowd for her familiar silhouette. The avenue felt hollow without her presence, as if it were missing a vital piece. He thought to leave, but couldn't.

So he lingered, hoping. And then the aura returned.

At first, he mistook her for a drayman’s daughter. Her hair was hidden beneath a gray docker’s cap. She wore capri pants and flat shoes, and her top was a thin white undershirt that barely covered her chest. The simple outfit helped her blend in with the runners and dock girls darting between stalls and taverns.

But Jack felt that familiar magnetic pull again. It was her.

She stood in front of Mario's stall, and sensing him, she turned with that same mischievous smile tugging at her lips. She'd changed her costume but not her eyes. She was hiding from the world—surely from her father—but not from him.

Stunned again by her simple beauty, Jack stepped forward, heart thudding, breath caught in his throat.

The first love of his life stood waiting. And she was waiting for him.

---

The small stall where she stood sold meat on a stick, the smoky scent mingling with the sharp tang of the sea breeze. Despite the questionable origin of the meat, the spices and seasonings made it melt in your mouth. Mario, the vendor, was a middle-aged man of some girth—one of the few merchants who tolerated Jack. Their conversations during slow hours were brief but not unkind.

The sight of Alise made Jack blush. Her undershirt was simple, but so revealing that his mind betrayed him, filling in details it had no right to. He forced himself to focus on something—anything—else. But it wasn’t her beauty that held him frozen. Something deeper pulled at him—mysterious and magnetic. She was a riddle he needed to solve, a thread he had to follow.

As he approached, he caught the tail end of her conversation with Mario.

“Make that two,” she said, holding up two fingers.

Mario nodded, but when he noticed Jack coming closer, his brows furrowed with suspicion.

He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned toward her. "You don't want to feed that one, miss. He'll follow you home, and you'll never be rid of him."

Without turning, Alise smirked. "That doesn't sound so bad. Do you think he's housebroken?"

Mario snorted. "Definitely not. By the looks of him, he belongs with the livestock—if they'll have him."

He let out a hearty laugh at his own joke.

Now at her side, Jack noticed the playful tilt of her head, the sparkle in her eye. She was clearly enjoying herself.

Mario handed her the food, but when she reached into her pocket for a coin, he waved her off. "No, no, miss. This one's on me. Bring your father by next time—let him pay. And don't bring Jack here—he's bad for business."

Alise laughed, then handed one of the skewers to Jack. “I thought you might be hungry.”

Jack nodded, his voice trapped in his throat, words a tangled weight he couldn't lift.

"I'm Alise," she said, breaking the silence. "And you're Jack?"

He nodded again.

She glanced down at herself, then back up with a shy smile. "I wasn't sure you'd recognize me. I'm dressed a bit… different."

Jack cleared his throat. "I—I didn't. I just…" He faltered, biting into the skewer to avoid saying something foolish. I just felt you. I sensed you. The words hovered, unsaid—too strange, too true.

Mario shooed them away with a dismissive flick of his hand. "North Street Park has performers today—music, dancing. Something to impress the young lady. Now go, before I lose what little reputation I've got."

Alise offered Mario a graceful bow. "Thank you, sir."

They followed his suggestion and headed north.

Until the binding ritual with Kleo in that crumbling sanctuary, it remained the best day of Jack's life.

Chapter 15 - Imagine Dragons

Jack snapped back to the present. The avenue bustled around him—merchants shouting their wares, children darting between legs and cart wheels. Yet for a heartbeat, he could still taste the smoke from Mario's grill, still feel that first electric jolt of recognition.

He had searched for her then, just as he searched for her now. And she had been waiting.

The parallel landed with surprising force. Nine years later, they still orbited each other like binary stars—drawn together by forces neither fully understood.

He scanned the crowd with renewed purpose. Somewhere in this maze of bodies and voices, Alise might be following their old pattern—disguised, moving through the market, tracing steps only they remembered.

The thought made his pulse quicken. If she was here—if she was searching—she would return to where it all began: Mario's stall.

Jack walked on.

Behind him, the memory lingered like smoke—her fingers brushing his as she passed him food, her laughter at Mario’s jokes, the way she looked at him like she saw something more.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” she’d said when Mario warned she might get followed home. “Do you think he’s housebroken?”

The thought still made him smile. She’d been fearless then—bold enough to chase him, clever enough to hide in plain sight, brave enough to follow him underground.

If even a piece of that girl remained, she wouldn’t be hiding in some temple suite, clinging to a gold coin and old dreams.

She’d be here. In the crowd. Searching for him too.

He quickened his pace, hope and memory drawing him forward like a tide.

As he approached the stall, the crowd flowed around him like water, parting for the laden carts rattling through the streets. Drivers barked warnings while curious onlookers darted forward, eager to glimpse the goods stacked in each bed.

Mario glanced in his direction. If he recognized Jack, he didn't show it—save for a brief hesitation—then turned back to the smoking meat on his grill. With lunch hour approaching, the day's profits hung in the balance.

No sign of Alise. Not a glimpse. Not even a flicker of her aura. Just another ordinary morning on Merchant's Row.

Jack's shoulders slumped. Had he expected too much from the message he left? No—the Astirian coin and the acolyte's description were unmistakable. She'd know it was him. And if she didn't, Dreya would've made sure.

He stepped aside, leaning against the wall of a candle-and-wax shop, and closed his eyes to think. Perhaps he should've been more direct. Yet there was something poetic about this approach—his attempt to recreate their first meeting. It was as if fate had left their story half-finished, and this was his way of picking up the thread.

Still, whatever he and Alise once shared… it wasn't meant to be. Too much had changed. Their lives had moved in opposite directions. Whatever future remained between them—it would be messy. Complicated.

Then he felt it.

A flare of aura—sharp and familiar.

Before he could open his eyes, she was on him. Lips crashing into his. Hands fisted in his coat. Her body pinning him to the wall.

And he gave in.

Resistance melted into recognition. This was a moment that had been waiting to happen.

She pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his chest. Her arms slid around his neck as she stepped onto his boots, stealing that final inch. Lifting her lips to his once more—soft, hungry kisses. Softer moans.

And he kissed her back.

The heat of her body surged through him—not metaphorical heat, but real heat. A pulse of raw power stirred beneath his skin, rising into his chest like a tide. Her aura flared, wild and electric. Mana prickled across his spine.

Flames licked at her shoulders.

His eyes widened.

Alarmed, he pushed her back—hands landing squarely on the bare skin of her midriff.

"Uh…" he blinked. "Nice shirt."

She smiled—and kissed him again. More fire. More power. Her presence threatened to swallow him whole.

"You like it?" she breathed. "I made it myself."

He glanced down. One jagged cut across an otherwise innocent shirt. A design held together by sheer will—and desperate a prayer.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Very… bespoke. Though honestly? You could've made it a bit longer. I'm pretty sure one of your nipples just winked at me."

She flashed a wicked grin and shoved him back against the wall, her hand wandering beyond the limits of public decency. The kiss turned feral, his core surging with dangerous power. This wasn't mana-sickness brewing—it was a surge heading toward detonation.

He pushed her away and staggered forward, breath caught, mana flooding his limbs. Hunched over, he tried to contain it. This wasn't like his bond with Kleo—there, the energy had flowed in harmony, refined and channeled. This was something else: wild and radiant, their separate streams of mana weaving around each other like twin dragons in an ethereal duel.

He didn't know how it would end. The dragons would either merge in ecstatic union or fight to the death for his soul.

"We need to get out of here," he gasped, lurching toward the nearest alley.

Alise offered a questioning glance but followed without hesitation. She caught his hand, and together they slipped through the crowd with practiced ease, drawn toward the ocean’s scent and roar.

He pulled her into a dead-end alcove, where a wooden door marked what appeared to be a carpenter's shop.

Jack doubled over, drawing quick, shallow breaths.

"Jack, what's wrong?" she asked, eyes narrowing with concern.

He straightened and then groaned as two distinct streams of energy burst from his raised fists: one green, one blue. They shot skyward above the market, swirling upward before forming the shape of dragons.

Alise watched in stunned silence as the blue dragon mounted the green. The market's initial panic dissolved into laughter, cheers, and the occasional crude whistle.

"Are they…?"

Jack squinted upward, wincing. "Apparently."

Alise burst into laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth as the glowing forms dissolved into vapor.

Chapter 16 - Alise and Jack

Jack, pale and unsteady, leaned against the wall.

Alise, still glowing from the dragon display, stepped closer—her grin a little too bright.

“That’s not how you were supposed to release that energy.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head, skirt riding up enough to make the implication clear.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alise… can we slow down a little?”

She flinched. “Sorry.”

Jack raked his fingers through his hair, trying to rein in the frustration. “Since the desert, you’ve been… different. Impulsive.”

Alise crossed her arms, bristling. “Well, forgive me. I didn’t expect to be drugged by someone at the sanctuary. And if I remembered everything I did while floating on hallucinations, maybe I’d regret it.” She looked away. “Maybe not.”

Jack softened. “And today?”

She stuck her tongue out—but it was weaker now, more defensive than playful.

“Mature.”

Before he could say more, she lunged—pinning him back against the wall. Flames shimmered across her shoulders, mana coiling around her like heat lightning.

“I’m not the one who showed up unannounced and dropped a coin like it was supposed to mean something,” she said, voice sharp. “What was I supposed to think?”

“That I was in town?”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “That was never a mystery.”

He hesitated. “I… wanted to see you. Let you know I was okay.”

“You could’ve said that. You could’ve looked me in the eye. Instead, I get a coin. Like a clue in some puzzle you want me to solve.”

Jack looked down. “I didn’t know how else to do it.”

Alise’s breath hitched. “You wanted me to find you.”

“I hoped you would,” he said, voice low. “And… I need your help.”

She blinked, wounded pride flaring into something messier. “So that’s what this is? You wanted a little fantasy? A nostalgic re-creation of the day we met—see if there was still a spark?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

She pulled back an inch, eyes shimmering—not with mana, but with something much harder to control.

“Maybe,” Jack admitted. “But I do need your help. There’s this girl—”

Alise tensed. The flames around her flared, heat prickling his skin. Jack felt her power creep into his core like wildfire tasting kindling.

“Wait! It’s not what you think.”

She folded her arms. Silent. Waiting.

“She’s like… a demon. Sort of. We share a room. Kind of. It’s complicated. Most of the time she looks ten or eleven, but when she gets upset—her face shifts. Her mouth splits open, teeth everywhere. Her eyes go black. Not dark—black. No whites, no pupils. Just… void.”

Alise raised an eyebrow.

“And she eats ham. Whole hams. Like—gone.”

“That’s it?” she said.

“That’s it? It’s terrifying. And weird.”

“Jack,” she deadpanned, “Kleo was a demon. You’ve killed demons. My benefactor is a demon. Demons are real. What exactly is the problem?”

Jack pulled back. “…What?”

“The girl. What’s the problem?”

“No, back up. Your benefactor?”

Alise sighed. “Can we not? Later?”

“Oh, sure,” Jack said, throwing up his hands. “Hey Jack, I serve a demon now. Anyway, how was your week?”

“Forgive me if I left that out while I was drugged—and then you vanished.”

Jack winced.

Alise’s edges softened, voice barely above a whisper. “I woke up alone. Retching behind a rock. And you were gone. Just like before. Left with that same hollow space where you should’ve been.”

He looked away, guilt washing through him.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I wasn’t the one who disappeared the first time.”

Alise flinched.

“You’re right,” she whispered.

For a breath, they stood in silence.

“I didn’t want to go,” she said. “I was fourteen, Jack—just a stupid girl. I got dragged back to Old Town. Then my mother died, and my father locked everything down—my thoughts, my body, my movements. The house became a prison."

Alise looked away, as if the memory physically hurt to hold.

"For a time, you were this miracle, this wild little fire that kept me from going numb. But one day, I had to stop thinking about you. And that was the day something broke. And somehow… I needed that break. It kept me alive.”

Jack's voice came out hoarse. "I waited for you," he said. "Every day. Every single one. I'd haunt the alleys near the inn, sit outside the wax shop, and eat meat-on-a-stick to feel close to you. And at night I'd crawl into the sewers and cry like a fucking child."

He looked away.

"When Merri died," he said finally, "that was it. Something in me snapped. I couldn't stay in Cabal anymore. I packed a bag, said goodbye to Elijah, and just... walked east. I told myself I was searching for adventure, some mythical place. But really, I was looking for somewhere I didn't feel broken."

"And then you found Kleo," Alise said gently.

"I found Kleo," he echoed. "And I lost her, too."

Their eyes met—too many ghosts.

Alise stepped closer.

“So,” she said, “your surrogate mother dies… you fall for an Arch Demana on the path to godhood… then run into me—a half-forgotten ghost, now Blessed and bound to a demon...”

She raised an eyebrow. “And now you’re rooming with a ham-devouring semi-demonic child from the underworld?”

Jack gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

She slid down the wall and sat, absently plucking weeds from the cracks between stones.

"Aren't we a pair? Thrown together, ripped apart, and now thrown together again."

Jack leaned back against the stone, watching her with the weary tenderness of someone who knew too well how stories repeated themselves.

Alise stood and hurled a rock at the far wall. She paced, arms folded—not cold, trying to hold herself in. Something writhed within her, something that Jack's presence always seemed to stir loose.

Then she stopped.

Turned.

Spoke.

"You want to know the truth?"

Her voice was rough.

"I used to be normal, Jack. Gods, I fought for normal. Wore it like armor. Studied what I was told. Spoke as I was taught. Learned to nod and smile and keep the demon in my shadow fed—but hidden."

She took a step toward him.

"Then you showed up. Scraggly. Wild. Then you were just ripped away."

Another step.

"Then, you're back. All grown. All scruffy. And I hate—" her voice cracked "—how fast you undo me."

Jack didn't move.

She was inches from him now, trembling.

"There's a sun inside me, only you can ignite. When it flares, I forget how to lie. I forget how to breathe. I want to scream. I want to tear down the sky. I want to dance naked on a rooftop just to feel your eyes on me. And it terrifies me—because I don't know if I could survive losing you again."

Jack opened his mouth, but no words came.

She looked at him—pleading, defiant, heart-bared and shaking.

"But still…" she whispered, "I want her back. That girl you saw. The one who wasn't afraid. The one who ran wild through Cabal with you. She's still in here, Jack. And gods help me, she wants to rage on the world again. With you. In love. Unstoppable."

Silence.

Then Jack moved—not toward her, but into her.

Their kiss wasn't delicate. It was ruin and memory, and a scream held back for nine years.

Flames curled up her arms. Mana surged through him, wild and bright.

She gasped into his mouth, hands twisted in his shirt. His fingers slid into her hair and down her spine, holding her like she might vanish again.

A shutter slammed. A cat yowled. They didn't notice.

She broke first, folding into him, her forehead pressed to his chest.

"I want this," she whispered. "I'm done pretending. I want you. I want us."

Jack nodded, his voice barely audible. "You know, we might be cursed."

"Then let's curse the world back."

His laugh broke apart—half-sob, half-relief.

Alise bit her lip. “I know Kleo complicates things. But we’ll figure it out. Together. If she ever comes back.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “She was… pretty clear about this.” He gestured between them.

Alise smiled faintly. “She left you in good hands—mine. Not to mention Will and Maya. Even Rugr… though let’s be honest, he’s mostly here for Dreya.”

Jack laughed. “You should’ve seen them during the prison break.”

Alise smirked. “Oh, I heard. She named her pillow Rugr.”

Jack blinked. “She what?”

“Sleeps with it between her legs.”

Jack groaned. “She’s got it bad.”

“Rugr’s in Cabal?”

Jack nodded. “Thespis too. They’re staying with me.”

“And Will? Maya? They came through the portal with us.”

“Haven’t seen them yet. But I left a clue.”

“Farmore House?”

“Yeah.”

Alise gave a crooked smile. “Well, I guess Dreya and I could stop by. I could meet your new demon friend.”

“Might be better if we came to the temple,” Jack said. “You’re better equipped to help her.”

“Help her with what?”

“A bath.”

Alise squinted. “You’re serious?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. She needs a bath. And some girl time. You know—brush her hair, do her nails, convince her to wear underwear.”

Alise laughed. “Brittany will love that. She wants to have your babies, by the way.”

Jack blinked. “Who?”

“The acolyte you gave the offering to. Pretty. And with tits you definitely noticed.”

“Isn’t she like fifteen?”

“Not that young. And very forward. Show her a flicker of interest and she’ll move in. I’m not sure we want to deal with that right now.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes, we. You and me. We’re a thing, right?”

Jack hesitated. “Yeah—I guess so.”

Alise shoved him back against the wall, flames flickering along her arms. “You guess so?”

“Yes! We are a thing. Jack and Alise. Together again.”

“Hmm. I like Alise and Jack better. I want top billing.”

Jack sighed. “Fine. Alise and Jack.”

"Good. So you'll come by tonight? Bring the crew?"

"Sure. You'll have a lot of ham?"

"I suppose we can serve ham."

"Great. Keep it locked up. Having it out in the open is flirting with disaster."

Alise raised an eyebrow.

"Trust me. You can't be too careful with the ham."

She kissed him one more time.

He turned to go, but she caught his sleeve.

"And later," she said, "we finish the orchard scene?"

Jack grinned. "Should we get Rugr to play your father?"

Alise snarled. "If anyone interrupts us, they lose a limb."

She kissed him again. Slower. Softer. But no less certain

He started to walk, then turned.

"Did we just make a terrible decision?"

She tilted her head, flashing a crooked smile.

"Probably."

Then, softer: "Unless it wasn't a decision at all."

Jack blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe this always had to happen. You and me. This storm. This fire. Maybe we were always heading back to this."

He had no words for that. Only a feeling—rising, vast.

She met his gaze one last time—intense, amused, almost sad.

"She's not gone forever. Kleo."

"I know."

"She'll come back changed. But she might expect everything else to be the same."

"I don't think she expects anything to be the same."

"I suppose," Alise said. "But she'll come back. And when she does, we'll need to be honest. All of us."

Jack nodded. "Think we can manage that?"

She shrugged. "The world's ending. Honesty's probably the least dangerous thing we've got."

He laughed. Quiet. Raw.

"Ham and honesty," he said. "Leading with strength."

"Damn right," she said. "Now go. Before I drag you into that shop and make more questionable decisions."

He didn't move.

"Jack."

He pointed a finger. "Ham. Locked up."

She shook her head, smiling. "We'll be ready."

As he walked off down the alley and into the street, she stood watching, her hand still pressed to her chest where his touch lingered—something fated. Something unfinished.

And somewhere, beyond the heat haze and rooftops, a breeze stirred the edge of a veil—like a breath drawn, waiting to exhale.

Chapter 17 - We’re Getting Laid Tonight

When Alise stepped back into the temple, every eye turned. Her sudden reappearance—and, more importantly, her outfit—drew more than a few raised brows. But it was Dreya's stare that landed hardest, sharp as a thrown dagger.

"Well," Dreya said, arms crossed. "Look what the cat dragged in. Been shopping for scandal or just raiding the wardrobe of your teenage years?"

Alise shrugged, unfazed. "Actually, I made it myself."

"Really? Hard to tell."

Alise stuck out her tongue, then turned toward Brittany, who was devouring a peach with such ferocity it looked like she feared someone might rip it from her hands. Her wide eyes locked on Alise, somewhere between awe and mild horror.

"Brittany," Alise said sweetly, "I need you and another girl to run to the market. Get three large hams. Lock two of them up—securely—and we'll cook the third."

Dreya stiffened. "The acolytes have duties. Schedules. Sacred texts to copy, rituals to prepare. This is a temple of the Arcane Fire, not a roadside tavern. And three hams? There are six of us."

Alise smirked. "We're getting laid tonight."

Dreya blinked. Twice. Her expression went beautifully blank.

Brittany, still clutching the peach, looked to Dreya, then back to Alise. "Should I get four hams? Just in case?"

Dreya groaned, but relented. "Fine. Four hams—good ones. And lamb as well. Also, get yams, potatoes, and pies. Whatever seems festive. We'll need a lot of prep time in the kitchen, so warn the other girls."

Brittany lit up. "Am I getting laid too?"

Alise's smile widened. "Play your cards right. I hear an Astirian prince will be attending. Very eligible. You'll have to move quickly, though—might not stay single long."

Brittany clutched her peach like a holy relic. "You'll introduce me first? I've received my blessed. That entitles me to—"

"Yes, yes," Alise said, raising a hand. "First in line. On my word. But I need another favor."

"Anything, my Herald."

"A young girl will be arriving. She'll need your help—bath, new clothes, maybe a little sparkle. Think you can make her presentable?"

"Of course! I have the best soaps and oils. Would you like me to do her hair? I'm amazing with hair—I have three younger sisters and—"

"I'm sure she'll be radiant," Alise cut in. "Now go. We've got a party to plan."

Brittany bowed with such force she nearly dropped her peach. "Yes, my Blessed! Thank you for your faith in me—I won't let you down!"

She darted off, already barking orders like she was the Herald, her voice echoing down the corridor with enthusiastic tyranny.

Dreya exhaled. "You're creating a monster."

"She's always been a monster," Alise replied. "I'm just giving her permission."

Dreya narrowed her eyes. "Astirian prince?"

"Too much?" Alise shrugged. "Technically, his father runs Astiria, so... royal-adjacent?"

"And the girl?"

Alise made air quotes. "Jack's daughter."

"Ah, Jack," Dreya said, waving vaguely at Alise's outfit. "That explains... whatever this is."

"It was romantic. We recreated our first date."

Dreya scowled. "I'm so happy for you. Really. You're a Herald, not some lovesick teenager. The acolytes are going to start thinking you're one of them. You'll lose all control."

"That's why I have you," Alise said with a grin. "Headmistress."

"For the last time, I am not a headmistress. I am the Shield of the Herald, and you're supposed to respect me."

Alise waggled her brows. "Rugr's coming tonight. Be nice to me and I might let him sleep over. Give your pillow a break."

Dreya groaned, pinching her fingers together with barely a sliver of space between them. "Between you and Brittany, I'm this close to forsaking my vows."

"Oh darling," Alise said, already halfway down the hall, "you're more bound to me than I am to myself."

"Try me," Dreya called after her.

"Let's talk in the morning. After you've been stuffed with ham."

Alise winked, then vanished into her chambers.

Dreya stood alone, muttering something unrepeatable as the scent of peaches and lust hung in the air, soon to be replaced by the overpowering smell of ham.

Chapter 18 - Cheeky

Will sat on the low stone ledge across from Farmore House, chewing on the heel of a stale roll. He was tired. His feet hurt. Cabal smelled worse than he remembered. Still, this part of town—the east side slums—was familiar enough.

His eyes drifted across the cracked façade of the house opposite. Dirty windows. Boarded door. Faint marks scrawled across the soot-darkened glass.

At first, he didn't notice anything unusual.

Then, he leaned forward.

There was a shape. A crude outline of a woman. Curvy. Familiar.

He squinted.

Was that… a battleship?

It was. Right there—drawn on the figure's backside. And between the legs, a probing arrow with two small circles perched where they absolutely shouldn't be. Will's mouth curved into a slow, amused smile.

"Oh, Jack…" he murmured. "Classy as ever."

Footsteps approached.

Maya dropped onto the ledge beside him, out of breath and annoyed. She thrust a meat roll into his hand.

"All day I've been looking for Jack, and now you. And here you sit stuffing your face?"

"I'm tired," Will said, taking a bite. "And technically, you did manage to find both of us."

"What are you—"

"Eat," Will said, gesturing to the roll. "You'll see it eventually."

She narrowed her eyes, but hunger won out. They ate in silence.

Then Maya froze mid-chew.

"…What is that?"

Will didn't answer. He just kept chewing.

"Is that a battleship?"

"I think so," Will said around a mouthful.

Maya leaned forward, staring harder. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"Pretty sure."

"Am I that fat?" she gasped. "Really, Will? Why wouldn't you tell me? I'm hideous."

"I blame the artist."

"Is that how Jack sees me? No wonder he couldn't get it up."

Will coughed. “You sure that didn’t have something to do with Kleo watching?”

Maya gave him a look. "What? You couldn't perform if Kleo was watching?"

Will shrugged. "I wouldn't have a problem performing if my mom were watching."

"Oh my gods, Will. That's disgusting."

"I'm just saying."

She squinted again. "What's with the penis?"

"It's not a penis."

"It's a penis. With… balls."

Will sighed. "It's an arrow. A message."

"Uh-huh. A rather crude way to tell a girl you want to sleep with her."

"That's not the message."

"Oh." Her face fell a little. "I guess I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up."

Will stared at her.

"What?" she said. "It's not like we haven't shared before."

"His wife's a demon. And jealous."

Maya sighed. "Fine. So what is the message?"

Will pointed to the arrow. "Enter in the rear."

Maya tilted her head, then broke into a wicked smile. "My, my. Isn't this whole thing very cheeky."

Will groaned. "Maya. Focus. This is a message you and I would recognize. Not an expression of Jack's intent."

She pouted. "Really? It could be both."

He stood up. "I'm leaving you here."

Maya hopped up beside him. "Wait! I need to get ready."

"For what?"

She gestured toward the window. "That. I mean, if we're going in the rear, I should probably… stretch."

Will didn't answer. He just walked away.

Maya followed, grinning.

---

Will knocked twice on the back door, then leaned into the frame.

"Hey," he called when it creaked open. "I'm Will, and this is Maya. We're friends of Jack. Is he around by any chance?"

Elijah blinked back at them, as if caught mid-nap. "Uh... can't say that he is. Haven't seen him in months, actually."

Maya stepped forward and shoved Will aside without hesitation.

Elijah's jaw dropped, his eyes dragging up from her boots to her braid. His mouth opened. Then closed.

Maya pointed at the image drawn on the dirty window.

"That's me."

Elijah turned, squinting at the crude drawing for the first time. His eyes went wide.

He turned back, tilting his head as he studied her again. "Well then... Jack is a terrible artist."

Maya let out a shaky breath, relief breaking through the tension. "Oh, thank the goddess. I was so worried."

Elijah's gaze flicked from her to Will and back again. "I suppose I'll have to ask you to prove it."

"What?"

He gestured toward the window. "The battleship."

Maya narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "I do not have a tattoo of a battleship on my ass."

"Well," Elijah said with a straight face, "then you're not the woman in the drawing. And seeing as how we're closed for renovations..."

Will and Maya glanced past him, peering into the dark, cracked hallway beyond.

Maya sniffed. "I think it's too late for that."

Elijah folded his arms. "Even if Jack were here, he's out on business. You'll have to come back another time."

Maya gave him a flat look. "Enjoy your nap."

"What—?"

He swayed. Then collapsed like a stone.

Will caught him with a grunt.

Maya pointed. "Put him down in that chair. We're going to look around."

Will sniffed, his eyes widening with excitement. "Do I smell ham?"

Chapter 19 - Close Encounter with Ham

Will placed Elijah in the chair, his body slumping like a rag doll into the worn cushions. The old wood gave a long, exhausted creak, as if mourning the weight of yet another casualty.

At the window, Maya narrowed her eyes at the crude figure Jack had drawn earlier. With deliberate care, she began to erase it.

"What are you doing?" Will asked, already annoyed.

"Fixing it," Maya muttered, smearing away the worst of the lopsided curves. "Does Jack really think this is how I look? Like I squat in fields and wrestle sheep for fun?"

Will pressed a hand to his face. "You know it's probably just a joke."

"I'm tall. And graceful. And Kleo said I was a goddess."

"Right. I'm going to the kitchen."

"It's not vanity," she added, redrawing the outline with subtle flares to the hips and a strategic lift to the chest. "It's self-esteem."

Will rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen.

He rummaged through the cold box until his fingers found glory: a ham hock wrapped in cloth and practically singing his name.

"Ohoho, jackpot," he whispered. "Blessed be the pig."

In the main room, Maya completed her self-portrait by adding a triumphant middle finger squarely aimed at the viewer. "Now that's art."

Then—a rustle. Low, wet, and too close.

Will looked up. "Did you hear that?" he called.

Maya replied, her tone suddenly careful, "I heard something. Probably just a rat."

Scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Then a sniff. Heavy. Wet.

Maya turned toward the hall.

Will turned too.

They took a step toward the sound as someone lurched into view.

They screamed.

And so did he.

Thespis crashed into them—barefoot and wild-eyed, a blur of tangled hair and panic. All three rebounded like startled cats.

"Thespis!" Maya shouted, clutching her chest.

"Don't sneak up on people like that!" Will snapped.

Thespis blinked at them, disoriented, then locked onto the ham. "Wait. Is that ham?"

THUMP.

Something crashed overhead. Dust drifted from the rafters.

Then another thump—heavier, closer.

Thespis's eyes went wide. "Run!"

They didn't hesitate.

Thespis took off down the hallway. Will and Maya followed, Will clutching the ham like a sacred totem. Something snarled behind them. They barreled into Rugr's quarters and slammed the door shut.

Will braced his back against it, panting. "What the hell was that?"

Thespis pointed at the ham, pale and shaking. "I don't know! But there's a no ham rule for a reason!"

"What? It's just ham," Maya snapped.

A dull bump rattled the door. Then a growl, low and wet.

Will looked at Maya. "You peek."

"No way. You."

"I'm holding the ham!"

"Whatever you do, don't look it in the eyes!" Thespis whimpered, curling into a ball.

"Oh, for gods' sake," Maya muttered, cracking the door open.

Silence.

She peeked.

Then pulled back fast, blinking hard.

"It's a young girl."

"What?" Will and Thespis chorused.

"She's... filthy. Wild. Naked except for red boots."

"Please tell me you didn't make eye contact?" Thespis hissed.

Maya rolled her eyes. "Stop being ridiculous. Look for yourself."

Thespis whimpered.

Will gave him a shove. "Go on."

"I hate you both," Thespis muttered, cracking the door an inch.

The girl was there.

Only... her face had changed. Pale skin. A smile stretched too wide, filled with gleaming, jagged teeth. Her black eyes gleamed with unnatural hunger.

"Haaam?" she gurgled.

Thespis screamed and hit the floor.

Will slammed the door.

"Oh gods. She's hideous. All teeth and tongue!" Thespis sobbed.

"I think she said 'ham,'" Maya said.

Will clutched the meat tighter. "She can get her own ham. I just started eating this one."

"Give it," Maya growled. "We're not dying over a pig's leg."

More scraping. Closer now.

Maya readied herself beside the door.

Will cracked it. Maya shoved the ham through and slammed it shut again.

Silence.

Then: snarls. Slurps. Gnawing. Wet, horrible, tearing sounds. A gluttonous frenzy just beyond the door.

Then—clop, clop, clop. Soft-booted feet going upstairs, accompanied by a tiny, greasy burp.

They waited for complete silence.

Will opened the door a crack—

And screamed.

He slammed it again.

"What?! Is it still there?" Maya gasped.

Will turned pale. "Worse. It's Rugr."

Thespis sat up, eyes wide. "That is worse."

Three deliberate knocks rattled the door.

Maya groaned. "Thespis made us all look like idiots. Over ham."

"Me?" Thespis protested. "Will broke the rule!"

Will shrugged. "Worth it."

Maya sighed and opened the door with her best smile.

Rugr stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with the expression of a man who'd seen this particular brand of chaos before. His gaze moved from Will's guilty face to Thespis's cowering form to Maya's too-innocent smile.

"What did you do to Elijah?" he asked wearily. "And why do I smell ham?"

---

Elijah stirred with a groan, blinking at the ceiling.

When he turned his head, four pairs of eyes stared at him—Rugr, Thespis, Will, and Maya—silent, awkward, accusing.

He blinked again. "Am I on trial?"

No one answered.

He glanced at the window. "Are those… pancakes with a giant strawberry in the middle?"

Maya huffed. "Those are my breasts, thank you. And they're perfect."

Elijah narrowed his eyes. "Are your nipples really that large?"

Maya sprang to her feet, finger in his face. "Listen here, old man—my body is a temple, and inside resides a goddess!"

"Okay!" Rugr jumped up, waving his hands. "Let's not fight the host."

He gestured toward Elijah. "Maya, this is Elijah. He owns the place. Closest thing Jack has to a father. Let's try not to threaten him after breaking into his home?"

Maya gave a low, warning growl but dropped back into her seat, her eyes never leaving Elijah.

Elijah raised his hands. "Message received. No more nipple talk."

Rugr exhaled and turned to the old man. "Elijah, these are good friends of mine. And Jack's. That's Will, and his wife, Maya."

Elijah grunted. "Yes, yes. So they said, before they knocked me out and stuffed me into a chair like a half-dead goose." He sniffed the air. "Is that… ham?"

Everyone stiffened.

Will coughed. "There may have been… a ham-related incident. Entirely my fault."

"And the girl?" Elijah asked.

"She's fine," Rugr said. "She just… startled them."

"More like attacked," Thespis muttered.

"Right now, she's upstairs," Rugr continued.

"And Jack?"

Rugr shrugged. "If I had to guess? Somewhere around Granton Avenue."

Will and Maya exchanged a look.

"What?" Thespis asked.

"Oh, nothing," Will said. "Only a couple of dragons humping over the skyline."

Thespis blinked. "What?"

"Never mind," Rugr muttered.

The back door creaked open.

All heads turned.

Jack stood in the kitchen doorway, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, blinking at the scene before him.

Maya purred, "Speak of a devil... and he shall appear."

Jack stepped in, then paused. His eyes drifted to the window and the exaggerated silhouette.

He squinted.

Then grinned. "Are those pancakes with a giant strawberry on top?"

Maya shrieked, "You bastard!" and launched herself at him.

They hit the floor in a heap. Jack laughed, helpless beneath her.

"I am a goddess!" Maya declared—and kissed him soundly.

Will sighed and got up. "Okay, tigress. Off." He hauled her back with theatrical flair. "Save some energy for later."

Maya flipped her hair like a victorious predator. "He started it."

Jack, still grinning on the floor, wheezed, "For the record... I regret nothing."

Elijah raised a brow. "Is this normal?"

Thespis groaned. "Yes. Unfortunately. It's actually hard to get them to behave any other way."

Elijah nodded. "I'll buy more alcohol."

"Oh, yes. Please do," Thespis said. "I'm not much of a drinker, but if I'm going to be a writer, I should probably start."

Chapter 20 - She’s a Monster

They were all gathered in the mismatched living room, Jack and Elijah seated like suspects in an awkward interrogation. Upstairs, the girl remained unseen. Every so often, a thump—followed by manic laughter—made everyone flinch a little more than they wanted to admit.

Rugr folded his arms. "All right. Jack. Elijah. What's the deal with the girl?"

Will leaned in. "Yeah, because whatever that thing was earlier—"

"She's just a girl," Jack said quickly.

"She's a monster," Thespis muttered, hugging his knees.

Jack looked to Elijah.

The old man sighed. "She showed up about a week ago. A few days before Jack. Walked right up to the back door, sniffed around a bit, then made herself at home in the Farmore Suite."

"And you just let her in?" Maya asked.

"She didn't ask," Elijah said, sipping his drink. "Picked the room, shut the door, and started sleeping like she owned the place."

Rugr scowled. "And you didn't think that was strange?"

Elijah shrugged. "She's not the first to come through that door. This house collects strange people like stray cats. I always blamed my dear departed Merri. But even after she passed"—he shot a pointed look at Maya—"the weirdos keep coming."

Maya remained seated but let out a low, threatening growl.

He looked sidelong at Jack. "Speaking of weirdos, you just showed up one day. Couldn't have been more than four."

All eyes turned to Jack.

He looked down. Said nothing.

"Jack," Rugr pressed. "What do you know about her?"

"Her name's Ellie. She's quiet. Doesn't speak—barely, anyway."

"Really?" Thespis said. "She screamed at me. Her mouth was the size of a serving bowl."

Jack ignored him. "Most of the time she just… watches. Smells things. Sleeps. But when she's scared or angry, she changes. Her face shifts. Abyssal eyes appear. That's when she vocalizes—but only in fragments, usually only a single word."

"What else?" Will asked.

"She's looking for home. She thinks that this is it." He gestured around at the sad state of the house. "I'm not sure she's happy about it."

Elijah huffed. "Is that why we're renovating? This girl?"

Jack shook his head. "No, Elijah. We're renovating because this place is special—don't ask me how, I just know it is. And it's a dump. I know that because I have eyes."

Elijah's glare softened. "I suppose it won't hurt to tidy up a bit."

Will frowned, impatient. "Can we stay on topic? What else, Jack?"

Jack paused, considering how much he should reveal.

"She disappears from time to time. Usually at night, through the basement. Into the sewers."

Will frowned. "She goes into the sewers?"

Jack nodded. "Comes back, sits in the garden. Eventually she goes upstairs and collapses on the bed. Sleeps until Elijah puts out the ham."

"Would you say you're friends?" Maya asked.

Jack gave a tired shrug. "Not really. Most of our interactions are... tense. But I've caught her watching me. More than once."

"Do you know her?" Rugr asked. "From Cabal?"

"I don't think so. But something about her feels familiar."

"That all?" Rugr asked.

Jack hesitated. "She has this strange teddy bear. Worn out. Patched over a dozen times."

Will raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"Its name is Jack," he said, wincing.

Dead silence and stares.

"Also, it's heavy," Jack said, moving on. "Something inside it—like a rock or metal. I haven't checked. She takes it with her when she goes out. She's extremely possessive of it."

Maya frowned. "Have you asked her if you can see it?"

Jack shook his head. "I'd like my arms to stay where they are—attached to my body."

"Anything else?" Will pressed. "Small things might matter."

"She likes Demana bread," Jack said. "And... desert honey."

Maya jolted upright. "You gave a child desert honey?"

Jack winced. "I forgot the side effects. I'd just met her—I was trying to make peace after touching her bear. It was candy. Kids like candy."

Maya groaned, covering her face. "You hear yourself, right?"

Jack held up his hands. "I'd been in the desert. I was tired. Stuck on stupid, thinking about Kleo. It didn't register until later."

Rugr's voice was low. "What happened?"

"She got giddy. Started spinning. Tumbled down a flight of stairs. Wandered out through the garden, into the alley."

Everyone stared at him.

Jack winced. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm a bad person. Anyway, I followed her. She was stumbling around, whispering... calling for her mother. Then right before she vanished, she said, 'Mommy, I found him.'"

Thespis squirmed. "Found who?"

Jack met his eyes. "Me, I think."

Silence fell.

Will finally exhaled. "That everything?"

Jack shook his head. "There's one more thing. A dream."

Thespis groaned. "Oh gods. Not a sex dream."

"It wasn't just a sex dream," Jack muttered.

"That's not a comforting clarification," Will muttered.

Maya leaned forward. "What happened in it?"

Jack hesitated, then said, "It started normally—Kleo and I in the desert, our last night together. Then we were upstairs, lying in the bed. And the girl was there. Sitting at the desk. Red boots, messy hair. Scribbling furiously. Laughing. Pages everywhere. Books torn up, ink all over her hands. Drawing and drawing. It was sheer madness."

"Drawing what?" Rugr asked.

"Kleo's tattoo," Jack said. "Over and over. Changing it. Rearranging marks. Like she was solving a puzzle. I asked Kleo what she was doing and she said: Decoding the key to the Well of Darkness."

The room stilled. Even the beams above seemed to fall silent.

Maya's voice was soft. "You're sure? Those exact words?"

Jack nodded. "Clear as day. And the way she said it… like it was obvious."

Elijah muttered and reached for the bottle.

Will rubbed his face. "So she's another cosmic problem waiting to explode."

"Maybe," Jack said. "Or something else."

"Like what?" Thespis asked, though he already looked uneasy.

Jack glanced up at the ceiling. The creaks above returned, soft and deliberate.

"I think," he said, "she's not just looking for a key. I think… she is a key."

Rugr's jaw clenched. "To the Well of Darkness."

Will exhaled. "So what, we're supposed to find this Well?"

Jack shrugged. "I'm pretty sure I know where it is."

Will blinked. "And?"

Jack looked up. "It's beneath us. In the sewers of Cabal."

Another silence. Heavier now.

Elijah drained his glass. "Well, that explains a lot."

Maya stared. "You're saying some kind of cosmic door of horror is under the city, and a feral demon-child who might unlock it is living in your bedroom?"

"When you put it like that," Jack said, "it sounds bad."

"It is bad!" Will snapped.

"Let's stay calm," Rugr said. "Panic doesn't help."

Maya pointed at Jack. "You're going up there."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "To do what?"

"Talk to her. As far as she's concerned, you're the key. You're why she's here."

Jack stood and stretched. "All right. But I have a better idea. She needs a makeover—and I know just the place. Coincidentally, they're having a party tonight. You're all invited."

Thespis groaned. "Do I have to go? I'm terrible at parties."

"You're going," Jack said.

Thespis slumped. "Fine. But can I go as Travis? He's much more confident."

Will and Maya blinked.

"Who's Travis?" Maya asked.

"My public-facing alter ego," Thespis said. "He handles complex social engagements."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Just head for the Temple of Arcane Fire an hour before sunset. Elijah, bring Margaret. Tell her it's a personal favor to me."

Rugr stood. "And if you can't get the girl to the temple?"

Jack paused at the foot of the stairs. "I still have a few pieces of desert honey."

The room groaned.

Jack smirked, then started up the stairs. "Kidding. They're serving a lot of ham."

"Jack?" Maya called after him.

He stopped.

"If she really is what you think she is... maybe try to be her friend."

Jack nodded. "Yeah. That couldn't hurt."

He hesitated—one foot on the step, gaze flicking back to them all.

"Oh. One more thing. The last thing the Whispering Secret said to me was: 'See you at the Well.'"

Rugr grimaced so hard it was audible.

Will began laughing—slow, disturbing, maniacal.

Maya's jaw dropped and stayed there.

Thespis blinked. "What does that even mean?"

Will wiped his eyes. "It means... we're buying the ticket and taking the ride."

If anyone said anything more, Jack didn't hear it. He was already climbing the stairs, step by step, toward the Farmore Suite. Toward a conversation with the girl who might very well be the key to everything.

Chapter 21 - The Width of Shadows

The walled garden in northern Cabal wore the quiet confidence of old stone and older secrets. Morning light slanted through the carved archways, gilding the ivy with a gentle sheen. A small fountain murmured at the center, its stream catching the light like molten silver. Birdsong lingered beyond the walls, polite and distant.

Raphor stood near the edge of the path, hands clasped behind his back in the posture of a man trying to look at ease. He wore the silk of a merchant and the smile of a politician—both tailored, both sharp. His eyes, however, flicked anxiously toward the gate, and then to the man standing beside him.

Stennis was still as stone, save for the occasional blink. His coat hung loose on his frame, travel-worn but neat—a man who had passed through danger and not bothered to brush it off.

"I'm glad to find you well, my friend," Raphor said, his voice lined with practiced cheer. "Cabal has missed your presence."

Stennis's reply was a noncommittal hum, his gaze never leaving the fountain.

Raphor tried again, this time with a grin. "I'm sure our young man will be along shortly. Probably lurking nearby. Watching us. He's the cautious sort, that one."

"We're all cautious men these days," Stennis murmured. "You have reason to be, I imagine."

Raphor chuckled, though it came out a little thin. "Quite. Not that I can't manage my affairs—but rivals, you know. Always barking. Rarely biting."

"Your father didn't worry much about barking," Stennis said, his tone dry.

The grin faltered.

"Yes, well. His solutions left fewer bodies standing than not. I prefer quieter methods. Less... messy."

"Less final," Stennis said, folding his arms.

"I still have my position."

"For now."

The words hung like smoke between them. Raphor shifted his weight, then soldiered on with a politician's polish.

"This transaction should give me leverage. I've waited a long time for such an opportunity."

Stennis didn't look at him. "Loyalty purchased with gold tends to fade when the purse lightens."

"Oh, I intend to use the proceeds wisely," Raphor replied, lips drawn tight. "Divide, distract. Bind a few key debts, shake a few loose. My rivals won't know what hit them."

At last, Stennis turned to face him. "Then let me offer some advice. Use it quietly. If they see you rising too fast, they'll kill you for the gold instead of your crown."

Raphor gave a slow nod. "Sage words, friend. In my line of work, you survive only by the width of your shadow."

A breeze stirred the leaves. Somewhere beyond the wall, a child laughed. Then, the garden gate creaked open.

Both men turned.

A figure stepped into view—plain-clothed, broad-shouldered, with a bearing that suggested patience honed into weaponry. Rugr walked without hurry, yet every footstep seemed placed with care. His eyes scanned the space, noting, assessing.

"That's not Jack," Raphor said, blinking.

"No," Stennis replied calmly. "It isn't."

"You know this man?"

"I do," Stennis said. A faint smile touched his lips. "He's an old friend."

Raphor's brow furrowed. "What about the coins?"

Stennis extended a hand.

Raphor produced the gold pieces Jack had given him, their edges worn with time and worth. He passed them over.

Stennis studied the coins, then tucked them away. "Consider them authenticated. Your share will be in your account by morning. Five gold per coin."

"Jack was promised five in return."

"He shall receive them. I'll see to it."

"I have the feeling he may want to break more."

Stennis sighed. "I will pay on delivery."

Raphor's voice tightened. "No disrespect, but if this deal falls apart, my standing—"

Stennis turned, eyes flat and unblinking. "You'll receive your gold, Raphor. But do not default on your promise to Jack of Cabal. He may forgive such things. I will not."

Something in the air shifted. Raphor paled slightly, nodding quickly.

"Understood. My word is good."

"And your silence?"

"Absolute."

The moment passed.

Raphor adjusted his collar, forcing a smile. "Very well. I'll take my leave. The streets are always listening."

"Safe travels," Stennis said, already turning his gaze toward Rugr.

Raphor vanished through the gate with the measured stride of a man trying hard not to look hurried.

Silence reclaimed the garden. The fountain whispered its secrets into the stone basin. Rugr remained by the edge of the path, watching Stennis with eyes no longer young, but sharper for it.

Stennis sat on the stone bench, sighing as though something heavy had just lifted.

"It has been a long time, old wolf."

Rugr stepped forward, his expression unreadable—but behind it, a flicker of something unspoken. Respect, perhaps. Or regret.

"Longer than I would have liked," Rugr said quietly.

Rugr sat beside him on the bench, studying his old friend's weathered face. "So Lilith placed you here as a spy."

Stennis chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Spy makes it sound exciting. She told me to listen. To wait. That if the world was going to crack, it would start here in Cabal." He gestured vaguely at the city around them. "She never trusted her plan, you know. Too many variables. So she wanted eyes on the fault line."

"What kind of variables?"

"The kind that make gods nervous." Stennis picked at a splinter on the bench. "Things outside her control, and a few within. With Lilith, the line between control and chaos blurs more than you'd think."

Rugr settled beside him, armor creaking. "She's always had contingencies. Layers within layers."

"She plans for what she can control, predicts what she can't. Problem is, she's too good at it. Makes her dangerous to everyone—including herself." Stennis paused, choosing his words carefully. "Things have gone sideways fast. Lilith's losing her grip, and the whole thing's spinning out of control."

"How so?"

"First blow was Kleo breaking free of whatever path Lilith had mapped for her. Second..." Rugr waited, sensing the weight of what was coming. "That desert spirit. Vulth'era's handiwork—crude but effective. The return of Ishara, the Sign."

"She was Sela Roce. Now, she is something else."

Stennis's eyebrows shot up. "Roce? As in Huma Roce?"

"Granddaughter."

"Well, I'll be damned." Stennis laughed despite himself. "How is the old bastard? Still terrorizing trade routes?"

"Been dead seventy years."

"Ah." Stennis's expression softened. "Time catches up with all of us, doesn't it?"

"Speak for yourself. I've got a twenty-five-year-old girlfriend."

That earned him a genuine grin. "God's help you. I don't think I have the gears for that anymore."

"She's the Shield of the Herald of the Arcane Fire."

The grin died on Stennis's face. "By all the hells... the fates aren't just weaving—they're pulling the threads tight."

Rugr frowned. "Meaning?"

"Think about it." Stennis counted on his fingers. "You and Kleo. Kleo and Jack. Jack and the Herald. The Herald and your girlfriend. And your girlfriend comes back to you." He shook his head. "That's not coincidence, Rugr. That's architecture."

The implications hit Rugr like cold water. "Someone's orchestrating this."

"Multiple someones, I'd wager. Question is whether they're working together or against each other."

Rugr was quiet for a moment, processing. "What do you know about Blessed Alise?"

Stennis's expression darkened. "She became Herald by binding herself to an entity called Seris. Not quite demon, not quite god—something that exists in the spaces between." He rubbed his temples. "Ancient doesn't begin to cover it. We're talking about something that remembers when the world was different."

"A pact?"

"Voluntary. And that's what worries me." Stennis met his eyes. "It wasn't desperation that drove her to it. It was alignment. She didn't bend to this thing—they met in the middle."

Rugr felt unease creep up his spine. "What does it want?"

"Best guess? Jack. Though I'm fairly certain it opposes Lilith's plans to burn everything down."

Rugr considered this. "Jack seems to be an anomaly. He doesn't fit any pattern. No bloodline, no prophecy marking him. He just... appeared. Found his way to the center of things."

"And remains there." Stennis picked up a pebble, rolling it between his fingers. "That's not mere luck."

"Aye. He met Alise when she was fourteen. I think it awakened something in her that had been sleeping."

"The fire," Stennis murmured. "Her connection to Seris. Too perfect to be coincidence."

"And then they were separated. For years." Rugr's jaw tightened. "There's a cruelty in that kind of timing. Or a purpose."

Stennis was quiet for a moment, then: "Longing sharpens power. The ache of separation creates... potential. When they finally reunited..."

"The resonance was immediate." Rugr met his eyes. "Strong enough to shake foundations. I saw it with my own eyes."

"That disturbance over the markets this morning? I received word from multiple sources."

Rugr nodded, and the two men sat contemplating.

"Something I've never been able to wrap my head around," Rugr continued. "At the very moment Kleo and I left Astiria—the exact same morning—Jack left Cabal. He headed east and wandered right into our path." A mild hysteria crept into his voice. "Looking for Astiria of all places. What are the chances?"

Stennis grimaced. "Improbable."

"And Kleo dreamt of him, over and over, since childhood—every single night. Meeting him triggered her Kadas Shadoom when she was almost twenty-three." Rugr's hands clenched. "The timing, the location, the dreams... these aren't coincidences."

"No." Stennis leaned forward, urgency in his voice. "Listen to me carefully. The simultaneity you're describing—that's not natural causation. That's manipulation on a scale that should be impossible."

Rugr's eyes narrowed. "Do you think the dreams are some form of time manipulation? Past lives playing out, over and over? Each iteration refining itself toward a desired outcome?"

Stennis closed his eyes and shook his head as if resetting his mind after encountering a thought too complex to process.

A long pause. Then, quietly: "There's something I probably shouldn't tell you."

Rugr waited.

"Something that might be able to manipulate time and its vectors. Something I'm not supposed to know about, and you're definitely not supposed to hear." Stennis's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "But if you're right about what's happening..."

"Tell me."

Stennis was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of profound unease.

"This place—this entire world—it's off-limits. Has been since before memory. A force exists here that acts as a barrier against beings capable of unraveling reality itself." He looked at Rugr. "They call it The Well."

"The Well," Rugr echoed. "I've heard of it in passing. Do you know what it is?"

"No, not really. Calling it ancient doesn't even begin to do it justice. Primal. Something with power enough to make even gods seem like children striking sparks with rocks." Stennis crushed a fallen leaf between his fingers. "And it's the reason Lilith chose this world."

The silence that followed spoke volumes about forces too vast for comfortable discussion.

"To understand what Lilith is truly planning," Stennis said finally, "you have to understand why we're here at all."

Rugr settled back, recognizing the tone of a man about to reveal uncomfortable truths.

"She didn't flee because Demana was dying," Stennis continued. "Demana died because she was there, and he came for her."

"Himeth'Zul." The name tasted of ash in Rugr's mouth.

Stennis nodded. "Her father. The shadow that makes other darkness look like candlelight. She'd hidden from him for eons—buried her true nature beneath crown and marriage vows, played at being queen and diplomat."

"But he found her," Rugr whispered.

"And when he found her, Demana became collateral damage. He would have burned any world to reclaim what he considered his." Stennis picked up another pebble, turning it over. "She chose salvation over heroics—opened rifts and pulled as many through as she could manage."

"To Astiria first," Rugr said. "Then here."

"She modified the weave. Split the survivors—sent Markus and his burden one way, brought the rest here." Stennis gestured at the world around them. "The mere existence of the Well on this world marks it off-limits to beings like her father."

The implication settled between them like a stone dropping into still water.

"She gambled everything on that protection," Stennis continued. "Betting that whatever guards this world would keep her father at bay. And it worked."

"But now?" Rugr asked grimly.

"Now, she's deliberately provoking him." Stennis tossed the pebble into the fountain. "Every rebellion, every act of defiance—it's all calculated. Threads in a web designed to enrage a dark god."

"That's madness."

"Utter madness to you and me." Stennis met his eyes. "But she knows his mind, knows exactly which buttons to push. She's playing the rebellious daughter, waiting for daddy to lose his temper and break the cosmic laws himself."

Rugr felt ice in his veins. "She wants him to invade."

"She needs him to. Because when he crosses that line, when his rage pulls him through the veil unsanctioned..." Stennis's voice dropped. "He can be killed."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

"By Kleo."

"Kleo was bred for one purpose," Stennis continued. "Prophecy made flesh, bloodlines refined across centuries. But Lilith miscalculated. She intended to build a war machine, but instead, she received a celestial soul. She planned to shape a destroyer, but it all went wrong when Kleo made an unexpected choice."

"Jack."

Stennis nodded. "Now Lilith is betting everything on love." His voice carried a strange mix of admiration and horror. "That when the moment comes, when her father arrives and the world tears open, Kleo will choose to strike her down out of necessity."

"Passing on the essence. The final transformation."

"The weapon awakens. Everything Kleo was meant to be, unleashed in a moment of grief and rage." Stennis looked away. "Not the girl you know. The Arch Demana transcended. A force that will shatter worlds."

Rugr's throat tightened at the words, an unexpected ache blooming in his chest—hollow and familiar, something he'd buried beneath duty and steel for too long.

She wasn't a weapon to him.

He could still remember her first steps, how she reached for him, unsteady and fearless, not yet knowing what the world would demand of her.

She was someone he loved deeply, regardless of cosmic plans or prophecies.

They sat in the growing darkness, watching shadows lengthen across the courtyard stones.

"Even if it means the end of everything," Rugr said.

"Lilith calls it the ultimate sacrifice. A mother's gift to her children—and the universe." Stennis's voice was barely audible. "The mathematics of genocide dressed up as maternal devotion."

"And if Kleo refuses?"

"Then we're all dead anyway. Himeth'Zul breaks free, and nothing stops him from devouring everything. At least this way offers a chance, however slim."

Rugr was quiet for a long moment. "But if there are other forces moving pieces on the board..."

"Then the game is more complex than any of us imagined." Stennis looked up at the darkening sky. "Lilith believes she can control the outcome—draw in her father, sacrifice herself, and unleash Kleo as the ultimate weapon. But if she's wrong about the other players..."

"Then her perfect plan becomes someone else's victory."

"Exactly." Stennis's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "We're not looking at war anymore. We're looking at correction. At something rewriting the story so completely that none of us will recognize what remains."

"And what happens to the people caught in the revision?"

Stennis was quiet for a long moment, watching water flow over ancient stone. "We become footnotes in someone else's history."

Rugr stared at the fountain, then lifted his gaze to the darkening sky. Stars were beginning to emerge, distant and indifferent.

"Then let them rewrite it," he said finally.

Stennis turned, one eyebrow arched in surprise. "Even if everything we've fought for disappears?"

"Especially then." Rugr's voice carried a quiet steel. "Better an honest ending than a false victory."

The old warrior straightened, his shoulders squaring despite the weight of revelation.

Stennis rose beside him, joints protesting, the burden of too many secrets settling into his bones like winter cold.

"Then may whatever comes next remember us kindly, old wolf."

Rugr's smile was slight but genuine. "I'm not fighting for their memory, friend."

"Then what?"

Rugr looked once more at the fountain. Watching the water that had flowed here long before their conversation and would continue flowing long after they were gone.

"For the moment when choice matters more than consequence," he said quietly. "When someone has to decide between what's right and what's easy, even if the world ends either way."

Rugr turned and headed for the gate. "It was good to see you old friend, but I've got a party to attend. Wish me luck."

Stennis couldn't help but smile as Rugr made his way out.

His friend had always been this man—easy to admire.

Valuing honesty over comfort, integrity over preserving a compromised legacy. Preferring to accept reality, however painful, rather than clinging to illusions or false victories.

As Rugr closed the gate behind him, Stennis hoped that somewhere out there, others like Rugr existed—though if they did, Cabal certainly wouldn't be where he'd find them.

Chapter 22 - Ready. Set. Party

In the warm marble corridor outside the kitchen, Jack leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed, collar askew, watching as the fading sunlight danced across the mosaic tiles. He tugged at the fabric, muttering under his breath about demons and dress codes.

From the far end of the hall, a woman emerged—hurrying from the direction of the bathing chamber where Brittany and the ham-goblin were allegedly "preparing." She carried a precarious stack of dresses draped over one arm, her posture rigid, lips pressed into a thin line.

Jack straightened. "Did we find a dress?"

At first, she didn't seem to notice him. Her eyes remained wide and distant. When she finally stopped, she looked down at the garments in her arms as if only just remembering they were there.

"A selection was made," she said slowly, "though there was... some disagreement between your daughters."

"Ah. Well... did it all work out?"

"They narrowed it down to three choices. There was a lot of shouting. Some hissing. At one point, the little one summoned a dagger from nowhere. At that moment, I decided I had fulfilled my contract and... excused myself."

Jack winced, his hand instinctively drifting to his belt. His fingers brushed empty leather where the sacred Woog dagger should have been.

"You little thief," he muttered under his breath.

The woman didn't seem to hear. She stood perfectly still, blinking slowly, as if unsure whether she was actually awake.

"Ma'am?" Jack prompted.

She blinked again. "Oh. Am I still here?"

Jack smiled and gestured toward the exit at the end of the hall. "You are. But not for much longer."

She nodded and began walking. Halfway down the corridor, she paused and looked back.

"Good luck," she called, voice barely above a whisper. "You're really going to need it."

"Thanks?" Jack said to the empty hallway as she vanished through the doors.

He sighed and glanced toward the chamber door.

Alise appeared beside him, radiant in a green wrap that managed to be both sacred and scandalous. She brushed imaginary dust from her shoulder.

"You're nervous," she said, not bothering to look—because she already knew.

"I'm not nervous," Jack said.

"You're nervous," she repeated, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Is it the guests? Your ham-obsessed friend? Or perhaps the fact that Brittany's been acting like she's about to unveil some kind of weaponized cherub?"

"It's been a long day," Jack muttered. "And honestly? I can't decide which one's the actual demon—Brittany or the girl."

Alise arched an eyebrow. "Why not both?"

Jack's expression made it clear he wasn't amused.

Alise placed a hand on his arm. "It'll be okay. Brittany is a monster, but only in the sense that she knows exactly what she wants and refuses to let anything stand in her way. And if it helps, she drives Dreya absolutely out of her mind."

The thought made Jack smile, his tension melting away.

"Brittany would make a good Herald."

Alise smirked and shrugged. "You're not wrong. But I'm not stepping down—at least not until I get what I want."

Jack gave her a curious look, and she responded with a flirtatious gaze, trailing her finger down his chest until it hovered dangerously low.

He stepped back as Will and Maya emerged from the kitchen, with Acolyte Marla's cursing echoing above the clatter of pots and pans.

Jack raised a hand in greeting as Maya assessed the charged atmosphere between him and Alise. She sipped her wine with a devilish smile but, for once, kept her thoughts to herself.

"How are things in the kitchen?" Alise asked, bracing for the worst.

"Marla says we need to keep Elijah distracted so he doesn't notice the 'infernal aura' around the punch bowl," Maya said.

"Probably only nutmeg," Will offered. "But I stirred it counterclockwise. Just in case."

Alise chuckled. "Better safe than sorry—you never know with this crew."

Maya smirked, her eyes scanning the room. "If we make it through tonight without spontaneous combustion or a drunken proposal, I'll gladly light a prayer candle."

Alise shrugged and smiled. "Neither would surprise me. Though the real concern is whether we have enough ham."

Just then, Marla's voice burst from the kitchen. "No, no, no! The dumplings go on the silver tray. The obsidian one is for the savory tarts."

They all shared a look of mild concern.

Will leaned toward Jack. "Want to place some bets on how things go tonight?"

"Not if you're in charge of odds," Jack replied.

They turned as Dreya emerged from a side chamber, adjusting her bodice with one hand while deftly securing a hairpin with the other. Her outfit was a cascade of reds, from deep crimson to soft pinks.

Maya turned to Jack. "I thought Rugr's favorite color was blue?"

Dreya made a face at her. "Jealousy looks cute on you."

"And I love that scent you're wearing," Maya shot back. "Desperation?"

"Don't make me ruin this gown," Dreya warned, fluffing the fabric with an exaggerated flourish.

Despite the playful banter, an undercurrent of tension ran through everyone, prompting Alise to keep the preparations moving forward.

"Maya, would you and Will handle the floating lanterns while I start the fire bowls? That would be wonderful."

Will gave a slight mock bow. "As you command, my Herald."

Dreya watched them go, and Jack could sense her nervous energy.

She turned to him, her eyes searching. "How do I look?"

Jack gave her a mock-serious once-over. "Like the prettiest hill giant to ever stomp through a rose garden."

Dreya rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I hate you."

"I know," he said, raising his cup. "Yet, you still love me."

She frowned, sniffing in his general direction. "You smell like ham."

Jack groaned. "It's not me—everything smells like ham."

She sniffed the air again. "No. It's definitely just you."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"What's the latest update on Brittany and your friend?" Dreya asked.

"No idea. Perhaps you should go check on them."

Dreya made a gagging sound. "I'd rather choke to death on a piece of ham."

Jack stifled a laugh. "Same."

---

In the kitchen, chaos reigned—well, as much as Marla would allow.

She stood at the center of it all like a general before battle. Her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands coated in flour, brow glistening. Her hair was pinned back in a valiant but losing campaign against steam and sweat. Her temper remained poised just above simmer.

"I said slice the peaches, not annihilate them," she snapped, as an acolyte held up a dripping mess in a bowl. "That's not a compote, it's a war crime."

Another acolyte passed by with a tray of sticky rolls.

"Where are the figs?" Marla barked. "I asked for glazed figs. These look like something you'd find at the bottom of a wishing well."

A timid voice called out from near the pantry, "We've got the ham, though! Three ready, plus the sliced platter."

Marla wiped her hands on her apron with theatrical restraint. "Well. Saints be praised. More ham. That's what we were missing."

A sharp, rhythmic knock sounded at the side door. Marla gestured to a nearby sister. "Musicians. Send them to the alcove by the garden doors, and if those instruments need tuning, they do it outside."

"Do you think we have enough?" Jack asked from the doorway, arms crossed and amusement plainly written across his face.

Marla didn't even look at him. "If we don't, Brittany's going to start a holy war. God forbid we mess up anything related to your daughter's dinner."

Jack winced. When Brittany had come on to him when they first met, making increasingly bold advances, he'd panicked and claimed he had to look after "his kid." Now, everyone called her his daughter, though he still shied away from embracing the role of father, even in jest.

"You'll probably end up buried in the garden before morning. I'll send flowers."

Marla shot him a withering glare.

Jack grinned. "I'm not helping, am I?"

"No, and if you're going to be in my kitchen," she said, snatching a wooden spoon and pointing it at him, "make yourself useful or go flirt in the hallway."

"Flirting? I'm supervising," Jack said innocently. "You know. Strategic oversight."

"You're loitering with style. Don't confuse the two."

Jack lingered a second longer, then leaned in. "Seriously... it smells amazing in here."

She softened—just a little. "Would you please stop flirting with me? We didn't take a vow of celibacy, you know. It's hardly fair to butter my biscuit if you're not planning to follow through."

"I could most certainly follow through."

"Wonderful. I'll go clear it with Alise, then."

Jack blinked. "Right. No follow-through."

"Exactly. Now get out of my kitchen, handsome."

He obeyed. Smiling.

---

The front door creaked open, and Elijah stepped in, cheeks flushed, arms loaded with bottles.

"I brought wine! Also, Margaret says the ham smells divine, and ravenous gastronomic spirits may descend upon us."

Behind him, Margaret entered with careful grace, her eyes wide as she took in the soft lighting and riot of floral decorations.

"This place is beautiful," Margaret breathed.

"Wait until the party starts," Alise said, approaching from the garden. "We're still in the pre-chaos stage."

Elijah gestured to the long table, dressed in gold and scarlet and covered with food. "Is this feast all for us?"

"For everyone," Jack said, amused. "But you get your fair share."

"Are you sure we have enough ham?" Elijah asked, examining the table more carefully.

Will, who'd finished with the lanterns, raised an eyebrow. "I'm starting to think we might have too much?"

"You don't know the girl like I do," Elijah said seriously. "I'm genuinely concerned we might not have enough."

"We have two whole hams in the kitchen," Jack assured him. "But maybe encourage her to try some sides?"

"Like what, vegetables?" Elijah looked skeptical.

"Or pie," added Margaret. "Who doesn't like pie?"

From the garden doorway, Thespis appeared, tugging nervously at his tunic. Alise caught sight of him and smiled.

"Perfect timing. Elijah, Margaret, have you met Thespis? He's both nervous and brilliant—quite possibly a poet."

Thespis flushed. "Just nervous, really."

"He cleans up well," Alise said, smoothing his collar with a practiced hand. "Still a bit tragic, but now it's intentional."

"I look like an artsy servant," Thespis muttered.

"Which is exactly what Brittany will find irresistible," Alise said as she led him toward the table.

Three acolytes burst from the kitchen in a flurry of whispers and barely stifled giggles, their eyes flicking toward Jack as they passed. One of them nudged another, who quickly looked away, cheeks flushed.

At the turn in the hall, Marla paused to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She gave Jack a lingering glance, then offered a smile both shy and alluring before disappearing around the corner.

Will noticed the exchange and grinned. "Damn, Jack."

Jack blushed. "What?"

"Marla really is something, but I'm putting the odds of you pulling a Dirty Dreya with her at one thousand to one against."

"A what now?" Margaret asked, fascinated.

"And surviving the night," Will added with a smirk.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Course not," Will said innocently. "Just saying—your eyes might be bigger than your stomach."

"I have a healthy appetite," Jack protested. "And everything looks delicious."

Margaret laughed. "I have to agree with Jack. This isn't a gathering, it's a feast."

Alise approached, sensing trouble. "What's going on over here?"

"Oh, nothing," Will said casually. "Just discussing Jack's... dining preferences."

"I see," Alise said, taking a sip from her cup, eyes fixed on Jack. "Well, his eyes are bigger than his stomach."

"Exactly what I said," Will grinned.

Jack scowled. "I'm going to check on Dreya. She's anxious about Rugr."

"Good idea," Alise said. "The girls are getting ready. I should check on them. I'll try to muster up the courage to check on Brittany as well."

Jack headed toward the corridor, muttering, "I liked it better when everyone thought I was stupid and dangerous."

"You still might be," Will called after him. "Emotionally."

"Or gastronomically," added Elijah cheerfully. "Depending on how much ham you eat."

Laughter followed Jack down the hallway as he disappeared around the corner.

Alise waited until he was gone, then leaned toward Margaret. "So... what exactly is a 'Dirty Dreya'?"

Margaret blinked. "I was hoping you knew."

Elijah paled and turned away without saying a word.

Will raised his cup with a grin. "One thousand to one, everyone. Place your bets."

Chapter 23 - Too Much, Not Enough

Back in the corridor, Dreya stood at a window, peering toward the outer gates. Moonlight etched silver across her cheekbones, casting sharp shadows along her jaw. She looked statuesque—fierce, poised—but her fingers betrayed her, fidgeting with the pendant at her neck.

Jack approached, his voice low and warm. "He'll come."

She didn't answer.

"You're worried," he said.

"I am not," she snapped—too quick to be true. "He's... late."

Jack said nothing, leaning against the opposite column. The silence stretched, companionable yet frayed. After a moment, Dreya turned and paced toward the garden, pretending to inspect the stars while her eyes darted toward the path, the hedges, the treeline.

Jack lingered at the window, watching the grounds bathed in moonlight—soft and still. For once, Cabal didn't feel like a city of schemes and ghosts. It felt like a stage before the curtain rose.

Dreya's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp but not unkind. "So. You and Marla?"

Jack blinked. "Marla?"

"Don't play coy. I saw you two. I couldn't hear the words, but her face said enough. Yours too."

He hesitated. "I wasn't flirting. I was just being… me."

"Exactly," Dreya said, folding her arms. "That's what worries me."

He met her gaze, trying to read past the frustration.

"She's tough, sure. But not unbreakable. She won't erupt like Kleo, or blaze like Alise. She'll just... fade." Dreya's voice softened, but the warning remained. "For some, you're both too much and not enough."

Jack grimaced, recognizing the truth in her words.

"You want soft, but you don't do soft—or quiet. It's not who you are. You run a circus, Jack—lions, knives, fire-breathers, high-wire acts in the big top. You collect miracles and misfits, then wonder why chaos follows you."

He managed a faint smile.

"You orbit stars that burn. Alise, Kleo—they're gravitational. The rest? Little more than shadows. Places you hide when the world's too loud. But they'll never last. They weren't meant to."

Jack sighed. "I know."

"There's a hole in you," she said gently. "A grief-shaped one. She's gone, Jack. Even when she comes back. Even if she runs into your arms again."

He didn't answer, and she didn't push.

"Who will she be when she returns?" Dreya asked quietly. "Will she even know how to look at you the same way?"

His jaw tightened.

"She didn't leave because she wanted to ascend. She left to protect you. She needed to ascend to become stronger—strong enough to matter when it counts. And when she comes back, Jack—because she will—she'll either save us all or bring the whole world down."

"That binary?"

"Yes."

She stepped closer, her voice softening. "And she'll need you. Not just the lover, but the anchor. The ringleader. Every aspect of you. The circus only holds because of you—because you let the fire rage without burning everything down. Kleo trusts that. Alise hopes for it. And girls like Marla... they won't even recognize what kind of storm they're standing in."

Jack exhaled. "You think I'm the heart of this?"

"You're the person the crowd doesn't notice is holding the entire show together."

He stood motionless, her words coiling around his thoughts like wire.

"Whatever you do next," Dreya continued, "do it with love. Not guilt. Not fear. Not escape. Love. Because that's the thread running through this mad little circus of yours. And if you drop that? You're not Jack anymore. You're just another act on someone else's stage."

Jack looked up, lips parting. "Thanks—"

But Dreya was already gone.

He caught a glimpse of her dashing across the garden, her silk skirts streaming like fire behind her. She vaulted the stone steps and raced toward the trees where Rugr waited, arms wide, bracing for the inevitable collision.

Jack smiled, blinking back a sting in his eyes.

He remembered Kleo in the desert—running toward him with no hesitation, no caution. Only velocity and trust. Everything that ever mattered, crashing into him like a rogue sun.

That was what Dreya and Rugr had now, what he hoped to feel again.

Behind him, the faint sound of laughter and music spilled from the hall.

He turned toward it, heart heavy yet illuminated.

The hallway had fallen quiet—until a soft footfall broke the stillness.

Alise emerged from the shadows, arms folded, expression unreadable. She leaned in the doorway, silhouetted in moonlight, her presence neither announced nor hidden.

"You always have the best conversations when you think no one's listening," she said.

Jack blinked. "How long were you—"

"Long enough."

She stepped into the corridor, her gaze flicking to the spot where Dreya had stood. "She's right, you know. About most of it."

Jack gave a dry smile. "Really?"

Alise tilted her head. "The fire. The gravity. The circus."

He laughed. "Thought you weren’t a fan of circuses."

"I’m not," she said. "But I like the way you run this one."

She started to move past him, but paused, eyes narrowing—not with judgment, but something closer to warning.

"Whatever comes next... it's going to get loud, Jack. Don't mistake stillness for peace."

Then she was gone, her footsteps melting into the hum of party chatter beyond the archway.

Jack stood alone in the hallway, his breath slow, pulse steady. Beneath his feet, the world turned.

And somewhere in the temple's heart, the girl who would upend everything was drawing closer—quiet now, but not for long.

Chapter 24 - Guest of Honor

The gathering hummed with nervous energy, guests nursing drinks and making careful conversation while acolytes fussed over the already-overflowing table. In the corner, three musicians played instruments that seemed to change with every tune—flutes becoming strings, strings becoming something else entirely. Everyone was waiting, though they pretended not to be.

Elijah and Margaret stood close together, smiling and giggling between bites of fruit. They were enjoying the modest festivities, unaware of the tension threading through the room. The meal would begin as soon as Brittany arrived with the demon girl.

Jack sighed. It had been a long afternoon.

The sounds from the bathing chamber had been varied and distressingly loud: sulking sobs, indignant howls, the occasional growl of rage, and more than one thump that suggested something heavy had been thrown across the room. He hadn't dared go in. Brittany had insisted on handling it, alternating between coaxing sweetness and ruthless command like a seasoned interrogator.

He owed her.

She'd even reminded him, sticking her head out the door, hair wild, eyes blazing.

"You owe me, Jack. Big time."

He had nodded solemnly.

She continued to glare. Then, with a dramatic huff, she slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Whatever she wanted—probably his firstborn child—seemed like a small price to pay.

Now, standing off to the side, nursing a cup and his guilt, he heard Brittany's voice rise above the clatter like a bell.

"May I present… our guest of honor. Princess Ellie."

She stepped aside with a flourish, revealing the girl in full.

Clean and radiant, her hair brushed into soft, glistening curls, the girl stood uncertainly in the archway. The transformation was staggering—her dress shimmered faintly in the torchlight, its hem swaying just above her red boots. She blinked at the gathered crowd with wide, unguarded eyes, searching for approval.

And for a moment, no one spoke.

The silence wasn't simple awe—it was recognition. Like seeing a ghost step out of memory and into flesh.

Rugr's mouth parted, but no sound emerged. He gripped his wrist behind his back, knuckles white, steadying himself against the impossible.

Jack's chest rose and fell sharply. His mind reeled between denial and impossibility—this couldn't be her, but those eyes, that face... His gaze darted between the girl and the others, desperate for someone to tell him he was seeing things.

Thespis leaned forward, drawn by something he couldn't name. His hands trembled as recognition hit him like a physical blow. Without a word, he turned and walked away, unable to process what his heart was telling him.

Even Dreya's usual smirk faltered, her cup frozen halfway to her lips.

Alise, who had been sipping wine with a lazy grin, lowered her cup and stared, eyes narrowing. The color drained from her face—something was deeply, cosmically wrong here.

Elijah, Margaret, and the acolytes remained unaware of the more profound implications. Elijah beamed. "Well now," he said with a grandfather's pride. "You've gone and turned into a proper little lady, haven't you? Such a beauty."

The girl looked to Jack, seeking something—anything—in his face. His frozen expression hit her like a slap. Her chin quivered, confusion and hurt flickering across her features.

That's when Maya moved.

She stepped forward, smiling wide as she knelt. "Don't you look amazing?" she said, taking the girl's hands. "Did Brittany do your hair? Of course she did. She's a genius."

The spell shattered.

Brittany beamed, relieved. "She fought me the whole way, but look at her! Total princess mode, right?"

That broke the tension. A wave of murmurs, compliments, and awkward chuckles passed through the crowd. Glasses were raised, and laughter resumed—forced, but functional.

Jack blinked, shook his head as if clearing a fog, and forced a smile. Yet his hands still trembled as he lifted his cup. Rugr didn't smile—he stepped back into the shadows, his eyes fixed on the girl as if he expected her to run into his arms.

Maya tugged Will aside, her fingers digging into his sleeve as she pulled him into the shadows near the hallway arch.

Her voice was low, urgent. "Will… that's Kleo."

Will blinked. "You mean the child?"

"It's Kleo. Hair. Eyes. Face. Body. Everything. I'm telling you, it's her."

Will leaned his head back, squinting at the girl across the room as if recalibrating his entire understanding of reality. "But... we were with Kleo not that long ago. She was twenty-three, not ten. How does that even…"

"I don't know how," Maya hissed. "But look at her. Really look."

He glanced back at the girl, then at Maya's determined expression. "Maybe it's her daughter? Or some kind of... temporal echo?"

"A what?"

"I don't know. Magic? Time stuff? You know how weird things get around Jack." Will's voice carried the strain of someone trying to rationalize the impossible. "For all we know, it could be some kind of golem. A construct. A… simulation."

"A simulation?"

"Yeah. You know. Something designed to be Kleo. Or like her. But not her. A copy."

Maya stared at him, incredulous. "A copy? Did you see how she looked at Jack? That wasn't artificial. She was desperate for approval. It's Kleo, and Jack knows it—look at him."

They both turned to watch Jack. His forced smile couldn't hide the way his eyes kept darting to the girl, then away—unable to hold the gaze of something that hurt too much to face.

Will exhaled, folding his arms. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just saying... this breaks everything I thought I understood about how the world works."

They both turned to look again at the girl now laughing nervously as Brittany fluffed her curls, trying to restore the lightness in the room. But Maya's expression had hardened.

“She’s real. I know it. I see it. That’s not a simulation. It’s her.”

Will didn't argue further. But something unsettled was brewing in his eyes.

The girl still clung to Brittany's hand as the attention turned to food and music. She smiled—a little fragile, but it held. Elijah gave her a wink. Dreya raised a cup in her honor, though her eyes flicked back to Jack, gauging his reaction.

Jack, ever the ringmaster, lifted his voice.

"Alright, alright. Let's eat before Dreya stabs someone."

His quip earned a few laughs, and the spell of silence finally broke for good. They uncovered the dishes, poured more wine, and the music began anew.

At the edge of it all, the girl sat beside Brittany, quiet as a mouse, nibbling at a honey cake while watching Jack from across the table.

She didn't understand what she'd done wrong.

And Jack didn't know how to face what he was afraid might be true.

Chapter 25 - Gravity

Rugr stood in the shadow of the inner threshold, watching flames leap from the great stone bowls like caged spirits seeking freedom. Their golden light danced along the columns and traced long shadows across the tiled courtyard. Try as they might, their warmth failed to penetrate the cold knot in his chest.

Laughter drifted through the open temple, weaving around voices, flickering torches, and the low hum of shared food and wine. He should have joined them—should have taken his place at the table, raised a cup, played his part. Instead, he remained apart, arms crossed, watching.

Jack occupied the center seat, his hair wild, his smile crooked as always. Alise pressed against his side, laughing at something only the two of them could hear. Maya and Will pelted the girl with olives, which she caught in her mouth and spat back at them. Brittany watched Thespis with an expression that suggested she couldn't decide whether to kiss him or set him on fire. Probably both.

Dreya was there too—elegant, sharp-eyed, impossible to ignore. Her glance caught his once, and she smiled. He allowed himself a nod. She was glad he was here. He was grateful they all were.

And yet…

Rugr's chest ached. Not with emotion, but with gravity. The unspoken weight. The pattern behind the pattern. The knowledge that this flickering joy, this unguarded gathering, was all temporary. The board was set. The pieces moved. And few here had any idea what was watching from the dark edges of the world.

Lilith. Himeth'Zul. Seris. The Fates. The Well.

They were forces older than memory—too vast to comprehend. And here he was, a soldier with a stiff back and a simple code, wondering how Jack, Alise...and somehow he, had ended up at the center of it all.

There was no instruction manual. No guiding prophecy. Only an unbearable tension between choice and inevitability.

He felt the weight pressing into his spine, into his bones—five times heavier than anything he'd ever carried. His breath caught for a moment. The knowledge Stennis had shared pressed down like a physical thing: the truth about Lilith's plan, about what Kleo was meant to become, about the choice that would destroy her either way.

But then Ellie's laughter cut through his spiral of dread—bright, unguarded, pure and joyful. He watched her crown herself with lettuce, and something in his chest loosened.

He let go of the wall and stepped forward.

There was a choice to be made. Not the cosmic one—that would come later. But this one. Here. Now. He could carry this burden alone, let it crush him into immobility, or he could choose to be present for whatever time remained.

He looked again, really looked.

Brittany had kissed Thespis on the cheek and darted away before he could process it. Will was twirling Maya as they danced with Elijah and Margaret. Jack was distributing little paper birds he'd folded, while Alise pretended not to treasure hers.

And Ellie—in every aspect of her, he saw one thing: Kleo. Running barefoot as a child, hair tangled, shouting at shadows. Then older, standing in the wind, fire in her eyes and sadness in her hands. His child. His light. Whether she was somehow transformed, or an echo, or something beyond his understanding—the love remained the same.

The pressure eased.

He still didn't know how to stop what was coming. Still couldn't see a path that didn't end in sacrifice and transformation. But maybe—just maybe—if he could figure out how to change the choice itself, how to give Kleo a third option when the moment came...

Everything might still be all right.

Rugr pushed away from the threshold and walked toward the table.

Toward the joy.

Toward whatever time they had left together.

Chapter 26 - Party Crashers

The room still buzzed with conversation when the garden doors burst open.

Startled, everyone turned.

A dozen men in mismatched armor entered the courtyard, loud and stinking of back-alley bravado. At the front walked a man Jack recognized—not by name, but by reputation. One of the Lower Granton racketeers. A bruiser who used to shake down bakers and brewers.

He smiled like he'd walked into his own tavern.

"Evening," he thundered. "Heard you were hosting a little get-together. Thought we'd drop in."

Voices died mid-sentence. Every eye turned toward Jack, who rose slowly. "This is a private party."

The racketeer spread his arms in mock apology. "Cabal's not so private these days, Jack. Word travels fast. And you've been making quite the splash."

Two of the thugs peeled off, heading toward the fountain where Elijah and Margaret had been dancing with Ellie and Brittany.

Jack lifted his hands, a gesture of calm, though his voice had hardened. "We don't want any trouble."

They didn't listen.

One thug shoved Elijah hard, sending him sprawling across the stone tiles. Margaret cried out and dropped beside him. The second grabbed Ellie by the hair and yanked her close.

"You're going to regret that," Brittany warned, stepping forward.

The thug sneered, drawing a dagger and holding it to Ellie's throat.

"Let her go," Jack said, lowering his hands, mana coiling under his skin. He didn't move—but something in Ellie's stillness told him that if the man wasn't careful, she would.

The racketeer raised a hand. "Easy," he told his friend. "We're not here to start trouble. We're here to talk."

Rugr's voice cut in from the archway—tight, cold.

"It's too late for that."

The racketeer half-turned, reassessing the room.

Jack's eyes never left Ellie. Her shoulders rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

His voice dropped, heavy with mana and something close to panic. "Let the girl go. Then say what you came to say."

"We have an invitation for Jack of Cabal," he said. "An old friend wants a word."

The thug holding Ellie grinned, tightening his grip and jerking her throat closer to the blade.

"Soft little thing. Maybe she comes with us. As insurance."

Then Ellie blinked.

Her gaze went glassy. Her mouth twitched.

And then it opened—no scream, no fear. Just a mouth stretched too wide. Rows of razor-sharp teeth. A warning.

The thug recoiled.

"What the horror—?" he whispered, stumbling back.

The others turned, eyes wide, hands drifting to weapons they no longer trusted.

Then she changed.

Her spine stretched with wet, organic snaps. Joints cracked. Limbs lengthened. Her silhouette warped as if drawn out by unseen wires. She grew—taller, heavier—still childlike in proportion, but grotesquely wrong. A ten-year-old stretched to nightmare scale. Her skin thinned to translucence, golden veins glimmering beneath.

She was still Ellie.

But now she was something else.

And then she was behind the racketeer.

No one saw her move.

She simply was.

Her hands—elongated, delicate, wrong—clamped onto his shoulders. Her maw—wet, gleaming, gaping wide—loweredover his head. Teeth pressed into the soft fold of his neck, slow and deliberate.

Then she stopped.

Holding him.

The room froze.

A violin screeched—its player collapsed against the wall, bow clattering to the floor, hands trembling.

Rugr's hand hovered over his sword. His eyes scanned the courtyard, mapping exits, measuring odds. Ready—but not yet moving.

The thugs stood paralyzed. Sweat dripped. Brittany remained still, arms crossed, unbothered. The other acolytes stared in stunned disbelief.

Even Jack didn't move—caught between the need to protect and the understanding that any sudden motion might make things worse.

Ellie's eyes—coal black and unblinking—found his. Her breath came slow, curling steam from her nostrils. Saliva dripped from her jaw.

She could kill him.

But she didn't.

And Jack understood.

She wasn't the hostage.

She had taken one.

The key hostage.

As the racketeer trembled in her grip, knees threatening to buckle, her jaw flexed—just enough to make his skull creak.

Jack winced, holding his breath.

It wasn't an attack—it was a message.

This is what I could do.

Then—finally—the man began to scream.

Chapter 27 - Thanks for Listening

The man's muffled screams echoed from inside Ellie’s mouth, her teeth clamped around his neck. His whole body locked up in silent prayer. Hands pressed uselessly against her face, trying to keep her jaws from snapping his head clean off. Air would soon become a problem.

Jack waved his arms frantically.

"No, no, no! We do not bite people's heads off!"

The demon girl stared at him with those abyssal eyes. He saw it—the flicker of disappointment, the reluctant resignation. With a low growl, she began to withdraw. Deliberate. Slow. Her teeth dragging across the man's skin, carving thin rivulets of blood that mixed with spit in a sticky sheen.

The intruder collapsed to his knees, gasping, one trembling hand clutching the side of his face.

As she released him, Ellie's form began to shift back—bones contracting with wet pops, joints realigning, her elongated limbs drawing back to their proper proportions. Within moments, she appeared human again, though her eyes were still black mirrors, endless and unreadable.

No one moved. Alise raised an eyebrow, impressed. Dreya grinned, wicked and approving.

Jack sighed, his heart still hammering from what he'd witnessed. This man was scum—but biting heads off at a temple party still felt like poor form. Then he saw it. The bloodied stump. His jaw tightened.

"Where's his ear?"

Ellie didn't answer. Her face twisted in a silent snarl, eyes locked on Jack with accusation.

He held out his hand, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Give me the ear. Now."

She scowled, turned to Alise.

Alise shrugged. "Give it back, sweetie. There'll be plenty more. Besides, we've got another ham if you're still hungry."

Ellie considered this, then let out a grunt and extended her tongue.

There, perched delicately at its tip, was the ear.

"Eww," Jack said, recoiling.

He turned to the still-kneeling man, now caught in a coughing fit. "If you want it, take it. Otherwise…" Jack gestured vaguely. "Up to you."

The man whimpered. "P-please… I beg you… please…"

Ellie rolled her eyes and spat it at him. Jack nudged it closer with his foot.

He met Ellie's eyes, trying to force a smile that wouldn't come. The weight of what she was—what she could become—pressed against his chest like a stone.

"Thank you for listening," he said.

Ellie's nose twitched. Her frustration hadn't eased. These men had ruined her night. Threatened her family. And now, this upstart, room-stealing man was robbing her of her vengeance. The fact that they needed each other was not lost on her, but his silence, eyes avoiding her all night. Why didn't he see her? She had done this for him. Bathed. Played dress up. Ate politely. Smiled.

Ugh.

Her frustration boiled over, and with a guttural howl, she turned on another thug, jaws gaping. She screamed in his face, hot breath and saliva spraying like a squall. The man fainted on the spot.

No one rushed to help him. All eyes remained on her as she stormed from the room.

Maya made a move, but Brittany stepped in.

"I got this," she said with a calm smile. "Three little sisters. This isn't even top five."

Maya nodded and stepped back as Brittany disappeared down the hall after Ellie.

Rugr took control. "The rest of you. On your knees. Hands on your heads."

The thugs hesitated. Dreya cracked the first one down without hesitation, and the rest scrambled to comply.

"I love it when you use that voice," she said, trailing a hand across Rugr's back.

He grunted, unimpressed.

She grabbed his ass as she passed, making him jump. "Try it on me later."

He watched her go, a slow smile creeping in. It had been three hundred years since this feeling had stirred in his chest. Not lust. Love.

Alise watched them from across the room, eyes knowing. They had contained the immediate threat, but the night was far from over—and it was going to be a banger.

She turned to Jack. "Let's get this one somewhere private."

Jack nodded, but hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the hallway where Ellie had disappeared. The weight of responsibility—and something deeper—settled in his chest. "I'll be there in a minute. Going to check on Elijah and Margaret first."

"Fine," she said, yanking the man to his feet.

"Marla," she snapped, dragging the thug forward. "Take the rest of the girls—check the perimeter, then get ready—we're going out."

The acolytes exchanged glances. Then came the grins. Life had been dull before the Herald arrived.

They stepped out into the yard, laughter already spilling into the dark. Tonight was a gift, and they knew it would be one to remember—because when you only had one night, you didn't waste it.

You burned it.

---

Five minutes later, Jack found Alise and the man in a laundry room that reeked of stale wine and old soap. A tub of murky water in the corner gave off a pungent, sour stench. Alise stood beside it, sleeves rolled up, one boot resting casually on the edge. The gang leader—wiry, older, and bleeding from the stump of the missing ear—knelt before her, trying and failing miserably to look tough.

Jack leaned against the doorframe, still processing what had happened in the courtyard. The image of Ellie transforming, of that inhuman maw closing around a man's head, played on repeat in his mind. Part of him was horrified. But another part—a part that scared him—felt something close to pride.

Alise crouched. "Who sent you?"

The man hesitated only a second. "Darro Ven. Eastside crew. Boss wants to make a move on Raphor Stills. Wants to know what he and Jack are up to."

Jack, arms folded, exhaled through his nose. "Darro Ven. Figures."

Without a word, Alise shoved the man's head into the tub.

Jack jolted. "What the hell? He answered the question!"

"So?" she said, keeping his head under.

"He can't talk like that!"

Alise rolled her eyes, exasperated, and finally yanked the man back up. He gasped and sputtered, coughing up foul water onto the floor.

"That's what happens when you tell the truth," she said with mock sweetness. "Try lying and see what happens."

The man blinked through the sludge in his eyes, dazed and terrified.

"Where is this Darro Ven?" Alise asked, stepping closer.

The man flinched, his eyes darting to the tub. "He has a compound—on the east side! An old storehouse. Brick building, green shutters. If he’s not there, he’ll be in the safe room at the Fettered Flame. I'll take you, I swear!"

Alise nodded, smile softening. "Thank you."

The man exhaled in visible relief.

Then Alise grabbed him by the belt and collar and shoved half his body—head, shoulders, and one thrashing leg—into the tub with a loud splash.

"Alise!" Jack barked. "What are you doing?"

She tilted her head, all innocence. "Nothing."

Jack stared. "Alise?"

She blinked at him. "What?"

He sighed, thinking of Ellie's disappointed eyes, of the way she'd looked at him when he'd stopped her from finishing what she'd started.

"Let him go."

"Why? We don't need him anymore."

"Because we don't kill people if we can avoid it."

She groaned. "Who made that stupid rule?"

"I did."

"Well, I don't like it. Let's discuss these things first. I have top billing, you know. Alise and Jack."

"There will be no Alise and Jack if you kill him."

"Dreya's going to lose her mind when you tell her. Killing people is what gets her out of bed in the morning."

"Happy to deal with that. Now, let him go."

She growled, then yanked the man from the tub and flung him to the floor like a wet towel. He coughed violently, soaking and humiliated.

Jack gave her a tired look, the parallel not lost on him—first Ellie, now Alise. Both frustrated by his moral boundaries, both capable of terrible things, both looking to him for... what? Permission? Guidance? Love?

"Whatever," she huffed, brushing her hands.

Jack offered her a faint smile, the same one he'd tried to give Ellie.

"Thank you for listening."

The words felt heavier this time, weighted with the realization that this was his role now. He was the one who set the boundaries, who asked for restraint. He was the one who had to love them while keeping them from becoming what their true nature demanded—monsters.

Chapter 28 - No Mercy

The temple kitchen was quiet, but not asleep.

From the hallway came faint laughter—Elijah, Margaret, Ellie, and the acolytes were playing cards and eating warm pie. It was a designed distraction. They were buying time, buying silence, because the rest of the temple had gone still with intent.

In the glow of the hearth, six figures gathered around the butcher's table. The pot on the fire hissed, as if it wanted to speak but knew better. The air smelled of burnt thyme, old copper, and sharpening steel—and above all, ham. More pies sat forgotten on the counter, their cooling crusts a crackling whisper in the dying heat.

Jack sat with both hands wrapped around a chipped mug, firelight casting shifting shadows across his face. His tea had gone cold.

Alise leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, her magic twitching with impatience. Dreya crouched atop the flour bins, all knees and elbows and eager violence. Maya stood by the window, sipping wine straight from the bottle. Will straddled a chair backwards, arms folded over the top like a man halfway through a bad idea. Rugr loomed behind them all, unmoving, unreadable, his presence filling the space like a drawn blade.

"It's not a question of if they come," Will said. "They will. Thieves. Nobles. Cults. Demon cults dressed as nobles—doesn't matter. You're not a rumor anymore, Jack. You're gravity. Everything rolls toward you now."

Alise added, "And the longer you pretend you're nothing more than a simple tavern act with a haunted past, the more they'll test you. They'll probe the edges. Look for cracks."

"I don't want to be that guy," Jack said quietly. "The one people whisper about in fear."

Dreya leaned forward, grinning. "Fear's what keeps idiots alive—and away."

"I didn't come back to Cabal to paint the walls with blood."

Maya raised her bottle. "We're not painting. We're writing a message. Clear. Succinct."

"No innocents," Rugr said, finally speaking. "No children. No bystanders. But the rest? Fair game."

Jack looked at him. "You're okay with this?"

"I'm okay with protecting what matters," Rugr replied. "And making sure no one confuses kindness for weakness."

Dreya slid off the bin, pacing toward him, boots whispering against the flagstones. "They won't come for you, Jack. Not first. They'll come for Elijah. Margaret. Ellie."

Jack exhaled hard through his nose. "I'd like to see them try with Ellie."

"I wouldn't," Dreya said. "By the time she's done, half of Cabal's ash and she's playing someone's jawbone like a flute. But they won't face her head-on. They'll poison her food. Drug her. Hit her when she's sleeping. Even demons have weaknesses."

Jack's expression darkened.

"Think about Elijah," Alise continued, her voice softer now. "He's sweet. Earnest. Trusting. An easy target. Same with Margaret. All it takes is one knife in an alley. One poisoned bottle of wine."

"They wouldn't even have to kill them," Maya added. "Threaten them. Kidnap them. Either way, they'll use them to make you crawl."

Jack’s jaw tightened. He stared into the fire, watching the flames lick over the logs like tiny dancers mourning the dead. The pot hissed again, a quiet warning. In the distance, Ellie’s laugh rang out—bright, innocent, unaware.

And in that sound, Jack heard everything he had to lose.

“I don’t want a war,” he said.

“Then end it before it starts,” Will said. “Hit first. Hit hard. Hit loud. Let them know Cabal’s not safe ground for this kind of game.”

Silence settled over the room. The fire crackled. The pie crusts whispered their cooling song. Somewhere down the hall, Ellie howled—a rising scream that cracked into a demonic cackle—and something in Jack snapped.

He would burn the world before he let anyone harm her.

Finally, Jack spoke, his voice carrying the weight of a man crossing a line he could never uncross.

"No mercy."

Rugr nodded once.

"No civilians," Jack added, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "No children. No innocents. But everyone else? I want them to remember. I want them to wake up in cold sweats thinking about what happens when you threaten my family."

He paused, the weight of what he was asking—what he was becoming—settling in his chest like lead.

"I'm sorry for what I'm about to ask you to do. And what I'm about to become."

Dreya grinned, already moving. "Don't apologize for protecting what you love."

Will stood, rolling his shoulders. "Let's go ruin someone's night."

Maya tossed the empty bottle into the hearth. It shattered in a burst of blue flame.

"Praise be to the Arcane Fire."

Alise clapped Jack on the back. "You're not going to regret this nearly as much as you think—probably."

Jack grimaced. "We'll see. Can you send Brittany in? I want to know how Ellie is doing."

"Sure thing."

He watched her go, a sudden ferocity to her step.

And as soon as the door closed behind her, the war drums began to beat.

---

Jack lingered in the kitchen, rubbing the bridge of his nose. With the conversation concluded, the strike on Darro Ven was moving forward, plans already taking shape.

He was waiting for Brittany. For an update—on Ellie, on the thugs, on whatever fresh chaos had erupted in the last ten minutes.

The kitchen door creaked open.

Brittany swept in, all smiles and fire.

"Reporting for duty, Captain Hotstuff," she grinned, plucking a plum from the fruit bowl. "Also, side note—Thespis? Socute. Like, stupid cute. Is he single? Asking for a friend."

Jack didn't look up. "You are the friend."

"Guilty."

"How's Ellie?"

"She's fine. Actually laughing. Talking some. Kinda spooky. Kinda adorable."

Jack blinked. "She's... talking?"

Brittany nodded, biting into the plum. "Yeah. A few words. Not many, but more than one at a time. Honestly? Kinda made me tear up. Then she got mad and threw a spoon at Elijah, so... definitely bonding."

Jack smirked. "That tracks."

Brittany cocked her head. "That it?"

"I was thinking you could stay back," Jack said. "Keep an eye on Ellie. And Elijah. Someone's got to watch the thugs."

"Not happening."

"Why not?"

She leaned on the counter, eyes sharper now. "Because bad people threatened the temple. And Ellie. And I plan to set an example—like everyone else."

"Ellie's not coming," Jack said. "She stays here. Safe."

Brittany shrugged. "It might help your cause if she tags along. Thespis and I can watch her."

Jack straightened. "Out of the question."

"She'll feel safer with us," Brittany said, stepping closer. "And if we leave her behind? She'll know why. Not exactly the best way to win her over. Besides, she'll probably follow us anyway."

"Ugh." Jack knew she was right.

She pointed a finger at his chest.

"She needs us, Jack. A family. People who'll show up for her."

Jack's mind raced back to the scene at the well, the voice: Where your family will find you. And where you will find them.

"Most of all? She needs you."

Jack frowned. "Me? Why me?"

Brittany raised an eyebrow. "Because she's your daughter?"

Jack froze. "She's not—"

But Brittany plowed ahead.

"And she's beautiful. And vulnerable. And all she wants is for you to see her. Acknowledge she exists. The least you can do is let her come with us."

Jack sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine. What about the thugs?"

Brittany smiled. "No worries. I'll go kill them for you right now."

Jack threw up his hands. "No! No killing. What is wrong with you people?"

She shrugged. "Trying to make the world a better place."

"By killing people. How does that work, exactly?"

"Just the bad ones," she said, as if it were self-evident.

Jack groaned. "I'd rather tie them up and have Maya put them to sleep. We can decide what to do with them later."

Brittany shrugged again. "Sure. I'll find someone to watch them tonight—as a precaution."

Jack blinked. "Really? That would be great."

She smiled. "Okay. Be right back!"

She turned on her heel and disappeared out the door.

Jack stared after her, scratched the side of his head, then muttered,

"…Whatever."

---

Jack stepped back into the main hall, his shoulders heavy, his brain already unraveling at the edges. The others were still there, gathered near the long table where they had mapped out the strike.

He didn't wait for questions.

"You," he said, pointing at one of the acolytes near the wall. "You and—yeah, you. Take the thugs somewhere out of the way. Tie them up."

One of them gave a crisp nod. "Aye, aye, Captain."

Jack rubbed his face. "And Maya. Put them to sleep if you can."

Another nod. "Yes, Jack."

Maya and the acolytes rounded up the thugs and escorted them toward the side corridor. Dreya and Rugr fell in behind, brimming with quiet intensity.

Alise raised a brow. "Where's Brittany?"

Jack exhaled. "No idea. She said something about finding someone to watch the thugs while we're out."

Alise narrowed her eyes. "Hmmm."

Jack turned to Elijah and Margaret. "You two should stay here tonight. Safer inside the temple. The thugs won't cause any more trouble—Brittany's bringing someone to keep an eye on them."

Margaret glanced toward Elijah. "We were going to head back... but I suppose—"

"—we'll stay," Elijah cut in, nodding. "Sure. We'll stay."

Alise chimed in, "Eastside might get a little too hot tonight anyway. Best to stay tucked in."

Jack nodded. "Exactly."

Then—

The garden door creaked open.

Jack turned as Brittany sauntered in, hands on her hips, grinning like she'd solved world hunger.

Behind her came three girls.

Younger. Beautiful. Each one more chaotic-looking than the last. Their hair was windswept, their boots thunderous, and their expressions ranged from playful to just let me hit something.

Brittany beamed. "Everyone, meet my sisters."

She gestured dramatically. "Diamond. Destiny. And Charity."

The trio struck poses as if by instinct.

All beautiful. All firecrackers.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What is this?"

Brittany smiled. "Reinforcements."

Diamond, the eldest—pushing sixteen—tilted her head, eyes locked on Jack.

"Is that him?"

Brittany rocked on her heels, fighting a smile. "Uh-huh."

Diamond grinned. "Can I get a baby too?"

Brittany turned red, flicking a glance at Alise. Barely moving her lips, she muttered sideways, "Maybe? Can we talk about it later?"

Destiny, fourteen and bold, leaned forward. "I think he'd prefer me. Men like girls who make a lot of noise."

"I make noise," Diamond snapped.

Destiny scoffed. "Yeah. Little rabbit whimpers."

Charity—eleven, the most disheveled of the bunch—immediately joined in, making high-pitched squeaks and pawing at the air.

Then, Destiny and Charity burst into giggles, their mocking whimpers echoing around the hall.

Diamond lunged, shrieking, "I'll kill you, you little morons!"

"Girls!" Alise's voice cracked across the room like a whip.

All three froze.

Even Brittany straightened like she'd been caught sneaking into the wine cellar.

Alise pointed. "You have a job to do. This is Elijah. This is Margaret. You are to keep them safe until we return. Anything happens..." Her eyes narrowed. "And I assure you—there will be no Jack in your future."

The girls collectively paled.

"Yes, Herald!"

"We're on the job!"

"You can count on us!"

Brittany gave a little salute for good measure.

As the four girls led Elijah and Margaret out, whispering and giggling until they were out of earshot, Jack leaned toward Alise.

"What's with the stripper names?"

Alise snorted, covering her mouth.

"Brittany's mom is a stripper. Or was," she whispered. "The oldest is Diamond—because her father proposed with a diamond ring. Next is Destiny—because the love with her father was fated."

Jack raised a brow. "And Charity?"

Alise grinned. "By that point, she was giving it away for free."

Jack stared at her. Mouth tight. One long, soul-deep sigh.

"Right. Can we go now?" he said. "Before anyone else shows up?"

Chapter 29 - Raid

Four groups moved like shadows through the moonlit alleys of Cabal's east side, robes cinched tight, boots silent on the cobblestone. Laughter was muffled. Weapons were not.

They moved fast, cutting through the city like heat lightning. The energy was electric, like the party had spilled into the streets and put on cowls.

Jack moved beside Alise, her hood down, braid swinging. Behind them, Dreya led Rugr and the three eager acolytes like a pack of wolves in silk. The third group was quieter: Thespis, Brittany, and Ellie—who cradled a half-gnawed ham bone like a primal weapon. Maya and Will trailed further behind, keeping an eye on the rear.

Jack hissed over his shoulder, "I'm serious. Recon first, raid second."

Alise scoffed. "If we know where the rats are hiding, why not just light the place on fire?"

Dreya chimed in from behind. "Or, we could walk in, break skulls, let the gods sort out the mess."

Jack turned, exasperated. "No! No 'gods sorting it out'—that's how you get stacks of bodies, and there will be a lot of collateral damage. Women, for sure. Maybe children."

Rugr grunted. "He has a point."

Dreya rolled her eyes. "You're no fun anymore."

Rugr smacked her ass.

"Okay," she blushed, "that was fun."

Alise rolled her eyes. "You two want to drop in the street like dogs, or can it wait until we get back?"

Dreya considered the question, then turned to Rugr. "Honey?"

Rugr recoiled, uncomfortable with the pet name. “We’ll wait,” he said dryly.

Dreya sighed. "Now you're no fun again."

Rugr groaned, and they continued in silence.

Fifteen minutes in, they reached a rooftop across from the derelict building—an ugly slab of a brick, all broken windows and iron-banded doors. Flickering lanterns marked the guards on the second-story landing, leaning lazily against the railing, half-drunk and half-awake.

The groups crouched along the edge, surveying the layout. Jack motioned for silence.

Then Brittany whispered, "Wait… where's Ellie?"

Heads turned.

Thespis, unnerved but not surprised, pointed. "Up there."

All eyes followed his finger.

The demon girl was halfway up the stairwell, robes fluttering behind her like wings, the ham bone still in hand.

One of the guards squinted. "What's this? A little girl?"

The other leaned over and chuckled. "Not too little, by my reckoning."

The first stood. "Hey, kid—"

The howl hit like a lightning strike.

Guttural, high-pitched, teeth gleaming in the lamplight. She launched at them with terrifying speed. The first guard didn't even finish raising his weapon. The second let out a yelp before his throat was already gone.

Both bodies hit the ground with wet finality.

Dreya grinned, lips parting into a fangy smile. "See? Brute force for the win."

Jack, still crouched behind the parapet, slid his hand down his face in slow despair.

"Why does she always howl first?" he mumbled.

When he looked up, everyone was already moving—faces stern, blades flashing, spells being quietly muttered like party favors.

Jack stayed kneeling for a breath longer.

"For the goddesses sake," he muttered, climbing to his feet, "can we not kill everyone?"

Then, he took a breath, steeling his resolve for what he knew was coming, and followed them into the building.

---

The building's interior was a maze of narrow passages and flickering torchlight. The groups had scattered—each finding their own path through the chaos.

The corridors of the compound were dim and narrow—perfect for ambushes. Or as Dreya preferred to call them, "mommy’s little death traps."

A muffled scream echoed behind Rugr, and he turned.

Dreya grinned, wiping her blade on the tunic of the man she'd just downed. "Two for me."

Rugr didn't reply. He stepped over a corpse with solemn efficiency and slit a man's throat as he tried to crawl away.

"Look who's in the game," Dreya purred.

Rugr didn't look at her. "I don't keep score."

Dreya rolled her eyes, already sheathing her dagger. "Well, I do. Two to one. My favor."

“I don’t do it for sport,” Rugr said, gaze flicking past her. "You want to know why I do it?"

Before she could answer, he shoved her against the wall—not rough, but sudden. His arm shot out, plunging a blade through a thug creeping up behind her, sword raised.

The man grunted, then crumpled like a sack of wet meat.

"I do it to protect the ones I love."

Dreya blinked, feigning a gasp. "You love me?"

Before he could respond, a nearby door burst open. Two men surged through with weapons drawn.

Rugr met them without hesitation—parried, slashed, spun, and dropped both with the quiet precision of a man who killed like others breathed.

Then he turned, grabbed Dreya by the collar, and kissed her—deep, fierce, hands still slick with blood.

She melted into it, savoring it like stolen fruit.

When it broke, she murmured, "I could watch you double-kill all night."

"That wouldn't leave time for much else."

She shivered. "We could do it now," she said, breath hitching.

Rugr smiled. "Sorry, honey. It's four to two, my favor. And I don't sleep with losers."

Dreya snarled, shoved him aside, and snapped, "Then get your ass in gear, lover—'cause I'm about to triple-kill your smug face into next week."

She vaulted over the bodies and disappeared into the dark, laughing like a woman born for mayhem.

Rugr chuckled, then followed, blades at the ready.

---

Down another corridor, Brittany had chosen a different approach.

She stood alone, deliberately vulnerable. Her robe hung loose, her hands at her sides. No blade in sight. At least, not to the casual observer.

The hallway flickered with torchlight and menace as two men stalked toward her with smug grins and oily eyes.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Looks like dessert wandered into the wrong corridor," one said.

"A little lamb, waiting for her shepherd to flock her," leered the other.

Both men laughed, and Brittany took a half-step back, clutching her robe. Her voice trembled—a perfect performance.

"Please… do whatever you want. Just… just don't hurt me."

The men exchanged glances. One snorted.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make sure you enjoy it."

The second man reached forward, dagger out. "What are you wearing under that? Something pretty?"

He extended the blade to tug her robe open—

Thud.

Both men froze at the sound behind them. Heavy. Final.

"What was that?"

"Don't look behind you," Brittany said sweetly.

"What?"

They turned.

Too late.

Ellie had dropped from the ceiling in full demon form, standing two meters tall, claws clicking, fangs bared, glowing eyes wide with glee. Her howl shook dust from the rafters, a guttural, feral scream that tore through the air like a battle cry from hell.

The first man stumbled back, straight into Brittany's waiting dagger. She eased it in below his ribs.

"I told you not to look back," she whispered as he fell.

The second man tried to run.

Ellie lunged.

One clean bite.

His head came off with a sickening crunch. She swirled it in her mouth, then spat it out. It hit the floor, bouncing once before rolling down the corridor.

Brittany grinned. "Nice work. We make a good team."

Ellie gave an eager nod and flicked out her long tongue, two ears perched like wet mushrooms.

"Oh no," Brittany said, waving a hand. "I'm still full from dinner. But thank you."

Ellie nodded again, retracting her tongue and chewing the lobes with deliberate care, eyes unblinking.

Footsteps pounded.

Thespis rounded the corner, wide-eyed, then froze at the sight of the severed head lying against the wall.

"Oh gods," he gasped. "What happened here?"

Brittany shrugged. "Oh, you know. Just two girls having a little fun."

Thespis straightened, smoothing his tunic as if trying to reclaim dignity. "Well, next time save some for me."

A growl echoed behind him.

Thespis turned to see a man, tall, masked, twin swords already slicing lazy arcs through the air.

Brittany arched a brow. "Be our guest."

Thespis paled. "Oh, well—I mean, what kind of gentleman would I be if I took all the fun? Ladies first, of course."

He stepped aside, gesturing with exaggerated flair.

Brittany dipped into a curtsy. "Why, thank you, my lord."

She and Ellie exchanged a conspiratorial grin and began stalking down the hall like it was a fashion show—fluid and lethal.

Thespis clutched his chest with mock anguish, whispering. "I think I'm in love."

Brittany looked back, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He’s a prince."

Ellie paused, looked back at Thespis—studying him with demon eyes—then shrugged.

"Ready?" Brittany asked.

Ellie nodded, and they both lunged.

---

Rugr moved through the corridor like a silent storm, blades wet, breath steady. He rounded a corner and paused, drawn by the rhythm of combat ahead.

Dreya was already there, dancing between two armed men.

She weaved, ducked, twirled—graceful, untouchable. Her blades flicked out now and then, enough to parry, but not enough to finish.

When she spotted Rugr, her grin widened.

"Dibs!" she called, breathless and delighted.

He folded his arms, watching her sidestep a wild swing and spin beneath a second blade. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Waiting," she chirped.

"Waiting for what?"

BANG.

A nearby door burst open.

A third man came charging through—bigger, nastier, axe in hand.

Dreya's grin turned feral. "That."

She kicked off the wall like a dancer possessed, launching herself into motion. Her dagger flashed, slamming into the charging man's neck as she twisted midair. She landed on one hand, spun, kicked another in the ribs hard enough to crack bone, then came up slicing.

The second man's throat split wide, as the axe-man hit the floor face-first.

Without hesitation, she drove her blade into the chest of the last man, finishing him off.

Silence fell.

She held the final pose like a statue—one hand gripping her dagger, left leg bent, right leg extended behind her, knee hovering above the floor.

"Triple kill," she said mockingly.

Rugr stared, unimpressed. "Show off."

She stood, brushing blood off her arm. "Suck it. Five-four, bitch. My favor."

Rugr scowled. "You're insufferable."

She winked. "You love it."

He didn't answer—but he didn't deny it either.

---

Meanwhile, Will and Maya had found their own trouble. They pushed open a heavy side door and stopped.

Inside, eight men turned toward them, surprised but grinning.

Half-naked women scrambled away from makeshift cots and straw piles, clutching rags to their chests, eyes wide with fear.

Will raised an eyebrow. "I count eight."

"Same," Maya said. "You got this?"

Will cracked his neck. His twin short swords flashed into his hands with a smooth, practiced motion. "Yeah. I mean—I guess. Wasn't exactly planning on this kind of work tonight."

The men began to circle, wary but confident. Predators. Trained.

"Oh?" Maya asked, stepping behind him. "What kind of work were you thinking?"

Will shrugged, tracking their movement. "Hadn't decided. I was thinking rope. Paddle. I picked up a new one in Farmore."

Maya bit her lip, amused. "You had me at ‘rope’."

Two men lunged.

Will moved like a switchblade—parrying both with ease, his stance casual but grounded. The others tightened their circle.

"Well," Maya said behind him, adjusting her collar, "you should save your energy for that. I mean, I have been a naughty girl."

Three more came in hard, testing, swiping, trying to flank.

Will grunted as he blocked them, twisting to shield Maya, who stayed perfectly aligned behind his movements.

"Still," she said, "doesn't my helping ruin it? Wouldn't that make me a good girl?"

Another flurry of attacks. One thug's blade skimmed Will's temple, slicing the air close enough to shear a fringe of his hair. Wispy bangs fell over his brow.

"Maya!" he growled, breath tight.

She peeked over his shoulder. "Gods, Will—your new haircut is hideous. What were you thinking?"

Will snarled and smashed the hilt of his sword into a man's nose with enough force to shatter it. Another fell with a grunt as Will spun low and swept his legs. Six men remained.

The rest hesitated now. Less cocky.

Will took down two more in a whirl of blades, then straightened, panting, blood smeared along one sleeve, sweat dripping from his jaw. Four left standing.

One thug barked, "All at once! Take him down!"

They rushed.

Will collided with them mid-stride, locking one man's blade and sending him to the ground. He drove a sword into the other's chest, and when another hesitated, Will turned and dropped him with a single blow.

The two remaining men lay on the floor, stunned and struggling to get up.

"No need to get up," Will said, quickly dispatching both.

Will stood amid the bodies, bloodied, breathing hard. The room was now quiet, save for a few whimpers from the frightened girls.

Maya tapped a finger to her chin, thoughtful. "Well… I suppose I could help. Then you could save your strength for later."

Will turned to her slowly, giving her the most prolonged, deadest stare she'd ever seen.

She brightened. "That paddle you mentioned. Is it a hardwood, like ash?"

He snorted. "Nope. It's firewood."

She blinked. "Firewood? That sounds exotic. Is it native to Cabal?"

Will wiped his blade clean on a corpse. "Nope. It's the kind of wood that goes in the fire."

Maya pouted. "Will, that's not funny."

He shrugged, sliding his blades home. "Sorry, Maya. You made your bed. Now you have to lie in it."

She stepped closer, begging. "Promise?"

Will exhaled. A half-smile crept across his lips.

"Promise."

Chapter 30 - Late Night Stroll

While the others carved their way through the compound’s defenders, Jack jogged through the halls in search of Alise.

Boots pounding stone, the clash of steel echoing around him—he rounded a corner and slowed.

Alise was strolling. Leisurely. Like she was window-shopping in a market, not wandering through a criminal compound mid-siege.

“What are you doing?” he asked, incredulous.

“Taking a look around,” she said, peering into a side room. Empty. She kept walking.

From up ahead came shouting, crashing, a muffled scream—someone having a very bad night. Alise strolled toward it with unhurried grace.

"Why aren't we doing anything?" Jack pressed, still catching his breath.

Alise smiled. "We get the final boss. Let them have their fun. The acolytes spend all their time cooped up in the temple doing stupid shit—copying texts, reciting mantras, standing watch. They need this. It’s good for them to let loose. Blow off a little steam."

Jack blinked. "Standing watch over the Arcane Fire is stupid?"

She shrugged. "I mean… yeah. I'm really not that into the whole religious mysticism thing."

Jack stared at her. "You're the Herald of the Arcane Fire."

"Yeah, I know. But underneath it all?" She turned to him, brushing a hand across her collarbone. "I'm just a stupid girl from Old Town who fell in love with a foolish boy from Cabal."

She paused, gaze distant.

"Then, one day, things got so desperate I took a chance. Walked into the Arcane Flame to see if the fates cared. And voilà—"

A burst of fire rippled out from her skin, wreathing her in radiant heat. Jack jumped back, arms raised on instinct.

The fire winked out. She didn't even blink.

They stepped up to a wide doorway. Inside, Dreya was mid-spin, slicing down three men in quick succession, landing in a dramatic pose.

"She really likes him," Alise said, watching Dreya gloat. "I've never seen her like this."

Jack shrugged. "Well, he really needs to get laid. That much I know for sure."

Alise smirked.

A blur passed behind them—Thespis, sprinting, arms flailing, robe flying.

Right behind him, a masked man with twin swords whirling like fans of death.

Jack reached for his dagger. "Should we—?"

Alise caught his wrist. "He's leading him straight into Brittany's trap. He'll be fine."

A scream echoed from down the hall. Not Thespis's.

Jack winced. "Brittany is something. And by something I mean… a lot."

Alise chuckled. "You owe her after tonight."

Jack exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. I'm gonna regret whatever she asks for, aren't I?"

"Oh, definitely."

Jack scratched the back of his head, eyes distant, tone uncertain.

"What if she wants to… you know… have my baby?"

Alise shrugged. "I wouldn't worry too much about that. Worst case, you close your eyes and stick it up there."

Jack grimaced. "Alise."

She grinned. "Oh, c'mon. It wouldn't be that bad."

Jack didn't respond right away. He thought about the dream—the heat of it, the way it had stirred something in him, even if only for a moment. Enough to jolt him awake.

Alise kept strolling. "Besides, she's taken a shine to Thespis. Thinks he's some kind of Astirian prince."

Jack stopped mid-step. "Where would she get that idea?"

Alise smirked, half-apologetic, half-proud. "I may have said it. To get her off your scent. Not sure you can handle both of us."

Jack looked like a deer caught in a spell circle. "I'm not sure I can handle either of you."

They turned a corner. Three bodies littered the floor—limbs askew. One body was missing its head, which lay near the wall, eyes wide in permanent terror.

Alise glanced at the carnage. "Your new friend's a natural-born killer."

Jack winced. "Do you think she pretends they're ham?"

Alise smirked and pointed at the head on the floor. "Look. No ears."

Jack groaned. "That feels… oddly perverted."

Alise laughed. "Still… Ellie's sweet in her own way."

Jack gave her a skeptical look. "Really? When?"

Alise turned, her expression softening. "At dinner, Jack. Didn't you notice? She was watching you the whole time. Waiting for you to acknowledge her."

Jack shifted uncomfortably in place.

"Did you even look at her once? Really look?"

Before Jack could answer, a clash of metal and yelling caught their attention. They stepped up to a wide archway—and found Will surrounded by bodies, facing down a fresh wave of thugs. Maya stood off to the side, twirling a dagger idly, clearly mid-monologue.

Alise blinked. "Why isn't she helping?"

Jack tilted his head. "She's taunting him. It's like foreplay for them."

Alise studied them for a beat, Will grunting through combat while Maya critiqued his haircut with a flirtatious edge.

"Interesting," Alise muttered.

Jack shook his head. "Sometimes, Maya can be a bit much."

Alise turned, suddenly serious. "Are you sleeping with her?"

Jack's head jerked back like she'd slapped him. "No! I mean… she tried to give me a hand job once, but—"

Alise raised an eyebrow, arms folding. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"It was when Kleo was drugged, and we were in the sanctuary pool, and—"

More tapping.

"I didn't respond," he muttered, glancing down toward his groin. "Kleo was watching. I was stressed. I couldn't get it to… you know…"

Alise stepped forward and kissed him. Warm. Brief. Confident.

"Well, it seemed very happy to see me this morning."

Jack blushed. "I think all your magic helped."

Alise flared—her body limned in flame. "Well, there's plenty more where that came from."

She cooled again, expression softening.

"But... we need to talk first."

"Ellie?" Jack guessed.

Alise nodded. "Yep."

Jack sighed. "Okay."

"Five to five," Dreya announced. "I need one more so I can beat this old man."

Jack stared at Rugr, horrified. "You're keeping score?"

"Don't look at me," Rugr said, jerking a thumb toward Dreya.

Jack shook his head. "I've never killed anyone. A few demons. A goblin once."

Dreya blinked. Then turned to Rugr and whispered, "Pussy."

Rugr nodded solemnly, still watching Jack. "Right?"

Jack scowled. "I heard that."

Dreya smiled sweetly, all teeth. "We know."

She sheathed her blade with a flourish. "Where are the girls?"

"In the basement," Alise said, thumbing toward the stairwell behind her.

A moment later, Brittany, Thespis, and Ellie rounded the corner. Neither of the girls appeared remotely tired. Ellie remained in full demon form, the pads of her feet silent on the stone, her eyes shimmering black.

She and Jack shared a glance.

Jack smiled.

She smiled back—shy and small, but real.

Then Will and Maya came around the far bend, Will dragging his swords behind him like a man who'd fought a small army and won mostly by spite.

Maya bounced beside him, face glowing. "See? I told you it was a great warm-up."

Will looked at Jack and didn't even speak. He just pointed at Maya with an expression that begged: You see what I'm dealing with?

Jack nodded with understanding.

Maya blew a kiss at Will. "You did great, babe. You'll be nice and loose for later."

Will gave her a pained glare. "The only thing loose is my spine."

Dreya interrupted, eyebrow raised. "How many? Rugr and I are five apiece."

Will shrugged, still catching his breath. "Twelve. I think."

Dreya blinked. "Fuck." She turned to Maya, accusatory. "Seriously?"

Maya held up her hands. "Hey, don't look at me. I've got zero. Will's been hogging all the fun."

Will groaned, running a hand down his face. "Can we finish this already?"

Alise nodded and clapped once, loud and sharp. "Basement crew—you know what to do."

Rugr nodded and turned to follow Dreya down the stairs. Brittany winked at Thespis as she passed, and Ellie trailed after her, one claw tracing a groove along the wall.

Jack followed, glancing one more time at Ellie’s retreating figure.

"You sure she'll be okay down there?"

Alise smiled. "Ellie? Oh, she's fine."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "That frightens me."

Alise's grin widened. "Well, you’re right to be scared. But this is the fun part, so try to relax and enjoy it."

Chapter 31 - Fireworks

The basement stank of blood, oil, and men. Smoke and mana hung in the air like ghosts, and the group found the acolytes standing near a door. The hallway was littered with bodies, at least fifteen, maybe more.

Dreya approached them. "Top score?"

One of the girls responded. "Marla's got six."

Marla nodded. "Six for me."

"Damn," Dreya muttered. "How many behind the door? I need one to match."

"Only one, as far as we know. Definitely hostages. At least five or six women."

“Well, we need to get the door open first. It might be reinforced from the inside.”

Dreya turned to Will. “What do you think, big boy? Up for breaking it down?”

Will groaned and took position, slamming his shoulder against the barricaded door once, then again. “It’s not going to budge.”

“That’s by design,” Rugr muttered, inspecting the warped hinges. “Heavy frame, reinforced. It’s a panic room. The bastards must’ve planned for this eventuality.”

Behind the door, a thug barked, “Stay back or I’ll light the lantern! You hear me? I’ll burn us all! I swear!”

A chorus of frightened sobs answered from inside—women held hostage. Will drew his sword, seething.

“Open the door and die like a man!”

“Fuck that,” came the muffled voice. “How does that even sound appealing? Open the door and die? Not very motivating.”

“Keep him talking,” Rugr whispered to Will. He turned to Thespis. “You can walk through walls, right?”

Thespis paled. “I can. That doesn’t mean I should.”

Rugr narrowed his eyes. “You want to help? Now’s your chance.”

Thespis hesitated, about to argue, when Brittany touched his sleeve. Her eyes were soft, trusting. Believing.

“You can do this,” she said.

Thespis swallowed, squared his shoulders, and took the dagger from Will’s hand as if accepting a crown of thorns.

Will spoke again to the man behind the door, calming his tone. “Look, you’re right. I got caught up in the moment. If you open the door and spare the women, we’ll let you go.”

“No, you won’t. I heard someone call ‘dibs’. You think I’m stupid?”

“Please open the door,” Will urged.

Thespis stepped forward and vanished into the wood.

Inside, the thug cursed, pounding on the door in frustration.

And then—Thespis stumbled into him, hand clumsy, blade searching. It didn't feel heroic. It felt like falling. But when he pulled back, the man was gasping, blood blooming across his chest. The dagger had found its mark.

Thespis stared, horrified, then whispered, "Huh. Guess I’m a natural."

He turned. The door wasn't barricaded. Just locked.

He opened the door with a dramatic flourish, catching his breath. "Rescue complete. You're welcome."

Will raised an eyebrow. "You fell into him."

"Heroically," Thespis countered, sounding defensive.

The rescued women began to pour out. One kissed Thespis on the cheek in thanks; another collapsed sobbing into Brittany's arms.

Dreya let out a disappointed sigh. "Maybe there's a straggler upstairs…"

Marla grinned. "Does this mean I'm the winner?"

Dreya scowled. "Only if we don't count Will. He's sitting on twelve."

Marla's eyebrows rose, her voice dropping into something husky. "Twelve? Really?"

Maya stepped in like a storm cloud with hips. "Back off, bitch. He's mine."

Marla cocked an eyebrow, but Maya flashed a sweet smile.

"Unless... you're into paddling."

Marla hesitated, caught between confusion and intrigue. Then she tilted her head, giving Will a slow, thoughtful once-over. "I suppose... I could try it."

Maya gave Will a sultry look. "Will?"

Will sighed, every inch a man defeated. "Sure. Why not?"

Then Dreya clapped her hands.

"Alright! Scores settled. Everybody outside. Time for fireworks!"

---

Alise and Jack waited outside. The night air was cool and quiet, the chaos sealed behind stone walls—until the first window glowed orange.

Jack leaned against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, watching smoke curl upward like the breath of a sleeping dragon. Beside him, Alise crouched to light a cigar she'd found as they wandered the compound.

"I thought 'fireworks' was metaphorical," Jack muttered.

Alise took a long drag and exhaled smoke with a smirk. "Nope. Very literal."

Another flare burst from a side window, casting flickering shadows into the night. The distant, panicked shouts of thugs echoed through the walls.

Jack frowned. "There are still people inside, aren’t there?"

"Only the cowards who decided to hide," Alise replied calmly. "The women and children are being rounded up now. All the innocents will be out, safe and sound, before the real show begins."

Jack gave her a long, skeptical look.

She shrugged. "We can’t save everyone, Jack. Neither can you."

Jack’s expression didn't soften.

Alise nudged him. "Come on. It's not like we killed anyone who didn't have it coming."

"I know," Jack sighed, eyes still fixed on the spreading flames. "But I'm afraid I might've just become a war criminal."

Alise smiled wryly. "Welcome to the corps, soldier."

Then the door burst open and Thespis stumbled out coughing. Brittany followed, skipping, with Ellie crawling on the ceiling above them like a shadow.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Do I even want to know?"

"Nope," Alise said, flicking ash off her boot. "But you'll hear about it all night anyway."

They watched for a few more moments before Jack stood. "Ready?"

She nodded, crushing her spent cigar under her boot. "Fettered Flame?"

Jack grumbled. "I have bad memories of that place."

"You’ll be happy then," she grinned. "We're burning it down next."

Chapter 33 - Fettered Flames

The tavern reeked of old ale, sweat, and rot. Lamps burned low and sour, casting yellow pools over sticky tables where men nursed drinks and worse habits. Conversations died as the door creaked open—not from respect, but from the predatory awareness of wolves scenting fresh meat.

Jack stepped through the door first, Alise close behind, her hood down, hand already near the dagger at her hip. The silence spread like a virus.

From behind the bar, a squat, greasy man looked up from his ledger. Graying stubble covered jowls that shook when he laughed, and his shirt strained over a gut fed by other people's misery.

He squinted, then recognition dawned.

"Well, I'll be damned." A slow, oily smile spread across his lips. "Jack of Cabal. I heard you ran outta town with your tail between your legs." His voice carried, meant for the whole room.

"You come back because you missed my cock?"

Snickers rippled through the tavern. A few patrons leaned forward, anticipating entertainment.

Jack didn't blink. Didn't smile.

Alise stepped forward with confident swagger, flames already flickering at the edges of her vision.

The bartender's eyes raked over her like she was livestock.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm his girlfriend."

The man paused, looking her over with the appraisal of someone used to pricing flesh. "You don't look like Demana. If the rumors are true."

She smiled, cold as winter steel. "That would be his wife. I'm his girlfriend."

The man grunted, amused. "Hard to believe dick-less could get one woman, let alone two."

"Well," Alise said sweetly, "the world is full of surprises."

"So it seems," the man said, never taking his eyes off her. "If you want a real slab of meat, you should join me upstairs." He gestured around the room with theatrical lewdness. "Unless you prefer it public."

A few of the hardcore patrons chuckled and called for her to get on her knees. One banged his mug on the table in rhythm. Another made crude hand gestures.

"No thanks," she said with poisonous politeness. "I prefer my men taller—and handsome."

The bartender's face darkened. "Hmmph. I'm not sure which one of you's the bitch, but I'm going to enjoy fucking both of you to find out."

He raised a hand, and five or six men stood—some brandished weapons, others broken bottles.

Alise let the flame grow, holding it to a low simmer. Heat shimmered around her like a mirage.

The expression on the bartender's face shifted from confidence to unease. At least two men sat back down, finding renewed interest in their drinks.

Jack stepped forward, his voice carrying the calm of a man who'd already decided how this would end.

"Sorry, Frank. We're not going to have time for that. We're here to settle a few debts. For Miley. Jillian. And…what was her name? Oh, right. Salina. Your daughter. The one you raped every night after closing."

The grin died on the man's face like a snuffed candle. A flicker of guilt—brief, human—crossed his eyes before being swallowed by rage.

"You sewer rat." His voice cracked with fury and fear. "Who are you to judge me? You wanna start something?"

The crossbow came up from beneath the bar like a striking snake. Before the string could sing, there was a shriek of splintering wood, accompanied by a wet crunch and the sound of breaking bones. Ellie had vaulted the bar, her jaw clamping down on his forearm.

He screamed as the weapon fired wild.

The bolt missed Jack by inches and struck a heavyset patron behind him. The man dropped, clutching his throat, blood bubbling between his fingers as he tried to scream.

The room froze.

For a moment, only the sounds of the dying man behind Jack—raspy gasps and bubbling blood—broke the silence.

Ellie perched on the bar like a nightmare gargoyle, panting and snarling, the bartender's blood dripping from her fangs. She blinked her abyssal eyes—feral, glinting, devoid of mercy.

All around them, patrons pushed back from their tables. Some bolted for the door. Others, too drunk or stupid to run, drew weapons with shaking hands.

Jack's hand slid to his blade, his eyes meeting the bartender's wide, panicked stare as the man tried to crawl away, cradling his mangled arm.

"I'm not here to start something," Jack said. "I'm here to finish it."

Alise smiled, stepping forward as flames began to dance along her skin. "And I'm here to burn this place to the fucking ground."

---

Jack didn't move. But the rest of the room exploded into chaos.

Steel rang out. Glass shattered. Chairs scraped and splintered as the tavern's loyal rats—bound by coin, fear, or stupidity—surged toward them with blades, clubs, and brass knuckles.

A barmaid lunged with a broken chair leg, her face twisted with desperate fury.

Jack's hand flicked forward—a force pulse. She flew backward, hitting the support beam with a crack that echoed through the tavern.

Alise stood motionless as the first blade sliced toward her throat. She didn't even blink.

It never connected.

Her skin ignited in a cascade of rippling flame. Arcane fire exploded upward from her shoulders, her hair rising like a burning crown. The air itself bent around her, heat distorting everything.

She raised her hand and snapped.

Three men burst into flames, their screams harmonizing as fire devoured flesh and fabric. Their weapons clattered uselessly to the blood-slick floor.

A heavyset bruiser tried to rush her from the side. Alise turned with fluid grace, caught his shirt, and leveraging his momentum, shoved him away—his entire body erupting in flame as he crashed through a table, collapsing in a blazing heap, twitching.

Jack sprang into action, carving through the chaos with surgical precision. His dagger found ribs, throats, the soft spaces between bones. Every movement deliberate. Every strike final.

With another spell, he hurled a cluster of thugs backward, sending them crashing through furniture and into walls like broken dolls.

Ellie joined the slaughter—darting between bodies, teeth flashing, claws rending. She didn't howl this time. The killing was work now, not play.

Some of the working girls fought with the desperate ferocity of cornered animals. One managed to slash Alise across the shoulder before Alise turned, fire surging, and drove her elbow into the girl's stomach. The girl folded, gasping, and didn't get up.

Others cowered beneath tables—eyes wide, some weeping, some praying to gods who'd never listened before.

Flames crept along the bar like hungry fingers. A bottle exploded behind the counter with a sound like the crack of bone. Smoke began to curl along the rafters, and the front door hung askew on twisted hinges.

Jack finished the last standing man with a burst of force that slammed him into the ceiling—gravity completing the job.

Stillness.

Only the crackle of spreading flames, the creak of scorched wood, and the quiet sobs of survivors hiding in the shadows remained.

Alise stood at the center of the carnage, embers trailing from her arms like falling stars. Her eyes still burned with inner fire.

Jack exhaled, surveying the ruin. The floor had become a lake of blood and spilled wine. Flames licked at the walls with growing hunger. Every patron loyal to the boss lay broken, burnt, or dead.

Ellie crouched on the bar again like a satisfied cat, licking blood from her claws.

Jack looked at Alise, his voice dry with exhaustion. "Restrained."

She smirked, flames still dancing in her hair. "What? We didn't even level the place. Yet."

Jack frowned, pointing at Ellie. "And why isn't she wearing underwear? I specifically told Brittany to make her wear it."

Alise scowled. "Ellie's your problem, Jack. You deal with her."

From beneath the nearest table came a cracked whisper: "Please... I have a sister... I didn't know..."

Alise walked past without answering, her boots crunching on broken glass.

Jack turned toward the ruined body of the bartender, who still twitched behind the bar in a spreading pool of his own blood. He motioned Ellie away, knelt, and looked the man in the eyes one last time.

"You should have died a long time ago, Frank," he whispered.

Then he drew his blade across the man's throat.

The blood joined the rest on the floor.

Jack stood, a quiet ache settling in his chest. Not only for the girls who had suffered at this monster's hands, but for himself. For the boy who had grown up in places like this, and for the man he was becoming. He looked down at his blood-stained hands and knew he'd crossed a line tonight. The bastard had deserved it, but Jack understood that once you started down this path—giving in to anger, taking revenge, even righteous revenge—you were standing on a very slippery slope.

He was determined not to let it pull him down.

But as he watched the flames spread and heard the building groan, he wondered if it was already too late.

---

At the back of the ruined tavern, tucked behind a shattered shelf and a burnt tapestry, stood a thick iron door sunk into the stone wall. Its surface was scorched but solid—the kind of barrier that had kept secrets safe for years.

Ellie padded toward it in her full demon form—hulking, long-limbed, and shimmering with sinew and shadow. Her fangs gleamed wet in the firelight. Her claws flexed with anticipation.

She rapped once, twice, with a knuckle that rang like bone striking an anvil.

Inside, muffled voices:

"Find out who it is!"

"Why me? You check it!"

"Just fucking look!"

Metal scraped as the lookout hatch slid open with reluctant caution.

A nervous eye peered through the slot, then went wide with terror.

Staring back was a snout filled with rows of jagged teeth. A long tongue—glistening with saliva—curled over needle-like fangs. Above it all, abyssal eyes gleamed with pure, manic delight.

The hatch slammed shut so hard it rattled the door.

"MONSTER!"

Inside: muffled panic, scrambling boots, the clatter of dropped weapons.

"What the hell do you mean, monster?!"

"I'm telling you! It's some kind of beast!"

Nervous laughter from someone trying to stay calm.

"You're drunk again, aren't you?"

"No! I swear on my mother's grave—IT HAS A TONGUE WITH FUCKING SPIKES!"

"Move aside, you coward. I'll look."

The slot opened again, more cautiously this time.

Ellie leaned in close and, with gleeful precision, jabbed one long claw straight through the gap and into the man's eye.

His scream echoed off stone walls as he fell back, clutching his ruined face.

"BARRICADE THE DOOR!"

"USE THE TABLE, YOU FOOLS—"

They didn't have time.

With a guttural snarl that seemed to come from the depths of hell itself, Ellie slammed her full weight into the door. Hinges shrieked in protest. Iron groaned like a living thing. And with a final, resounding crack, the barrier caved inward as if it were nothing more than rotted wood.

Jack peered over the ruined threshold, Alise at his side, her hands relaxed but her presence unmistakable. The temperature in the room seemed to rise just from her being there.

"Thanks," Jack said to Ellie over his shoulder, his tone almost conversational. "I've got this."

He raised his hand and released a concentrated burst of force and light. The sonic boom was deafening, accompanied by a flash so brilliant it turned the world white. When the echoes faded, six figures lay writhing in agony across the stone floor—hands pressed to their ears, eyes streaming tears as they stared blindly into nothing.

Alise followed him in, cracking her neck as fire danced behind her pupils.

They stood silently amidst the sudden calm, surveying the aftermath. The remnants of a disrupted card game littered the floor—coins, dice, and playing cards mingled among overturned chairs. A shattered wine bottle lay against the wall, dark streaks dripping down the stone.

Darro Ven knelt on the ground, his eyes blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to regain his vision. The other men lay stunned and disoriented, their senses temporarily stripped away.

Alise turned to Ellie. "You all right?"

Ellie shrugged, picking her teeth with the ham bone as if nothing had happened.

Alise smiled and turned to address the room with mock politeness. "Sorry, boys. This just isn't your night."

Darro Ven stood at the far end—thick, sweating, twitchy. His smile was all teeth and barely controlled panic, the expression of a man who knew he was trapped.

"Jack, Jack… it's good to see you. Been a long time, hasn't it?"

Jack's voice could have frozen wine. "Wish I could say the same, and not long enough."

"Listen, we can reach a deal here. I've got gold, weapons, girls—whatever you need. Name your price! I've got connections, information, anything!"

One of the men on the floor muttered through his pain, "She's the Arcane Fire…"

Another groaned: "Oh gods. We're all dead men."

"Shut up, you fools," Darro snapped, sweat streaming down his temples despite the cool air. "This is Jack. We go way back. We're practically old friends. We can work something out, right, Jack?"

Jack tilted his head with predatory calm. "Sorry, Darro. We're not in the mood for deals tonight. You interrupted a celebration—a family gathering. Threatened my friends. That's not something I can forgive."

Darro's voice cracked like ice under pressure. "It was a mistake! A man's entitled to one mistake, right? Everyone gets one do-over!"

Jack's expression didn't shift by a hair. "Your first mistake was Simon. Spindly kid with the limp. Remember him?"

Darro's face twitched, memory flickering behind his eyes.

"Accidentally bumped into whatever whore you were screwing that night. Kid mumbled an apology, scared out of his mind—and you slit his throat in the street. Left him to die in the gutter like garbage."

Color drained from Darro's face. "That was… a misunderstanding. I may have overreacted. I was young, you know? Impulsive. Hot-headed."

Jack let out a soft, hollow laugh that held no warmth at all. "You were never anything more than a brutal piece of shit surrounded by thugs."

Darro's facade finally cracked. Rage flared behind his eyes, the mask of civility falling away.

He lunged—knife flashing in a desperate, sloppy arc.

Jack stepped aside with fluid grace. One economical motion. His dagger slid between Darro's ribs with surgical precision.

The boss fell to his knees, choking on his own blood, hands fumbling uselessly at the wound. Jack withdrew the blade—slow and deliberate—the sound soft and final.

He turned to the others—five men now, one still clutching his ruined eye, all staring in shocked silence.

Jack's voice remained perfectly even. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Blessed Alise, Herald of the Arcane Fire." He gestured with casual politeness. "Alise, this is… everyone."

He turned to Ellie, who had resumed her squatting position near the door, licking blood from her claws like it was honey.

"Come on, kid. Let's get some air."

Alise didn't move. Her gaze fell on the remaining men—guilt and terror now replacing whatever swagger they'd possessed earlier. The temperature in the room began to climb. She took a slow breath, and for a moment, something almost like regret flickered across her features.

Then it was gone.

"I'll be up in a minute," she said, her voice carrying the promise of hellfire. "Wait for me."

Jack paused, studying her face. He nodded once, then looked at the men cowering on the floor. None of them could meet his eyes.

He turned and headed up the stairs, Ellie loping behind him, her claws clicking a steady rhythm against the stone.

Behind them, Alise's fire began to grow—and with it, the screaming.

Chapter 34 - No Looking Back

Outside, the night was loud.

The Fettered Flame roared, fire curling through shattered windows, devouring timbers and memories alike. Screams echoed through the alley as locals rushed in with buckets, forming a loose line from the nearest well. Panic fueled them—shouts for more water, for help, for someone to do something.

Jack, Alise, and Ellie stood across the street in shadow, their faces lit by the inferno.

Alise folded her arms, watching the blaze with a satisfied grin.

"That was fun," she said. "We should do it more often."

Jack didn't smile. "They got what they deserved. But we're not vigilantes. We're not making a habit of this."

"Wow. You're no fun."

"Hah." He glanced sidelong at her, voice dropping suggestively. "Maybe I like a different kind of fun."

Alise winced and glanced toward Ellie.

"About that…" she said. "Are you sure—I mean…" She nodded toward the girl, now crouched beside a soot-darkened wall, absently gnawing on the remaining stub of her ham bone.

Jack followed her gaze, then scratched the back of his neck. "You think she's my daughter?"

Alise shrugged, eyes lowered. "I don't know what to think."

Jack looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.

"You think she's Kleo."

Alise didn't respond at first. When she did, her voice was quiet. "Probably?"

It wasn't the answer Jack wanted.

The crowd had thickened, spilling into the street. Guards pushed through, shouting orders, trying to break the circle forming around the blaze.

Jack's eyes narrowed. "We should get out of here."

Alise nodded, and they began to move away from the fire, away from the chaos.

As they turned, Ellie trailed beside them, dragging her feet. She looked up at Jack with tired, waiting eyes—something between hope and a prayer flickering there.

Jack stopped, smiled gently, and extended his arms.

The girl climbed into them without hesitation.

She was heavy, warm, and still trembling from the strain of everything she'd done.

She sighed as she settled into his chest, her head against his shoulder, cheek resting just below his neck.

Jack pressed a kiss to her temple.

"You did good, baby," he whispered. "Now get some sleep."

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Behind them, the tavern groaned and collapsed inward with a great, hissing roar of smoke and embers, like the city itself was exhaling.

And then they were gone, swallowed by darkness, the light of the fire shrinking behind them like the closing eye of something finally dying.

---

Neighbors watched in silence as Dreya and the acolytes escorted the rescued women to the street. The women clutched makeshift shawls and each other, blinking in the lamplight like creatures emerging from a cave. Some whispered thanks to Brittany before disappearing into the gathering crowd. Another pressed a torn piece of fabric into Ellie's hand—a token of gratitude the demon girl didn't understand but accepted with solemn reverence.

Brittany stood beside Thespis, waiting, as Dreya and the acolytes lined the building with oil and incendiary sigils. Their movements were precise and ritualistic. Once ignited, the factory would transform into an inferno within seconds.

Before long, Ellie slipped away into the shadows—following Jack and Alise—eyes alight, ham bone still clutched in one hand.

Thespis's voice rose in alarm. "Wait—she's going with them? To another fight?"

Brittany held him back with a gentle touch. "Don't worry, my love. She's got this."

He blinked, the endearment hitting him like a physical blow. "I... I worry about her," he managed.

He echoed her words: "My love." They felt awkward, foreign in his throat, but he managed a weak smile.

She returned it, gentle and knowing. "I know you do. She needs people like you. People like us."

She hooked her arm through his, and something settled in his chest—warm, unfamiliar, terrifying.

No one had ever needed him before. Yet here he stood: best friend to Jack of Cabal, brother to a girl ascending toward godhood, student to the realm's greatest swordsman. And now, in the arms of a woman who saw something in him he'd never seen in himself.

His thoughts drifted to Kleo and her final words: "You're going to tell this story."

Yes. He would write it all down. Every moment. Every choice. Not some stuffy historical account, but the real thing—the blood and the laughter and the way Brittany's hand felt on his arm. The way Jack tried so hard to be good in a world that rewarded brutality.

First-hand. True. His.

"Thespis."

He jumped, startled from his reverie. Rugr stood beside him, and for the first time, Thespis caught something like pride in the man's weathered features.

"Good work in there."

Thespis felt his chest swell. "Thanks."

Brittany squeezed his arm tighter, watching the exchange with quiet satisfaction.

Then Dreya struck the final rune with the hilt of her blade.

Fire licked along the soaked lines of oil, racing around the perimeter—a perfect, glowing circuit. The building seemed to inhale, creating a moment of impossible silence.

Then it exploded into flame.

Windows burst outward in cascades of glass and sparks. The roof collapsed inward with a sound like the world cracking. Heat washed over them in waves, and the night sky turned orange.

People swarmed the street—hundreds now, the throng growing. They weren't running. They stood and stared. Faces lit by the inferno. Watching something that felt less like destruction and more like justice.

A few even smiled.

When they saw Jack and Alise emerge from the alley, a second glow lighting the sky to the north, Rugr made the call.

"All right," he said, his voice carrying over the roar of flames. "Let's get this circus moving."

Dreya grinned but barked the order with authority. "You heard him. Fall back to the temple."

Will pulled up his hood, Maya slipping beside him with a satisfied smirk. Rugr's armor caught the firelight, making him look like an ancient war god. Brittany adjusted Thespis's cloak with practiced care.

Jack, with Ellie cradled in his arms, fell into step beside Alise, who walked with the easy confidence of someone who'd just lit a very satisfying fire.

As they moved through the streets, people stepped aside. Behind them, the storehouse collapsed in a tower of smoke and flame. Ahead lay the temple, and whatever came next.

But now, they owned the moment—walking through Cabal like legends being born. Which, Thespis realized with growing certainty, was precisely what they were.