Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caleb’s arms are cinched tight around your waist, his chest a steady wall at your back. His breathing is even—awake, not asleep, though he hasn’t moved since grabbing you last night. The tent around you is dim, canvas walls glowing faintly with the ever-present twilight of the world you’re in. Through a gap in the flap, the silver-veined ground glimmers, dragon bones a jagged silhouette against the shattered moon above.

The nest of bodies makes the air heavy with scent: sandalwood and ozone from Xavier beside your legs, the salt-bright whisper of Rafayel’s ocean breeze curled near your shoulder, black amber and smoke from Sylus slung somewhere at the edge of the pile. The hum of their presence is soothing, as though your body has learned to rise and fall with their breathing.

Caleb shifts, pressing his nose against your hair. His voice is low, still velvet from sleep.

“Pip-squeak,” he murmurs, “you’ve been twitching in your sleep again. Trying to run off without me?”

You stir against him, lips curving despite the sand in your eyes. “If I was running off, you’d never know. You sleep like a rock.”

His arms tighten deliberately, a playful squeeze that steals your breath. “Rocks don’t keep watch. I was awake before you even stirred.”

From the other side, Rafayel’s voice emerges, drawn-out and teasing: “Mm, anxious guard dog more like. You hear a twig snap and he’s ready to bare his teeth, yeah?”

Xavier exhales a quiet laugh, half-asleep but listening. “He does have the posture. Always facing the flap, even unconscious.”

Sylus’s deep rumble joins, smug amusement curling through the sound. “Posture, scent, growl… reminds me of something. What was it again?” A deliberate pause. “Ah. A wolf.”

You twist just enough to catch Caleb’s expression—stoic, but his eyes flick with a suppressed smile. He only growls, low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your back.

Outside, Zayne’s calm voice cuts through from where he keeps watch beyond the tent. “If you’re all quite done likening him to a kennel hound, some of us are trying to maintain a perimeter.”

Rafayel snorts into his sleeve. “Perimeter of what? Dust? Bones? The big scary skeletons aren’t going to bite.”

Zayne’s dry reply comes immediately. “You’ll forgive me for not trusting ancient dragon graveyards to be entirely inactive.”

Caleb’s growl hums against your spine until you laugh, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze. His purple-orange eyes are sharp in the half-light, but softened by the faint curve of his mouth.

“You really don’t like being compared to a dog, do you?” you tease, voice still rough with sleep.

“Not unless it gets me a kiss,” he fires back smoothly, like he’d been waiting all night to slip the line in.

The others groan in mock disgust, Rafayel muttering, “Cutie, you’re enabling him—” but you’re already turning in Caleb’s arms.

He meets you halfway, lips warm, the kind of kiss that steals away the last of your drowsiness. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, holding you as though the twilight could swallow you whole if he let go.

When you part, his forehead rests briefly against yours, breath mingling in the narrow space. 

“Better than coffee,” he whispers, low and certain.

“Biased,” you murmur back, but your pulse betrays you.

From his spot by your legs, Xavier’s calm voice drifts upward. “If the two of you are quite finished… some of us do prefer silence before breakfast.”

Rafayel rolls onto his back with an exaggerated sigh. “Gods forbid Xavi doesn’t get his morning zen, yeah?”

Sylus chuckles, low and lazy. “Let him pout. It’s entertaining.”

You laugh softly, nose brushing Caleb’s before you settle back against him again, your shared warmth cocooned in the stillness of the seam’s eternal dawn.

Caleb eventually loosens his grip, brushing his thumb along your jaw before letting you shift away. His hand lingers, though, as though reluctant to break contact.

Rafayel stretches with a dramatic groan, blanket slipping down to flash a strip of pale skin and muscle. 

“If I’m to endure another day of tragic dragon décor,” he says, gesturing lazily toward the skeletal shadows beyond the flap, “I at least deserve breakfast in bed.”

Sylus snorts, the sound as sharp as it is amused. “Try standing upright first, artist.” 

He pushes up on one elbow, broad shoulders catching the dim light, and reaches to snag his shirt where it had been folded neatly.

Xavier sits up more quietly, raking silver hair back from his face with his fingers. His expression is unreadable, though the corners of his mouth twitch faintly when Rafayel tosses him a teasing, “Morning, Xavi.”

“Morning,” Xavier replies simply, tone even, though you don’t miss the slight blush that tints his ears when he notices you watching.

Caleb rises next, moving with a soldier’s efficiency as he digs out his clothes and tugs it on. He tosses you a look over his shoulder, all warmth disguised under his steady calm. “Pip-squeak, boots on. Not stepping out here barefoot.”

You roll your eyes but comply, pulling your own things together. The tent fills with the soft rustle of fabric, the muted thuds of boots meeting canvas, the hum of quiet voices. Zayne’s silhouette shifts outside, still keeping watch, ever precise.

The tent flap stirs, followed by a groggy mutter and a tangle of brown hair appearing first. She stumbles in barefoot, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.

“Morning,” she grumbles, voice rasped with sleep. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be putting in a formal request for a vacation from our vacations.”

Rafayel’s grin is immediate. “A vacation from the vacation? T, we’re trendsetters.”

Sylus straightens his cuffs with deliberate precision, lips twitching. “Careful, she might actually file the paperwork. Then I’d have to buy her an island to shut her up.”

Tara squints at him through a curtain of hair. “Don’t tempt me. I’d say yes.”

Caleb crosses his arms, looking her over with the faint disapproval of someone checking for battle readiness. “You even sleep?”

“Define sleep,” she deadpans, tugging her blanket tighter before trudging toward the packs. “Because if you mean ‘shut eyes and dreamed about spreadsheets chasing me,’ then yeah. Totally rested.”

Your laugh slips out before you can smother it, and she sends you a bleary side-eye that makes you laugh harder.

Behind her, Zayne finally ducks into the tent, having finished his perimeter sweep.

“All quiet,” he reports, then looks at Tara, eyebrow raised. “Almost all quiet.”

Tara lifts a hand, middle finger extended without even looking at him, drawing chuckles, then rummages through one of the packs with single-minded determination, blanket dragging behind her like a trailing cape. She emerges victorious with her battered leather-bound journal, tucks herself cross-legged on the ground, and flips it open with a dramatic sigh.

The scratching of her pencil is quick, almost frantic, like she’s catching a thought before it slips away. A few lines, a squiggle in the margin, and then she snaps the journal shut with more force than necessary, stuffing it back into the pack.

“Okay,” she mutters, “noted. Future me can deal with it. Present me deserves a bed.”

Without warning, she pitches sideways and flops onto the edge of the air mattress where you’ve perched, limbs sprawled. The blanket tangles around her legs, and she groans into the pillow.

“Bed claimed. No take-backs.”

You laugh and reach down instinctively, fingers slipping into her chin-length brown hair. It’s warm and tangled from sleep, strands catching against your nails as you slowly comb through. Tara makes a small noise—half complaint, half pleased hum—and tilts her head to give you easier access.

“Babe,” she mumbles into the pillow, “you’re the only reason I survive these mornings.”

Across the tent, Rafayel props his chin on his hand, watching with exaggerated softness. “Cutie, you’ll make me jealous if you keep pampering her like that.”

Sylus smirks as he finishes buttoning his shirt. “Jealous? You look two seconds away from begging for your turn.”

Tara just groans louder, burying her face deeper into the pillow. “No fighting over my stylist, please. She’s booked.”

You chuckle at Rafayel’s pouty theatrics, shaking your head. “Come here, then,” you murmur, crooking two fingers at him.

His expression flips instantly from mock jealousy to delighted triumph. “Knew you loved me more,” he teases, scooting across the mattress without hesitation. He folds neatly to sit on the floor in front of you, dark-purple waves catching the dim light as he tips his head back into your waiting hands.

Your fingers slip into his hair, the strands softer than they look, and he exhales audibly, lids fluttering half-shut. “Mm. See? This is proper care. A man could live on this.”

“Drama queen,” Caleb mutters, though his eyes are warmed by quiet amusement as he watches.

You snort, still combing through Rafayel’s hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. His shoulders drop a little lower with each pass. 

“Maybe I should paint her for allowing me this,” he murmurs dreamily, pointing at Tara.

At that, she pushes herself upright with a groan, wrapping her blanket more tightly. 

“Nope. I’m leaving before I get immortalized looking like a swamp witch.” She drags herself to her feet, muttering, “Five minutes, tops. Then breakfast. Promise.”

She staggers toward the flap, stepping out into the twilight expanse with bare feet and muttered curses, blanket catching briefly on the canvas before she disappears across the cracked ground toward her own little tent.

Rafayel tilts his head back just a little more, dark-blue eyes lifting to yours from beneath his lashes. Then, without the usual fanfare or teasing preamble, he reaches up to catch your wrist, turning his face to press a soft kiss against the inside of it. The brush of his lips lingers, warm and quiet, gratitude wrapped in tenderness.

“Thanks, cutie,” he murmurs, voice hushed like he doesn’t want to break the fragile morning stillness.

Your heart catches, but you only smile, sliding your fingers one last time through his wavy hair before nudging him forward. “Come on. We should pack up before Tara comes back and bosses us all around.”

That earns a huff of laughter from Caleb, and soon everyone is moving. Together, you deflate the air mattress, the hiss of escaping air loud in the tent as the shape collapses beneath your hands. Caleb folds it with the same neat precision he brings to everything, Xavier helping him smooth out the corners. Sylus cinches the straps with deft efficiency, while Rafayel pretends to help, mostly offering commentary about how terrible he is at folding anything square.

By the time the last of it is tucked back into the pack, the flap stirs again. Tara steps in, hair combed into order, blanket gone, and her eyes clearer than before. She looks human again, not the swamp witch she’d declared herself earlier.

“All right,” she says, clapping once, “feed me before I start gnawing on dragon bones.”

That draws a ripple of chuckles as everyone settles onto the canvas floor. Packs are pulled open, and soon the savory scent of lamb skewers mixes with the briny hint of goat cheese and the bright green snap of herbs and greenery you’ve carried since Orvaskar. It’s not necessary—no food ever is inside the seams—but it feels weird not to stick to regular rhythms.

The food disappears quickly, though not without the usual commentary.

Rafayel makes a show of balancing a lamb skewer between two fingers like it’s a paintbrush. “Art, yeah? Even roasted meat can be art if you hold it like this.”

“Eat it,” Caleb says flatly, though the corner of his mouth quirks.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, biting into goat cheese with practiced elegance. “If you drop that on my slacks, I’m not helping clean it.”

Tara has already commandeered the greenery, piling it onto her bread like it’s a garnish for a five-star meal. “You’re all amateurs. This is how you stretch rations.”

Zayne sits back against the tent wall, chewing with quiet patience while the others bicker. His gaze flicks to you once, thoughtful, before returning to his food.

Xavier, meanwhile, stares at his skewer as though it’s a puzzle. 

“Why skewers?” he muses aloud, voice mild. “Meat tastes the same without the stick.”

“Because it’s fun,” Rafayel answers immediately. “Bite-sized, portable, aesthetic. You’re holding a sword of lamb, Xavi. Revel in it.”

A faint laugh escapes Xavier before he takes a deliberate bite without further protest.

Zayne sets his hands on his knees, long fingers steepling for a moment before he speaks. His voice is even, but there’s a thread of deliberation beneath it, as though he’s weighed the words all morning.

“There’s something I should mention,” he begins, glancing once toward Sylus before his eyes sweep the rest of you. “Last night, during…” A small pause, his composure flickering just slightly, “—during intimacy, something unusual surfaced.”

Rafayel leans in immediately, eyes bright. “Unusual how? Besides the obvious.”

Sylus, who’s been lounging against the tent wall with his arms crossed, tilts his head, red gaze sharp but calm. “I saw it. Golden markings—across his upper chest and shoulders. Lines, almost like sigils. Not scars, not bruises. They glowed.”

The group stills, focus shifting fully to Zayne. You feel your stomach drop faintly; the memory flashes back—gold flashing on his skin mid-motion, but you’d been too far gone to hold onto it.

Zayne inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. “I didn’t see them myself. But I trust Sylus’s account. And—” his eyes shift to you for half a heartbeat, “—you might have caught a glimpse too, if you remember?”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “I did, but… it was quick. And I was a little distracted.”

That earns a flicker of amusement from Sylus—more in his eyes than his mouth—but Zayne presses on. 

“Whatever it was, it isn’t random. My theory—our theory,” he corrects with a nod toward Sylus, “is that it may be a bleed-through. Powers surfacing in ways I haven’t yet recognized.”

Xavier’s quiet voice threads in, thoughtful. “From one of your past lives.”

Zayne meets his gaze steadily. 

“That’s the most likely source, yes.” He lets out a slow breath. “I’m telling you now so no one’s surprised, if it surfaces again. Especially if it turns out to be dangerous.”

Rafayel leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes alight with curiosity. “All right, I’m picturing it wrong. What did they actually look like?”

Sylus shifts, his tone losing some of its teasing edge as he answers. “Abstract. Angular. Layered lines and triangles, geometric but intricate. They stretched across the top of his chest here—” he touches his own sternum and sweeps outward, “—then curved around the sides of his shoulders. And the glow wasn’t flat. It shimmered. Gold, like it was half-light, half-sigil.”

Xavier’s eyes narrow faintly, contemplative. “It fits. You’ve always had your ice. But since bonding, we’ve seen you use more.”

“Three distinct sets,” Sylus supplies smoothly, ticking them off. “The ice Evol we know. The green energy that matched your life as Si-Ming. And another, also icy, but with brambles. And now, this—whatever it proves to be.”

Rafayel whistles low. “Talk about a portfolio, yeah? Not many men get three flavors of power to juggle.”

Tara, half-reclined with her bread in hand, peers over. “And you’re not worried it might… blow up in your face?”

Zayne meets her gaze calmly, though there’s a shadow in his expression. 

“I would be a fool not to consider the risks. Which is why I brought it up. But—” he looks to each of you in turn, “—if it is tied to the third life, then ignoring it won’t prevent it. Better we know.”

Caleb gives a single, short nod. “Agreed.”

Tara wipes her fingers on her pant leg, then reaches into her pack again, pulling her journal out.

“Okay. While you were all busy debating portfolios of power,” she says dryly, “I was thinking we should go over the potential relics we’ve noticed so far.” 

She ticks each off with her finger. “First fragment—offerings. Herbs, meat, shelter. Given to you, remember? Payment for your Firespeaker abilities, to judge the shadowless creature in the canyon.”

You nod faintly, memory tugging—the smoky scent of offerings, the heavy hush of a village waiting for your verdict.

“Second,” Tara continues, “a scarf. Yours. Blew away in the wind, but somehow found its way back to your door with fresh meat laid on top. A not-so-subtle calling card, courtesy of Sylus.”

Sylus quirks a brow, unbothered. “Even my past self had impeccable taste.”

Tara ignores him, tapping the page again. “Third—a piece of the pyre. The one built when the villagers were manipulated into turning on you, convinced you had to be sacrificed.”

“And last,” Tara says softly, “the bone-charm veil worn by the village elder. She was the one guiding everyone after the faceless prophet appeared in their dreams.”

She lowers the notes into her lap, looking around at the circle. “Four items. Each fits Astra’s style: twisting devotion into cruelty, gifts into weapons, protection into betrayal.”

For a moment, the group is quiet. Rafayel breaks it first, his voice thoughtful. “Feels like all of them could be wrong, doesn’t it? He’d taint the whole table if he could.”

Xavier’s gaze drops to the ground, contemplative. “But one will carry the deepest contradiction. That’s always been his choice.”

You shift slightly, trying to shake the heaviness pressing at your temples, but the drowsiness clings stubbornly. Caleb’s arm finds its way around your shoulders almost without thought, pulling you into his side. His warmth steadies you, even as your eyes keep threatening to slip half-closed.

The others carry the debate.

“The offerings,” Rafayel says, twirling his empty skewer like a baton. “That feels twisted enough, yeah? A blessing soured into a curse.”

Sylus shakes his head, red eyes narrowing. “Too broad. Too many hands in the mix. Hard to see how that could be turned into something tragic.”

Zayne folds his arms, precise as ever. “The pyre has merit. The act itself was the corruption. Sacrifice made of fear instead of reverence.”

Xavier speaks quieter, but his words carry weight. “The veil, then. Leadership poisoned at the root. One object steering the entire village.”

You blink slowly, the words drifting like waves around you. You’re aware of Rafayel’s fingers brushing your knee, and Sylus, who hasn’t moved closer, but whose gaze lingers, steady as a tether.

Caleb notices your head droop and tucks you tighter against him, his voice the first to cut through the quiet again. “What about the scarf?”

That draws them all back.

Rafayel frowns faintly. “Her scarf, lost and returned. Tied to Sylus. A loss, a return out of goodwill. And the meat—” he gestures vaguely, “—perhaps a hint at the hunger Sylus battled in that life.”

Sylus’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue. “It would fit his style.”

Zayne inclines his head slightly. 

“Of the four, it resonates most. Still…” he looks around at the others, “we don’t know how many fragments remain. More objects may present themselves.”

“Which means choosing now is pointless,” Xavier finishes, his voice calm. “We’ll keep the list open. But for now—we agree the scarf is the strongest candidate.”

A low hum of assent moves through the circle. The list isn’t settled, but there’s direction.

Caleb’s arm tightens a fraction, his chin lowering so his voice brushes against the crown of your head. 

“You’re fading,” he says, not a question.

You hum, trying for a smile. “Just tired.”

Rafayel’s eyes are already on you. “She’s not exaggerating. I can feel it, like a tide ebbing too low.”

Sylus’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t voice the worry you catch flickering there. Instead, Caleb tips his head, steady and direct. “Then sleep. Nothing pressing now.”

You huff softly. “Hard to, when the bed’s been packed away.” 

You gesture vaguely toward the folded air mattress in the corner.

Xavier is on his feet almost immediately, moving with quiet purpose. He pulls one of the thicker blankets from the supply pack, shakes it out once, then spreads it across the tent floor with neat efficiency. “This will suffice.”

Caleb wastes no time either, lowering himself onto the blanket and patting the space at his side. “Pip-squeak. Come here.”

You slide down next to him, curling into his warmth. His arm tucks you close again, hand tracing lazy circles on your upper arm as if to soothe you down into rest.

“I’ll take perimeter,” Zayne says, rising smoothly and tugging his coat tighter. His hazel eyes flick to Xavier, and the silver-haired man inclines his head in agreement.

“We’ll circle together,” Xavier confirms, already pulling on his jacket.

Rafayel and Sylus remain behind. Rafayel stretches out casually at the foot of the blanket, then captures one of your feet in both hands. 

“Relax, cutie,” he says, pressing his thumbs into your sole in slow, careful circles.

Sylus claims the other, his touch more deliberate—firm, coaxing pressure that works into the arch until the tightness melts. 

“Spoil her now,” he murmurs, “so she can’t complain later.”

You let out a helpless little sigh as the two of them knead the weariness out of you, Caleb’s chest steady against your back, the blanket warm beneath you. The sounds of Xavier and Zayne stepping out into the seam fade into the hush, leaving only the rhythm of breath, touch, and the faint hum of the silver veins outside.

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

The flap whispers shut behind them, muffling the low hum of voices inside the tent. Twilight presses in close, eternal and unchanging, the fractured moon hanging overhead with its scattered weeping stones glittering like strange stars.

Xavier and Zayne fall into step side by side, boots crunching over the silver-veined ground. The cracks shimmer faintly beneath the surface, as though the earth itself breathes light. Sparse trees lean crookedly against the horizon, their bark pale as bone, their leaves thin and whispering like paper in the wind.

A dragon’s skeleton rises in the near distance—ribs arched like a cathedral, skull half-buried in the earth. Its hollow sockets watch them silently, eternal witness to whatever ended its reign. Another looms further off, spine curving across the cracked land like a frozen river.

The sounds here are never quite familiar. Not birdcalls, not insects. The rustle of creatures in the brush carries a higher pitch, chirrups like glass chimes; the distant cry of something larger reverberates more like metal grinding than an animal’s roar. Every sound seems half-broken, echoes of a world that lost its rulers and never quite recovered.

Xavier keeps his gaze moving, eyes flicking between the skeleton shadows and the sparse line of the horizon. His hand hovers at his side, but his expression is calm, almost too calm.

Zayne glances his way, silent at first, then lifts his chin toward the farther edge of the ridge. “We’ll loop wide and come back along the bones. Keeps us in sightlines.”

Xavier nods once, silver hair catching the glow of the moonlight as they walk on. Neither speaks for a stretch, the silence filled only by the crunch of boots and the uncanny twilight sounds of the world around them.

Silver fissures crisscross beneath their boots, faint luminescence threading the dark earth. The nearest dragon skeleton juts from the ground like a fractured shipwreck, ribs wide enough for shadows to nestle between. Xavier’s eyes linger on it, the shape both haunting and beautiful in its ruin.

Zayne matches his pace easily, long coat shifting with the wind. He moves with that surgeon’s precision even here, scanning the horizon, counting dangers before they can surface. Where Xavier looks for lines of light, Zayne seems to read absence—what isn’t moving, what should have made a sound but doesn’t.

The world’s noises surround them: crystalline chirrs from some insect hidden in the brush, the odd creak of leaves that don’t sound like leaves at all, a mournful bellow carrying from far off that has no earthly comparison. The air hums faintly, as though the bones beneath their feet still hold some echo of dragons long dead.

Xavier breathes it in. Alien, but familiar in its vastness—like every battlefield, every forgotten stretch of Philos, every world stripped of the people who should have filled it.

His gaze drifts sideways, to the man walking beside him. Zayne’s expression is as composed as ever, though Xavier has long since learned how much effort that requires. He hesitates, words pressing against his tongue. He isn’t often the one to start conversations. But this—this has been weighing on him too long.

Zayne notices. That sharp perception of his, honed on operating tables and battlefields alike, misses very little. His hazel eyes flick once, then again, and his voice follows.

“You’re quiet,” he says—a simple observation that lands with precision.

Xavier exhales softly. “I’m usually quiet.”

Zayne’s mouth curves at the corner, a subtle acknowledgment. “True. But this isn’t silence. It’s restraint. You’ve been holding something back since before we left the tent.”

Xavier’s gaze lingers on the jagged outline of dragon ribs jutting against the twilight sky. He can feel the words thrumming in his throat, a rhythm begging to be spoken. Still, he hesitates, uncertain how to set them free without shattering the fragile calm between them.

“When we were in your past life,” he says after a moment, eyes fixed on the shimmering cracks beneath their boots, “in the bathhouse… I saw you with Sylus.”

Zayne inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of it without shame.

Xavier wets his lips, searching for the right angle. “I’ve wondered, since then. What it meant for you. If it was only circumstance, or if…” 

His words trail, the thought heavy, difficult to drag into form.

Zayne’s brow lifts a fraction, perceptive as ever. 

“You’re asking if it was only desperation,” he says quietly, “or if it’s something I’m comfortable with.”

Xavier nods slowly. His chest feels too tight, like light sparking against glass. “Yes.”

For a beat, only the seam answers, a crystalline chirr echoing from the brush, the faint grinding call of something distant. Then Zayne speaks, calm as though he’d been expecting this.

“It wasn’t desperation.” His tone is certain. “And it wasn’t the only time. I’ve… been open to men, when it’s felt safe. And with Sylus, it has, multiple times.”

Xavier’s steps falter for the barest second before he steadies. He hadn’t known. Not fully. He swallows, heat rising at the edges of his face. “So it’s not foreign to you.”

“No,” Zayne replies. He glances sideways, hazel eyes warm despite their calm. “And if you’re asking because curiosity’s gnawing at you—then you should know, you wouldn’t be alone in it.”

“Curiosity,” he repeats, almost to himself. “Yes.”

Then he exhales, a quiet sound that feels like loosening a knot. Relief steadies in his chest—not because Zayne’s answer matches something he wanted to hear, but because it comes without judgment. He knows, with certainty, that even if Zayne had said no, there would’ve been no condemnation in it.

“You understand, then,” Xavier murmurs. “What it’s like. To feel it and wonder.”

Zayne’s profile is calm, his gaze sweeping the jagged horizon. 

“I’ve wondered for years,” he admits. “Long before bonds, before her, before any of this. But I never had anyone I trusted enough to try with. Not until now.”

The words sink deep. Xavier thinks of the first time curiosity had truly bitten him—not in abstract, not in distant fantasy, but visceral. It had been watching Sylus and Rafayel together, the fluid ease of it. He’d teased her by saying it’d be hotter if he was fucking her while watching them, like it was her fantasy alone. But when it happened—when he saw them, heard them, felt her body shuddering under him—it had been more arousing than he’d ever anticipated.

And then there were Rafayel’s kisses. Quick, perfunctory Lemurian Kisses, shared to breathe underwater. Innocent by necessity. But each time, the brush of his lips had left Xavier flushed, unsettled, and something within him had whispered this is different.

He feels heat rise in his cheeks now, even remembering.

Zayne notices. 

“It isn’t shameful,” he says gently, voice steady as ever. “Curiosity doesn’t make you less. It makes you human. And if you’re realizing it now instead of years ago—then that’s fine too.”

Xavier’s throat tightens. His voice comes low, almost boyish in its uncertainty. “I think… I didn’t know how much of it was hers, at first. Her fantasy. And how much of it was mine.”

Zayne tilts his head slightly, a rare softness threading his features. “And now?”

Xavier swallows, breath unsteady. “Now I think it’s both.”

Zayne doesn’t look away as they walk, his gaze steady on the horizon, but his words are meant only for Xavier.

“You should know,” he says, quiet but unflinching, “Sylus wasn’t the only one. Rafayel, too.”

Xavier’s head turns, just enough for his silver hair to shift with the motion. His expression doesn’t betray surprise so much as focus, like he’s committing the admission to memory.

Zayne goes on, voice factual without being cold. “It wasn’t all at once. A few moments, here and there. Letting myself… explore what felt right. Sylus was the first, yes. But Rafayel has been part of it, too. Both of them made it feel safe.”

The words sink like weight and buoyancy all at once. Xavier had suspected something beyond what he’d seen, but hearing it out loud—Rafayel too—stirs a rush of heat that makes his pulse quicken.

Zayne glances at him briefly, the faintest crease easing from his brow. 

“I tell you this so you don’t think you’d be stepping where no one else has. They accepted me in it. And they’d accept you, too, I’m sure. But—” his tone softens, more personal, “—if what you want is to start small, then you can start with me. I find you… intriguing, Xavier. I always have.”

Xavier’s breath catches. The twilight seems sharper around them, every silver vein in the cracked earth glowing brighter, every strange seam-sound magnified. He’s blushing—he knows he is—but he doesn’t look away. The word intriguing rings in his ears, echoing with possibility.

“You…” His voice falters, and he swallows before trying again, softer. “You find me intriguing?”

Zayne inclines his head. “I do.”

The knot inside Xavier eases, loosening with each breath. He feels the admission slipping out of him before he can second-guess it. “I’ve been… curious about you, too. About all of them, in truth. But hearing it from you—it makes it easier. Safer.”

For the first time, Zayne’s composure shifts with something warmer, a hint of a smile curving his lips. He takes a half-step closer, the faint brush of his coat grazing Xavier’s arm. 

“If that’s the case…” His eyes search Xavier’s face. “Are you certain?”

Xavier’s breath stutters, but his answer is firm. “Yes.”

The single word is enough.

Zayne leans in, giving him space to turn away if he chooses. Xavier doesn’t. Their mouths meet gently at first, careful and exploratory. But the moment stretches, deepens—heat building from both sides, neither holding back once the barrier breaks. Zayne’s hand finds the line of Xavier’s jaw, steadying him, while Xavier presses closer with a quiet sound he didn’t mean to let slip.

The kiss grows, equal parts tenderness and hunger, until the air itself feels charged—like the silver veins beneath their feet are pulsing brighter in response.

When they part at last, breath mingling in the seam’s eternal twilight, Xavier’s chest is heaving, eyes wide. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

He searches Zayne’s face in the breathless quiet that follows, still half-expecting to find judgment there—but there’s none. Only calm steadiness, tempered by the warmth of something deeper.

“I wasn’t imagining it,” Xavier murmurs, more to himself than anything. “That pull.”

Zayne’s hand lingers lightly at his jaw, then drops with deliberate gentleness. “No. You weren’t.” 

His hazel eyes catch a glimmer of the shattered moonlight above, softened now in a way Xavier hasn’t seen often. “You deserve to know you’re wanted. Not only by her.”

The words strike him harder than the kiss itself. He swallows, the tightness in his chest loosening with a quiet exhale. “Thank you.”

Zayne tilts his head, a faint curve ghosting at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t thank me. Just… be honest with yourself when the moment comes again.”

Xavier’s gaze flicks away, to the skeletal ribs cutting against the twilight sky, then back. “I will.”

They fall into step again, shoulders brushing once before space reasserts itself between them. The silence now is different—charged, alive, no longer heavy with restraint. Xavier’s mind still reels, but beneath it is a steady undercurrent: relief, possibility, and the knowledge that his curiosity has been met with understanding, not scorn.

The seam hums faintly around them, alien noises filling the air—chimes in the brush, that distant grinding cry—and Xavier feels, for the first time in days, lighter.

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

The vibration comes first—deep in your bones, low and insistent, pulling you from the cocoon of sleep. You stir against Caleb’s chest, breath catching. It’s not exhaustion tugging at you this time. It’s the call.

You feel the subtle tightening of his muscles even before his arm tightens around you. 

“Fragment time?” he asks, and you nod against him.

Sylus is already upright, red eyes gleaming in the twilight dim. “I feel it. I’ll go grab the others.” 

His gaze cuts to the flap, and without hesitation, he strides out.

You push upright, surprised to find yourself steadier than expected. Whatever fog lingered before your nap has burned away—you feel more alert, more yourself. Caleb rises smoothly beside you, folding and storing the blanket you’d been resting on.

“On your feet, pip-squeak,” he says

Across from you, Tara is muttering under her breath before snapping her journal shut and tucking it away. “Why do these things always wait until I’ve finally started to feel human again?”

Rafayel snorts, already tugging stakes from the ground outside. “Because the universe loves irony, T. Ask Astra.”

You kneel to roll one of the tent partitions, tying it with fumbling fingers until Caleb’s larger hand steadies yours, finishing the knot with efficient precision. 

Outside, the twilight stretches endlessly, dragon bones stark against the fractured moon. The hum inside your chest grows stronger, urging the inevitable.

Canvas rustles and folds under quick hands, the rhythm almost second nature by now. Caleb cinches the straps on the larger tent with neat precision while you and Tara collapse her smaller one, the poles clattering softly as Rafayel gathers them up with a flicker of flame-thread to keep them bound. The twilight presses heavier with each passing moment, that vibration inside your chest growing sharper, harder to ignore.

By the time you knot the last strap and sling a pack onto your shoulder, Sylus reappears at the ridge. Xavier and Zayne walk at his side, their silhouettes cutting clean lines against the fractured horizon.

“They’re ready,” Sylus says simply, red gaze locking on yours. He doesn’t need to explain further—you feel the pull, too.

Rafayel hoists a pack over one shoulder, the easy curve of his mouth belied by the tension in his eyes. “No souvenirs left behind. I checked.”

Caleb’s hand brushes the small of your back, guiding you subtly toward the center. “Time to go, pip-squeak.”

Everyone closes in, shoulders brushing as they form the familiar circle. Packs secured, nothing left behind but footprints on silver-veined stone.

You extend your hand, and Sylus takes it without hesitation. The instant your palms meet, the vibration detonates into certainty—lightning through your bones.

The world shatters, and the fragment takes you.

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

Sylus’s stride matches yours across the silver-cracked plain, his shadow long in the eternal twilight. A bundle of herbs is tucked against your chest, his hunting bow slung over his shoulder.

The path to the village feels familiar, and yet it has never felt so easy. There is no need for words; his presence is its own comfort. He glances at you once, the faintest smile playing at his lips, and in that look you see everything: the steadiness that anchors you, the mischief that keeps you laughing, and the promise that he will always, always return to your side.

It has bloomed between you in small ways. The way he always insists you take the choicest cut of meat, setting it in your bowl without fanfare. The way his teasing softens at night, becoming something protective, even reverent, when the fire burns low. The way his hand lingers at the small of your back when the path grows uneven, guiding without command.

You love him for these things as much as for his fire and his fight. You love him for the quiet, for the fierce gentleness threaded through all his sharp edges. And when he catches you looking too long, red gaze warm and unguarded, you know he loves you with the same inevitability.

Ahead, the village rooftops rise against the broken moonlight. Smoke curls from chimneys, and figures move about the square. 

Sylus squeezes your hand once before you enter, a silent vow in the gesture.

The dirt path narrows as it bends between the first huts, the familiar outline of the village folding around you. Smoke drifts from cooking fires, mingling with the faint resin-scent of herbs hanging in doorways. On the surface, it looks unchanged—home, or close enough to it.

But the faces that turn toward you are not the same.

The smiles are too wide, stretched too long. Eyes linger where they never did before, tracking you both as you cross the square. Hands clutch charms a little tighter. You catch the hiss of whispers cut short when you pass—snatches of words you can’t quite make out, ending in silence so thick it prickles against your skin.

A child darts forward, bright-eyed, only for their mother to yank them back by the arm. She bends low, whispering something sharp, and the child’s eyes widen as they stare at you before ducking behind her skirts.

Your steps slow, unease tugging at your stomach. The herbs weigh heavier in your arms.

Beside you, Sylus’s expression barely shifts, but you feel it in the squeeze of his hand. “They’ve always been cagey,” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear. “Don’t let it gnaw at you.”

Still, as you cross the square, the air feels taut. Smiles that don’t reach eyes. A welcome that feels more like a waiting.

At the far end, the elder stands in her bone-charm veil, hands folded before her. The veil sways with each slow breath, the charms clicking faintly like teeth. From beneath, she offers a serene smile, one that puts you at ease.

You and Sylus leave the square to briefly rest. In doing so, you miss the figure that appears in the center of the square, tall and frail and faceless behind the elder.

When it speaks, the voice is a chorus, layered and hollow, filling the space with weight.

“The dragon feeds the curse because the Firespeaker binds him. To kill her is to kill him.”

The villagers bow as one, their smiles gone, their faces unreadable beneath the tilt of their heads.

Night settles heavy over the village, the fractured moon spilling pale light across rooftops and fields. The air carries the faint scent of smoke and herbs, the ordinary rhythm of evening drifting in familiar notes—pots clattering, quiet voices, the shuffle of feet heading home.

You and Sylus sit near the fire, the day’s hunt and forage laid out between you. Villagers had brought food earlier, smiling in thanks, their gestures polite and reverent like always when a Firespeaker performs their duty. Too reverent, perhaps, though you told yourself you were imagining it. Gratitude has always sat strangely on their faces.

The stew tastes rich with spices, the kind they make only for honored guests. You sip, warmth pooling in your stomach, and Sylus nudges a larger portion of meat into your bowl without comment, as he always does.

But halfway through, your limbs grow sluggish and your head fogs. The fire blurs at the edges, the rhythm of voices around you stretching and warping.

Sylus rises, muttering something about fetching water, his hand brushing your shoulder before he steps away. By the time he disappears into the shadows beyond the firelight, the weight in your chest has spread, pinning you to your seat.

The sound of chanting rises faintly, at first a whisper, then louder—many voices woven into one. A rhythm not of feasting, but of ritual.

You try to stand, but your knees buckle. Hands—so many hands—catch you, binding you fast with a strength you can’t fight. The world tips, darkness pressing at the edges of your sight, and the last thing you hear is the drone of voices, unified, calling out to the shattered moon.

When you wake, it’s to rope biting your wrists, your body lashed upright against rough wood. A pyre.

Above, the moon bleeds silver fire, fractures grinding, shards shifting like teeth.

The ropes dig into your wrists, rough and splintering, every breath making the fibers bite tighter. Your ankles are bound too, lashed to the thick post driven into the stacked wood. The scent of pitch and dried bark rises sharp around you.

Voices echo all around—low, droning, a chant you can’t quite make sense of. Words blur together, rising and falling like a tide. Dozens of faces shift in the torchlight, villagers you know, villagers who once greeted you with wary smiles, now gazing up at you with eyes alight in strange devotion.

You don’t understand.

The last thing you remember was stew, Sylus’s hand brushing your shoulder before he stepped away. A simple meal. Gratitude in their smiles. How did it twist into this?

The moon above grinds and cracks, its bleeding fire painting the square in silver light. Shadows stretch long and distorted across the ground, making the villagers look taller, less human. The air thrums with tension, thick enough to choke on.

A woman you know—who once pressed herbs into your hand for a cough—lifts a torch high, her face fixed and blank, as though her will isn’t her own. Others sway with the chant, eyes closed, voices merging into something not entirely mortal.

“Why?” you rasp, but your voice is swallowed by the roar of their unity. No one answers. No one even seems to hear you.

The veil of the elder glints with bone charms as she stands closest, her head bowed beneath the fractured moonlight. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t look at anything but the sky.

Behind her stands a tall, faceless figure with the frail body of an elder. His hood is aimed at you, as if his eyes are locked on the pyre.

The torch tips downward, flame licking closer to the dry wood piled at your feet. Heat brushes your skin, your heart hammering so loud it drowns the chanting for a moment.

“No—stop!” Your voice cracks, raw with terror. You thrash against the ropes, the fibers biting deeper, but they don’t give. “Please!”

Faces don’t change. Not a flicker of pity, not even recognition. Their eyes are fixed, their movements mechanical, as if some unseen hand pulls every string.

The torch lowers further, the fire’s glow spilling across your vision until it blurs. The chant rises, drowning your sob into its rhythm.

“SYLUS!”

Your scream tears the square open. It cuts jagged through the chant, through the night, through the very air.

A shadow bursts through the crowd, not shadow at all but a figure blazing with feral light. Wings snap open, scales catching the fractured moonfire, his roar rolling through the air like a storm given flesh. Villagers scatter, shrieking demon! as the torch clatters uselessly to the ground.

The ropes fall away in shredded coils, and the press of Sylus’s arms around you is the only thing that feels real. His chest heaves against your cheek, the beat of his heart a thunder you cling to.

His wings unfurl wide, each membrane catching fractured moonlight, glowing where scales overlap like molten glass. You’ve never seen them fully spread before—vast, terrible, beautiful. The villagers recoil, torches dropping into the dirt as cries of demon, demon! ripple through the crowd. Some kneel, trembling, while others stumble back in blind terror.

Sylus doesn’t look at them. His gaze is only on you, sharp and desperate, his voice a guttural rasp. “I’ve got you. They’ll never—” His words break into a growl, the vow too fierce to hold steady.

The chant has collapsed into chaos, a cacophony of horror and awe. The elder staggers back, veil rattling with the click of bones, but even she dares not lift her eyes from him.

You clutch at him, shaking, the smell of smoke and pitch still thick in your nose. He presses you tighter against his chest, his skin burning warm through his tunic, wings curling slightly as though to shield you from every gaze, every threat.

From the far edge, the figure lifts its faceless head, robes trailing like smoke. Its arms rise toward the shattered moon, and the world seems to tilt toward that gesture. The air sharpens, a cold pressure building in your ears, your bones, as though the entire night is being drawn into its faceless presence.

The fractured moon flares.

Light condenses, silver fire bleeding through the cracks until a single beam lances downward. It falls with merciless precision, piercing straight through Sylus’s chest.

The sound it makes is not flesh tearing—it is metal splitting, glass shattering, a note so sharp it vibrates the world around you. His body jerks, scales blazing as the light punches through, and hot spray dampens your skin.

“No!” The word tears from you, ragged and useless.

Sylus staggers, wings flaring wide, every muscle straining to keep you close. He doesn’t let go. His arms tighten, as if holding you alone is enough to deny the wound, enough to keep the world from unraveling around you.

Villagers scream, some scattering into the dark, others dropping to their knees in rapture. The figure lowers its arms slowly, robes settling like water.

Sylus’s breath rattles above you, heat and blood and fire mingling, and you cling tighter, terror clawing up your throat.

The world fractures like glass under a hammer.

The pyre, the villagers, the firelight—everything shatters into shards of sound and sensation. The faceless form unravels into smoke, the villagers’ screams twist into echoes that collapse in on themselves. Even the bleeding moon above seems to splinter further before the entire scene is ripped away.

The village remains—but hollow, lifeless. The pyre still stands, blackened wood stacked high, though unburnt. Huts stand with doors ajar, no people inside, no sound of breath or movement. It is the skeleton of the place you just left, stripped of life, as though the fragment had peeled it away and left only the shell.

You turn to Sylus at once, hands flying to his chest. Logically, you know the injury doesn’t carry over, but your fingers still tremble as you press against him, searching desperately for blood, for heat, for the tear that isn’t there.

“Sy—” your voice breaks, “—you’re fine, you’re fine…”

His chest rises steadily under your touch, warm and solid. No wound. No silver fire.

Still, you can’t stop, your hands mapping over him in frantic repetition—shoulders, collarbone, down his sternum—until he catches one of them in his own. His grip is firm, though his expression is unreadable.

“I’m here,” he says, but his voice is low, as if pulled from somewhere distant. His gaze isn’t on you but past you, fixed on the memory of the strike, the echo of pain he alone remembers in full.

Your throat tightens. You press yourself into him anyway, clutching the fabric of his tunic as if you can anchor him back. 

“You’re here,” you whisper fiercely, forehead pressed to his shoulder. “With me.”

For a long moment he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms come around you, not with his usual teasing warmth but with a quiet, heavy hold.

The others close in slowly, their steps crunching soft over the silver-veined dirt. No one rushes you, but their presence draws you and Sylus back from that raw, suspended moment.

Caleb crouches low, arms resting on his knees, his gaze cutting to the pyre before returning to you both. 

“We saw it,” he says quietly. “The Prophet.”

Your head jerks up, throat tight. “Prophet…?”

Rafayel’s expression is grave, his usual softness banked down to steel. 

“It appeared to them when you weren’t looking. Spoke its poison for them to hear.” His voice lowers, speaking in a hollow cadence: “The dragon feeds the curse because the Firespeaker binds him. To kill her is to kill him.”

The words crawl over your skin.

“They believed it,” Zayne adds thoughtfully. “That’s why they drugged you. Why they bound you. To them, it was deliverance.”

Xavier’s arms fold across his chest, eyes sharp as glass. “They thought killing you would kill him. That you were the curse itself.”

You look back at Sylus, at his pale face and shadowed eyes. His grip on your hand hasn’t loosened, though he says nothing.

“They weren’t themselves,” Tara says from behind the others, voice trembling but steadying with each word. “They moved like puppets. Their smiles, the chanting—every piece of it was too controlled. That Prophet had its claws in them from the start.”

Silence stretches. The pyre looms behind you all, mute and cold, a monument to what almost was.

Sylus finally speaks, his voice a rasp: “Doesn’t matter why. They touched her.”

You all drift farther into the empty square and settle where the ground is least cracked. Rafayel kneels, flicks two fingers, and a small tongue of gold-pink flame lifts from his palm to catch on the kindling. The fire takes quickly, warm light pooling over canvas and stone, soft enough not to feel like a challenge to the twilight.

Sylus sinks onto a folded blanket and simply opens his arms. You go to him without thinking. He pulls you into his lap and holds you there with a steady, circling touch at your hip like he’s reminding himself you’re here. His heartbeat is even under your ear, but some part of him is still back on that pyre; you can feel it in the way his breath occasionally stutters before smoothing out again.

Caleb settles on your other side, close enough that his knee anchors against your thigh. Tara lowers herself opposite, eyes rimmed red but dry now, her journal in her lap unopened. Zayne sits with his back to a toppled cart, hands steepled, gaze on the fire’s center. Xavier’s blue eyes flick over each of you, the scan gentle rather than clinical, and then he looks into the flames as if he can file the moment away there.

No one rushes words. The quiet is allowed to exist.

You lace your fingers with Sylus’s where they rest at your waist and breathe. “Still with me,” you murmur, a reassurance aimed at both of you.

“Still with you,” he answers. The roughness in his voice isn’t for effect; it’s what’s left after a promise is put through fire.

Rafayel eases forward to pass you a cup of water, his hand brushing your ankle in a fleeting check-in. “Sip, yeah?” he says softly. 

You do. The simple act gives your hands something to do besides shake.

Caleb breaks the hush in that steady, practical way of his. “We stay here a bit,” he says. “Fire. Food if anyone wants it. Then we find a house to rest in when you’re ready.” 

Zayne nods once. “Agreed.” His eyes lift to you. “You don’t need to make sense of it right now.”

Tara finally opens her journal, pencil hovering without touching paper. 

“I’ll write later,” she decides, closing it again. “I… want to sit with you first.”

You tighten your arms around Sylus’s shoulders and he tucks his face briefly into your hair. For a long, even stretch, that’s all any of you do: breathe, listen to the soft pop of the fire, and let the worst of the fragment’s aftershock drain out in the rhythm of shared quiet.

But you don’t get long to rest. Before your trembling fully fades, the vibration of the call hums in your bones, making you and Sylus look at each other.

The others understand without a need for explanation. Within a minute, all packs have been picked back up, and everyone’s on their feet.

You reach out and link your fingers with Sylus, and the world blurs—

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

Sylus staggers forward, knees buckling, claws gouging the dirt as he crashes to the ground. His body jerks, caught between shapes—muscle tearing, scales spreading like molten glass across his arms and chest, wings spasming behind him as if they can’t decide whether to remain or vanish.

The wound from the moonbeam is still there, glowing faintly, silver light pulsing in rhythm with his ragged breaths. Each pulse sends tremors through his body, making his jaw clench until his teeth creak.

His eyes blaze, not red as you know them, but searing gold threaded with silver fire. Hunger lives in them, sharp and unrelenting, layered with agony so deep it steals the air from your lungs. He lifts his head to you, lips peeling back in a snarl that’s half a groan, half a plea.

“I… can’t—” His voice fractures, guttural and inhuman. “I can’t hold it back anymore. Your blood—” His claws dig into the dirt, trembling, as though sheer will is the only thing keeping him from lunging. “Your blood sings too loud.”

The air around him thickens, vibrating faintly with the sound of his restraint breaking. The weeping stones above throb brighter, casting harsh, silver-tinged light across his half-dragon body.

You drop to your knees beside him, reaching for him instinctively, though the heat pouring off his skin burns against your palms. His breath rasps in shallow gasps, each one rougher, more feral than the last.

His hand clamps around your arm, talons trembling as they press into your skin. The tips pierce, shallow but enough to break flesh.

You gasp as warmth trickles down, your own blood spilling bright against his scales. His body shudders violently at the scent, at the taste so near. His breath comes ragged, every inhale a fight against the hunger clawing up from his chest.

The wound in him glows brighter, silver fire throbbing in sync with your heartbeat. His eyes lock on yours, glowing, wild, and yet desperate—pleading.

“If I live…” His claws tighten, tremor shaking through every syllable. “If I live, I will kill you.”

Tears blur your sight. You shake your head, voice breaking. “No—”

“Please,” he whispers, raw, torn open. His forehead presses against yours for the briefest second, a touch shaking with restraint. “Please… end me.”

You clutch at him, fingers tangling in scales and fabric alike, shaking your head so hard it makes your vision blur. “No—don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

His claws tremble harder against your arm, pricking deeper, but the grip is desperate, not cruel. His whole body quakes as though the effort of restraint is tearing him apart.

“I won’t leave you,” you sob, pulling at his shoulders, pressing your forehead against his. “I won’t abandon you. There has to be another way—we’ll find it, I swear—”

His breath tears through him in jagged bursts, chest heaving against yours. 

“There is no other way.” His voice fractures into something guttural, almost inhuman. “I can’t fight it anymore.”

You try to tighten your grip, as if sheer force of will could keep him tethered. “Then I’ll fight it for you! I’ll—”

“Stop,” he gasps, raw and agonized. His claws scrape just enough to make you hiss, blood welling at the crescented marks. His face twists, both man and dragon inside him begging at once. “You’re all I love in this world, all I lived for. Let me die by your hand.”

You jerk back, shaking your head so hard tears blur everything into a smear of torchlight and silver sky. 

“No. I won’t—” Your voice cracks and folds on itself. “I won’t leave you. Don’t say that.”

His claws bite harder, not out of malice but because he’s trying to anchor himself to the only thing that keeps him human. Blood wells where talon-tips scored your skin; it beads and runs warm down your forearm. The smell of iron brightens the night, and for a single, dizzy second you can hear his heartbeat in that scent.

“I can’t,” he rasps, each word a shard. “If I take you… I won’t be able to live with it.” His thumb drags wet across your wrist in a useless, trembling gesture of apology. “If I kill you, I’ll—” He can’t finish it properly—the rest is a crushed, broken noise that lands like a verdict between you.

The thought of it—of him waking each day with your blood on his hands, of the man you love shrinking into a shell of guilt and obsession—cracks you open wider than the idea of death ever could. The shape of the choice changes in your chest. It ceases to be only about whether he will die; it becomes about what he will become if he does not, and that image is more terrible than any blade.

For a long, raw heartbeat you tremble on the edge of refusal, fingers digging into his shoulders so hard your knuckles ache. 

“I—” Your throat closes; the world narrows to the rasp of his breathing and the ragged chorus of your own sobs. Above you, the weeping stones wheel and flare as if listening.

Then something in you gives — not surrender, exactly, but a terrible clarity. You will not let him become the thing he fears to be. You will not let the same curse claim him twice. If this is the only doorway left, then you will be the one to walk through it with him.

Your hands, slick with blood and trembling, drop from his shoulders. You draw him closer until the heat of his wound presses against your cheek. You close your eyes and breathe in the iron and smoke and the faint mineral tang of the silver-veined earth.

And then you begin to sing.

It is not the triumphant cry you use to call fire, or the resonant tone used to draw truth from bone. It is smaller and older—an unspooling of syllables you have hummed by hearth and river, a lullaby twisted into an elegy. The first notes slip past your lips in a voice so thin it surprises you; the second gathers strength, the third grows teeth. Each phrase is a petal of sound you lay against his skin.

His body shudders as the melody sinks in. You feel the song press against the silver pulse in his chest, feel it probe for the thing that drives him frantic. Around you, the world seems to hold its breath—shards of moonlight flicker, the wind dragging at ash and loose dirt.

Your throat aches. Your voice breaks and rebuilds and breaks again, and still you pour more of yourself into the notes, into the silence you are trying to birth. The words are not commands; they are a letting-go, a soft naming of what must end.

Sylus’s fingers, still hooked in your arm, slacken a fraction. His head dips until his forehead rests against yours. For a blink you think he might laugh—a sound like a broken promise—then his shoulders collapse around the note you are holding.

The song climbs higher, urgent now, and the seam answers with a thin, keening echo. You keep singing, because stopping now would be betrayal, because every line you shape is an offering and a blade both.

You sing until your throat is raw, until each note is a rasped plea. The sound you make is less like music now and more like a blade sliding through smoke—soft at first, then cutting, then relentless.

Sylus’s body trembles against you. The silver glow in his chest flares and then splinters; you feel the shudder run through him like a struck bell. He exhales a breath that tastes of iron and ash, and his fingers fumble at yours as if trying to hold on to anything human. 

For a terrible moment, his eyes find yours—gold threaded with dying silver, a hunting hunger dissolving into something like sorrow—and he presses his forehead to yours as if anchoring himself to the only thing that will not betray him.

“Sing,” he rasps, voice gone thin. “Finish.”

The notes peel from you in a raw, steady stream, and the world answers like a throat clearing—wind lifting, earth listening. His body convulses once, twice, the motion of muscles pulling against some internal undoing. Heat blossoms along his ribs; where scales break and melt, skin chars and then flakes away, dust and silver ash lifting like snow. He coughs, a sound that is half laugh, half death-cry, and you realize the man you hold is burning inward and outward at once.

His hands slip from yours. He tries to speak; the word is lost in a tiny, ragged sound. His chest caves; you feel the last hard beat beneath your hand and then nothing but a slowing, stuttering silence where his heart was. The song in your mouth shatters against the stillness, and you keep singing because stopping would be consent to the silence, would be giving it to him on someone else’s terms.

Bone and dust answer the song. The ground convulses; great, ancient ribs explode up from the earth around you, white and clean as a new moon. Mammoth bones pierce the village like growing spires, overturning huts, snapping carts like twigs. The pyre fractures beneath them and collapses, sparks scattering into the knife-light of the shattered moon. Villagers who had watched with twisted devotion are thrown aside by the surge, their forms tumbled into ruin.

You clutch at what’s left of him. What remains in your hands is not the weight of flesh but a soft, warm handful of grey ash and glimmering silver dust that sifts through your fingers like a grave’s snowfall. You press it to your face as if you can still feel heat, as if some memory of him will cling to warmth.

Above you, the weeping stones recoil and then fall—great, glowing shards smashing through the sky like a second, crueler rain. Each stone shatters against the ground, sending up showers of light and cinders that sting your face. The faceless figure’s voice threads through the roaring collapse: a clean, delighted sound, laughter that has no mouth. It threads the chaos and hangs in the air, cruel and small.

“You lose again,” the laughter says, a voice folded into a hundred voices. “You call it love, and I call it design.”

The figure unravels at the edges as if it had never been more than a shadow sewn to the night. Its laughter peels away and then is gone, swallowed by the racket of falling bone and collapsing roofs.

You do not know how long you scream. The ash in your hands smears over your lips and into your hair; you choke on it and keep screaming until the sound is raw and empty. Around you the shrine towers, a white, obscene crown where a village once stood. The wind wails through the rib-cathedrals, carrying the last echo of that hollow, faceless laugh away into nothing.

You curl inward in the wreckage, holding the cold dust as if it were a heart, as if you could press back the pieces and make him whole. The weeping stones beat the sky into a thousand slow, silver hammers, and the world narrows until every falling shard is a metronome for the grief that has taken root in your chest.

The seam rips you out of the song and drops you into white. Fog closes around you so thick it tastes like cold breath; the world is nothing but close, damp air and the hollow ache inside your chest. You clutch at the soft, silver ash in your hands because it is the only thing that feels real — real in your palms a moment ago, now faint and fading into nothing, slipping through your fingers like a memory you can’t keep.

Sylus is beside you, and he is not the same man who sat in your lap by the pyre. He stands too straight, eyes flat and too-wide with something that looks like a memory set on replay. He holds you the only way he can: arms wrapped around you, one cheek pressed to the top of your head, voice a raw line you feel more than hear. 

“I held you,” he says, over and over, like a fact he is trying to anchor himself to. His hands shake when they touch your shoulders; the tremor runs down your spine and makes the world keener.

Around you the others fold in, forming the ring you always make after a tear. 

Caleb is immediate and solid; his weight is a promise against your back, his grip on your hip firm enough to remind your body you are still here. 

Xavier’s voice is low and close, words threaded with an attempt at steadiness — small, simple things: breathe, blink, lean into him when you need it. 

Zayne catches your shoulder with the steadiness of someone who has held other people's crises and kept his hands calm; his eyes are wet but controlled, and he whispers nothing of theory or fate, only, “I’m here.”

Rafayel stumbles into the circle like someone struck. One moment he’s a man with a grin and a sketchbook, the next he reels as if the ground itself has been punched out from under him. He feels every note of your song, every sear of Sylus’s undoing, and it hits him like a hammer. 

He makes a sound you’ve never heard — a raw, animal half-sob — and then he’s on his knees beside you, hands fumbling, mouth pressed to your hand. Zayne’s hand clamps onto his shoulder, anchoring him, his lips tight.

Tara is there too, face wet and paper-pale, her pen forgotten in her lap. She presses the heel of her hand to your back once, then folds into herself, eyes closed as if she’s trying to catalog the shape of your sobs to keep them from fraying.

The fog holds you a long time, until the jagged edges of grief begin to dull beneath the pressure of steady hands and quiet voices. You feel Sylus’s warmth pressed against you, his heartbeat steady and unbroken where you rest against his chest.

Slowly, deliberately, you force yourself to breathe deeper, to let the tremors in your hands ease. It was a past life. He’s here. He’s fine. You repeat the logic until it roots. 

He feels the shift in you. His palm strokes slow lines down your spine, voice pitched low for your ears alone. 

“That’s it, kitten. Put it down. It’s not ours to keep.” His lips brush your temple, the warmth of the gesture anchoring more than his words.

You nod against him, swallowing the last ragged edge of sound in your throat. When you lift your head, his red eyes are waiting, calmer than your own, offering steadiness in the way only he can. He doesn’t rush you, but he doesn’t let you spiral either. And between those two truths, you find yourself able to breathe without shattering.

When your trembling finally stills, Zayne shifts forward from where he’s been kneeling at your side. His hazel gaze lingers on you, and his voice is gentle when he speaks. “Are you ready?”

The question lands like a choice and an affirmation all at once. You draw a breath, square your shoulders, and give him a firm nod. “Yes.”

Something in his expression softens, and then his eyes darken subtly—like the shadow of stormclouds passing over sunlight. The air around him grows heavier, quieter, as though it, too, recognizes the change.

Dawnbreaker surfaces.

When he looks at you, it’s with a weight that presses into the very core of you, familiar and foreign all at once. His lips curve faintly, and the greeting rolls from him like a vow.

“Beloved.”

Your chest eases at the sound of that name on his lips. It has never felt like a chain, only an anchor—an echo of a love that has followed you through countless lifetimes.

“Dawnbreaker,” you whisper, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his cheek. Your lips linger a breath longer than necessary, and when you draw back, his eyes are on you, warm and steady.

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your jaw with reverence. “You’re stronger than you know,” he murmurs, voice pitched for you alone. “You always have been. Don’t let grief convince you otherwise.”

The words land like sunlight after rain, banishing some of the heaviness still caught in your chest. You press into his touch, letting the warmth of him soothe what logic cannot.

Then his gaze shifts, drawing wider to include the others. “We are not defined by what Astra steals,” he says, voice even and sure. “Each loss wounds, yes—but it does not end us.”

The fog itself seems to quiet, as though listening. The weight of his words settles in each of you differently—Rafayel’s shoulders easing a fraction, Caleb’s jaw unclenching, Xavier’s fists loosening, Sylus’s red eyes narrowing with tempered focus. Tara’s tears slip, but her pencil stills, as if she’s found the line she’s been waiting to write.

Dawnbreaker’s gaze finds yours again at the last, as if reminding you: his encouragement is for everyone, but his devotion is yours.

He straightens slowly, as though drawing the air itself into his grasp. His shadowed hazel eyes shutter half-closed, and when he exhales, the fog stirs with silver-green light.

The air hums, deep and resonant, pulling at your skin, at your bones. And then, one by one, the relics answer the call.

A scarf drifts out of the mist, the same one you lost to the wind—soft fabric fluttering though there is no breeze, carrying with it the faint memory of Sylus’s hand leaving meat at your door.

Beside it hovers a small bundle of offerings: herbs tied neatly with twine, a cut of dried meat balanced atop it. The villagers’ gratitude for your Firespeaker’s service.

The elder’s bone-charm veil materializes next, the little pieces clicking faintly against one another as though stirred by invisible breath. Its weight in the air feels colder than the fog itself.

A stone follows—shard of the shattered moon, jagged and luminous, thrumming like a heartbeat. The glow from it pulses faintly, sickeningly, and the fog seems to bend around it.

And last, a humble bowl. Steam still curls from its surface, carrying the scent of spiced stew. The same stew that dulled your limbs, heavy with betrayal. It looks almost ordinary—warm and comforting—but your stomach knots at the sight.

The five objects float in a wide semicircle before you all, suspended in the silver-green glow of Dawnbreaker’s summons.

His eyes open fully, darker now. “These are Astra’s fingerprints. Each carries his stain, but only one holds his design in full.”

For a long moment, no one speaks. The silence feels heavy, as though each object is weighing itself on your chest.

Then Caleb breaks it, his voice flat, certain. “The scarf isn’t it. It was him—it was love. Astra doesn’t leave love intact.”

Rafayel nods, jaw tight. “The offerings, either. They were tainted, sure, but not with his hand. Just fear twisted after.” His gaze flicks toward the veil, lips pressing thin. “That… bone thing feels wrong, but it’s too obvious. Astra doesn’t play in straight lines.”

The weeping stone pulses faintly, light thrumming like a vein. Tara hugs her journal close, eyes narrowing. “It’s tempting. But it wasn’t part of the story, not really.”

That leaves the bowl. Steam still curls from it, sweet and spiced, the memory of warmth tainted by the way your limbs went heavy, the way you woke bound to fire.

“It hid the betrayal,” Xavier says, head tilted. “Ordinary, trusted. Innocent on the surface, but poisoned beneath. A meal meant to nourish turned into a weapon.” 

One by one, the others nod. The scarf, the offerings, the veil, even the stone—they all carry shadows. But the stew was the knife slipped between ribs, betrayal clothed as kindness, the first step in unraveling everything.

All eyes turn to you.

“What do you think, starlight?” Xavier asks softly. “What feels most right to you?”

Your eyes roam over the relics one by one, before settling on the bowl of stew.

“The stew,” you murmur. “It has to be. It was a seemingly innocent offering that facilitated the attack on me that ended with Sylus dying instead.”  

One by one, you reach for the threads tied to your bondeds—Xavier’s celestial light, Zayne’s winter-ice steadiness, Rafayel’s ocean fire, Caleb’s gravity, Sylus’s red-black thrum. Each joins with your own until the air hums with layered power.

In your hands, the energy condenses into a sword, blade gleaming with intertwined colors—gold flaring bright at the core, blue ice veined with violet flame, arcs of red-black energy curling along the edge, starlight glinting at the hilt. The air vibrates around it, too sharp to be silence, too resonant to be sound.

You lift the blade. Your heart drums with the fear of choosing wrong, of unleashing agony on both yourself and Sylus. But deep in your bones, you know. 

You bring the blade down.

The bowl shatters, not into shards but into light—violet, piercing, shrieking like glass torn apart. The fog quakes, the other false relics scatter into dust, and a wave of heat sears through you.

Your skin burns. You gasp as the pain brands itself into you, fire curling into shape around your belly button.

Sylus’s breath tears out of him. He staggers forward, hands braced on his knees, before his back arches. His hiss of pain sharpens into a growl, but when it fades, he straightens, panting, branded as surely as you.

The fog stills. The air hums once, then splits open ahead. A portal blooms, edges rippling with gold and violet light, showing a glimpse of open sky beyond.

Caleb’s voice cuts through the silence. “You got a mark, I’m assuming?”

Sylus rolls his shoulders once, expression caught between irritation at the sting and resignation. 

“Burned like hell.” His hand presses briefly against the center of his back before he grunts. “It’s here.”

Rafayel is already moving, stepping behind him with careful hands. 

“Shirt off,” he murmurs, and Sylus gives a sharp sigh but obeys, dragging the fabric over his head.

The mark glows faintly still, branded across the skin between his shoulder blades. Jagged crescents and fragments, like a moon broken open, gleam violet-silver before sinking fully into flesh. 

Rafayel’s breath catches, his fingers hovering just short of touching. “It’s beautiful,” he says softly, awe folded into every syllable.

All eyes turn to you. You feel the weight of the brand low at your stomach, just around your navel, aching with residual heat. For a moment you hesitate, then you grip the hem of your shirt and lift it.

The brand there mirrors Sylus’s: shards of a fractured moon spiraling outward, jagged lines haloing the curve of your belly button. The glow pulses faintly, casting ghost-light over your skin, before dimming to ink-black permanence.

Xavier leans forward slightly, blue eyes intent. 

“It suits you,” he says softly, as though the mark is not an ugly scar but a crown laid claim to your body. Caleb’s fingers twitch as if tempted to touch, but he only exhales through his nose.

The moment stills when Dawnbreaker shifts closer. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek with the familiar warmth that never feels borrowed, always wholly his. His gaze holds steady, darkened hazel soft as he leans in.

“Beloved.”

He kisses you gently—a vow written in touch. When he draws back, his expression is quiet with something bittersweet. “Carry it with pride. It means you endured.”

Then his lashes lower, the weight in his gaze receding, and when his eyes open again, Zayne is back in charge.

You lower your shirt slowly, the heat of the brand still lingering under your skin, and reach for Sylus. His hand finds yours without hesitation, strong and steady. You tug him closer, rising up just enough to brush your lips over his. When you part, he exhales against your mouth, and you both know you’re ready to leave this life behind.

The portal still ripples ahead, edges humming in the fog. Caleb glances at the others. “Where to?”

“Orvaskar,” Xavier says without pause. His voice carries the tone of consensus, but he looks to you first for confirmation.

You nod. “Orvaskar. Let’s go.”

One by one, they gather close, hands linking in a practiced chain. Tara tucks her journal under one arm, slipping her fingers into Caleb’s. Rafayel curls his hand around yours on Sylus’s other side. Zayne anchors the end with Xavier.

The fog presses once, then peels back. Together, you step through.

The world shifts. Heat hits first—dry, arid, the kind that bakes stone and cracks lips. Orvaskar unfolds around you in a sudden rush of color and sound even in the alley where you appear. Pale sandstone buildings rise against a desert sky, their carved faces catching the early sun. Market stalls are already opening, merchants spreading out bolts of fabric, trays of fossils, baskets of dates and roasted chickpeas. The air smells of spice, smoke, and camel leather.

You blink hard against the brightness, the transition from fog to daylight almost blinding. Your hand tightens in Sylus’s until the shock eases.

Zayne is the first to pull out his device, thumb brushing the black screen until it wakes. He stares for a beat before exhaling. “Five days.”

“Only five?” Tara leans over his arm. “Felt like a lifetime in there.”

“November fourteenth,” Zayne adds, glancing up. “Saturday. Just after seven a.m.”

The time sits heavy in your chest, another reminder of how warped the seams can be. Caleb mutters something under his breath about preferring days he can count, and Rafayel only sighs, brushing a curl from his cheek.

A merchant draws your attention when he calls out in accented English about “finest fossils, genuine dinosaur bones,” and the absurdity of it—after where you’ve just come from—nearly makes you laugh.

Sylus is the first to break the stillness. He scans the street, one hand pushing his hair back from his face. “We should find lodging. Guesthouse, hotel—something with a roof.”

“Agreed,” Caleb rumbles. He shifts his pack higher on his shoulder, eyes narrowing against the glare. “We’ve been spat out into daylight with packs on our backs like nomads. Better to put them down.”

Rafayel hums, though his attention flicks to you almost immediately, as it often does when decisions hang in the air. “What do you think, cutie?”

You tug at your shirt hem, still feeling the phantom thrum of the brand beneath your skin. The thought of four stone walls pressing close makes your chest knot. 

“Not yet,” you admit. “I’m not ready to be cooped up. Just…not yet.”

For a beat, no one argues. Then Xavier nods, quiet but firm. “A park, then. Somewhere open.”

“Somewhere with shade,” Zayne adds, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. His tone is wry, but his eyes soften on you.

Tara exhales in relief. “Thank the gods. I was about to suggest the same thing. If I sit in a room right now, I’ll scream.”

Caleb looks toward the nearest stall, where a man in loose linen is stacking crates of fruit. “Directions, then.”

It takes only a moment of exchange—Caleb’s polite questions, the merchant’s eager pointing. A few gestures later, you’re all weaving away from the bustling market, following a narrow street lined with date palms and low-arched stone walls.

The street narrows into a spill of stalls just shaking the sleep from their canvas awnings. The scents hit first—sweet date bread just pulled from a clay oven, the sharp salt of goat cheese crumbled onto palm leaves, skewers of lamb hissing over open coals.

Rafayel pauses, eyes lighting on the bread. 

“Cutie,” he says, already fishing for coins, “trust me—you’ll want this one.”

You don’t argue. Within minutes, you’re weighed down with a scattering of parcels: skewers wrapped in waxed paper, a basket of chickpeas roasted with spice until they rattle, soft rounds of bread that steam against their cloth wrapping, a wedge of cheese so pungent Caleb teases it’ll walk off by itself if left alone.

Tara juggles her journal under one arm, holding a skewer in the other. “This is exactly the kind of breakfast I can get behind.”

“You’d get behind any breakfast,” Sylus drawls, carrying most of the packs, but there’s no real bite to it. His red eyes flick to you again, softer, making sure you’re steady on your feet.

The noise of the market thins as the street curves toward greener ground. A stone archway opens into the park—an oasis ringed with palms, soft grass rolling around a glittering pond. It isn’t quiet exactly; children chase one another along the paths, old men feed pigeons near the water, couples sit beneath the shade of date palms—but it is open and breathing.

“Here,” Xavier says, leading toward a stretch of shade where a broad acacia spreads its branches wide. The air cools a fraction beneath it, a reprieve from the desert sun.

You drop your pack first, sinking into the grass, and the others follow. Skewers are passed around, bread torn into halves and quarters. Rafayel slices the goat cheese with the edge of a card he swears is sterilized—“Art is improvisation, Miss Bodyguard”—and Caleb snorts but eats it anyway.

You tear a piece of bread in half and press it into Rafayel’s hand before taking a bite yourself. The crust is crisp, the inside soft and steaming, almost too hot against your tongue. A hum of approval slips out before you can help it.

Rafayel grins, smug. “Told you.”

Across from you, Caleb crunches through a fistful of chickpeas, shaking his head. “Better than ration bars.”

“No kidding,” Xavier says, his posture finally easing as he leans back on one hand, skewer in the other.

The meal stretches out, lazy in a way that soothes the soul. No urgency humming in your bones, no faceless figure lurking at the edges. Just food and shade and the people you love.

Tara tears off a chunk of bread, pops it into her mouth, then sprawls flat on her back with a groan. “Finally. Vacation food.”

“You say that every time,” Sylus mutters, though his lips twitch when she shoots him a glare.

“It feels like it,” she insists, gesturing toward the pond. “Birds, sunshine, bread that didn’t come out of a wrapper. Tell me this isn’t vacation.”

Caleb snorts, licking spice from his thumb. “You’re the only person I know who calls watching people dying a vacation.”

“Semantics,” she mumbles, closing her eyes.

Rafayel pulls a grape-sized date from one of the parcels and flicks it at her; it bounces off her shoulder and lands in the grass. She cracks one eye open to glare at him.

“Waste of good fruit,” Xavier says mildly, though his smile betrays him.

You lean back against Sylus, nibbling at the edge of bread, and let the sound of their voices settle like a balm. Every laugh, every casual word chips away at the sharpness still stuck in your chest. The city beyond the palms hums with trade, but here under the tree, you can almost pretend you’re just travelers stopping for a rest, not soldiers caught in a god’s cruel cycle.

Zayne catches your gaze from across the circle, his expression soft. He doesn’t say anything, just tips his head in that quiet way he has, a reminder: You’re here. With us. That’s enough for now.

The last of the bread disappears between Tara and Caleb, and the circle settles into that expectant quiet—the one that always comes when it’s time to face what’s next.

Sylus breaks it, brushing his hands clean as he pulls the folded device from his pack. One practiced flick, and the holographic globe unfurls in pale light above his palm. The continents spin slowly until he steadies them, the shimmer of Orvaskar glowing where you sit. Not far across the border, another marker pulses.

“There,” he says, tone clipped but sure.

Xavier leans forward, eyes reflecting blue. “Close enough to reach by afternoon.”

“Which means we don’t waste a night in transition,” Caleb adds, a touch of approval in his voice.

Tara tucks her journal aside and sits straighter, gaze fixed on the glow. “It lines up. And we won’t have to spend more than a couple hours on the jet.”

All of them turn to you then, as naturally as breathing. You press your palms into your knees, staring at the faint shimmer of the marker. Logic says it’s the right choice—efficient, close, a seam that won’t cost you hours of back-and-forth. And yet, in the back of your mind, you hear the conversation you’d had on the plains yesterday, about her frustration. You promised her you’d make room for her to release it.

You swallow your last bite of food, then nod once. “It makes sense. We’ll take it.”

Caleb squints at the map still lingering in the air. “If we land by early afternoon, and the train runs on schedule, we could reach Tidewatch before dusk. Push hard, and we’re at Breaker’s Hollow by late evening.”

Xavier nods slowly. “Which means the seam itself tonight.”

Rafayel tilts his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Efficiency, cutie. No reason to wait if the path’s clear.”

You pause with the last of your bread halfway to your mouth. Logic says they’re right—closer seam, faster start, momentum carried forward. But your promise to Tara rings louder in your head than logic does. A promise to linger, to let her live a little. You swallow hard, set the bread down, and straighten your spine.

“No,” you say firmly. “We’ll fly today. But we’re not touching the seam until tomorrow.”

Sylus’s red eyes narrow, and then soften into something like delight. His lips curve, slow and sharp, the way they always do when you show steel. He doesn’t say a word, but the approval in his gaze is louder than anything.

The others glance at one another. Zayne arches a brow. “Reason?”

You fold your arms, meeting each of their looks without flinching. “Because it’s Saturday. We’re going to Gull’s Landing, and tonight we’re going clubbing.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew. Then Tara bolts upright, nearly dropping her journal into the grass. “You’re serious? You’re serious?! Babe—oh my gods, finally! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

You manage a small smile, heart easing at her excitement. “Guess tonight’s the night.”

She claps her hands together, already buzzing. “I’m buying you a souvenir for this. Something sparkly, something reckless, don’t you dare stop me!” 

She snatches up her journal, tucks it under her arm, and all but runs toward the market stalls.

You watch her go, warmth blooming in your chest despite the knot of nerves curling underneath.

The moment she’s out of earshot, the men turn to you as one.

Rafayel props his chin on his hand, eyes dancing. “Clubbing, cutie? Really?”

Xavier’s silver brows lift in quiet disbelief. “You.”

Caleb leans back against the tree, arms folded, voice teasing. “You don’t even like crowds.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you with that steady hazel gaze, until finally he murmurs, “You’re not doing this for yourself.”

And Sylus—he just smirks, amused, clearly waiting to hear what excuse you’ll spin.

You sigh, shoulders dropping, and meet their gazes one by one. “Fine. You’re right. I’m not doing it for me.”

Caleb grunts like that was obvious from the start.

“It’s for Tara,” you continue, softer now. “She’s been wound tight for weeks, and she deserves a night to blow off some steam. If going dancing and drinking helps her feel lighter, then I want her to have that.”

Zayne’s expression gentles, the sharp edge of his scrutiny melting into understanding. Xavier tips his head, blue eyes softening. Rafayel smirks, though there’s affection tucked in the curve of it. Sylus doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching you with that unreadable look that always means he’s pleased.

“Kitten,” Sylus drawls at last, “you could’ve just said you wanted to dress up and drag us to a bar. You didn’t have to invent this noble sacrifice story.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you shoot him a look. “It’s not for me.”

Rafayel chuckles low, the sound smooth as water. “Cutie, you’re terrible at lying. Admit it—you’re at least a little curious.”

You hesitate, then shrug, lips quirking. “Maybe. I’ve never really been clubbing before.” You let the grin spread, teasing now. “So yes, I’m curious. And I’m absolutely expecting all of you to come with me.”

Caleb’s brows shoot up. “All of us?”

“Of course,” you say firmly. “You think I’m going in alone?”

Xavier huffs, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’re going clubbing.”

Rafayel leans back on his elbows, eyes gleaming. “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”

Zayne shakes his head, though he’s smiling faintly. “This will be… interesting.”

And Sylus, still smirking, adds, “Then it’s settled. Kitten’s dragging us into a club, and we’ll play along. Just remember—you asked for this.”

Tara comes skipping back across the grass, journal tucked under one arm and a paper bag swinging from the other. Her grin is wide enough to rival the desert sun.

“Souvenir secured!” she announces, plopping down beside you. She thrusts the bag into your hands. “Don’t peek until later.”

You roll your eyes but set it in your lap, the warmth in your chest threatening to spill over. Before you can say anything, Tara lunges forward and wraps you in a hug. Her chin presses into your shoulder, her voice dropping to a whisper only you can hear.

“I know you’re doing this for me,” she murmurs, tight-voiced with sincerity. “Thank you. I love you.”

Your throat catches, but you hug her back just as tightly, whispering into her hair. “Always. You deserve it.”

When she pulls back, her eyes are a little shinier, but her grin hasn’t dimmed. She claps her hands together once, turning to the men as if nothing’s happened. “Alright, gentlemen. You’d better be ready. Tonight we dance.”

Rafayel laughs softly, curling an arm around his knees. “This is going to be… unforgettable.”

Sylus smirks, catching your gaze over Tara’s head, clearly savoring the way you’ve played this. Caleb mutters something about regretting it already, while Xavier simply shakes his head with a smile. Zayne’s eyes meet yours, quiet approval shining there before he looks back to Tara.

The park settles into a rhythm of laughter and teasing after Tara’s declaration. Rafayel swears he’ll out-dance everyone, Sylus claims he’ll outdrink them, Caleb teases that someone has to stay sober enough to drag their asses back to where you’ll stay, and Xavier—deadpan—says he’ll handle that. Zayne, of course, refuses to drink at all, prompting Tara to groan dramatically about how unfair it is that he’ll remember everything perfectly while the rest of them stumble.

You stay curled close to them all, smiling, letting the banter wash through you like sunlight. It doesn’t erase the heaviness of the fragments, but it makes it bearable.

Eventually, the food is gone, and the time ticks toward departure. Packs are repacked, crumbs brushed from clothes, and you all wind back through Orvaskar’s streets. The market is fully alive now, colors and sounds spilling into every corner, but the hum of the city only brushes against you. 

The airport’s sandstone arches rise out of the desert, stark against the bright sky. Customs is quick, the guards more interested in moving tourists through than causing trouble. Papers stamped, bags scanned, and you’re ushered into the private wing where Sylus’s jet waits gleaming on the tarmac.

The plane is as sleek as ever—polished silver skin reflecting the morning sun, its shape predatory and elegant at once. The familiar luxury of it welcomes you: cream and black upholstery, the main cabin with its rotating seats and long couch, the galley stocked with fruit and drink, the narrow hall leading to the private cabin in back.

The stewardess greets you with a warm smile, then steps back into the cockpit once you’re settled. 

The packs are stowed quickly, tucked into overhead compartments or slid into the storage alcove near the galley. You drop into one of the wide leather seats, buckling in as the familiar hum of the engines grows deeper, vibrating faintly through the cabin floor.

The stewardess appears briefly, offering the customary smile before relaying the message from the cockpit: “Please buckle up for takeoff. Flight time to Gull’s Landing is approximately three hours and thirty-nine minutes. Weather is clear. We’ll be cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet.”

Caleb grunts. “Three hours too long.”

“Three hours of peace and quiet,” Rafayel counters, stretching out in his seat like he owns the cabin. “I’ll take it.”

“Peace and quiet,” Sylus echoes, smirking as he fastens his belt. “You? Not likely.”

“Mm,” Zayne hums, checking the clasp of his own seatbelt. “I’m sure Rafayel will find a way to fill the silence.”

Xavier deadpans without looking up from securing his strap. “He always does.”

That earns him a playful kick under the table from Rafayel, who only laughs when Xavier shoots him an amused look. Tara, already scribbling notes in her journal, doesn’t even look up. “Please don’t start a seatbelt fight before we’re in the air.”

The engines rise to a roar as the jet taxis. Through the small cabin windows, Orvaskar’s desert shrinks, runway stretching long and pale. You catch Sylus’s eye across the aisle; he tips his head back against the seat, perfectly calm, as if this is his element.

The thrust presses you back into the leather as the jet accelerates, the hum shifting into a growl, then into lift. The ground drops away, the city shrinking beneath you until all that’s left is a sprawl of stone and sand fading into the plateau.

“Every time,” Rafayel murmurs, peering out the window with a grin. “Never gets old.”

“Better than camels,” Caleb says.

Tara smirks without looking up from her notes. “That’s going in the journal.”

The cabin smooths into steady vibration as the jet levels out, the engines softening to a constant drone. Seatbelt lights ping off, and you all know the unspoken cue: free to move about, free to settle in for the hours ahead.

The cabin loosens into easy chatter—Rafayel joking about who’s going to dance the worst tonight, Caleb dryly promising it’ll be him, Sylus smirking like he’s already plotting ways to make you blush in public.

You laugh along, but a yawn sneaks out mid-sentence, leaving your eyes watering. You cover your mouth, cheeks warming. “Okay, that’s it. I’m napping. If I’m expected to survive a club tonight, I need at least an hour of unconsciousness first.”

Tara snaps her journal shut with a flourish. “Preach.” 

She tosses it onto the side table, then immediately flops onto the long leather couch, tucking herself against the cushions with all the grace of a rag doll. “Wake me when it’s time to get pretty.”

You shake your head fondly and push to your feet, making your way toward the back of the cabin where the private berth waits. The door hisses shut behind you, muting the cabin noise to a dull hum.

Zayne and Xavier slip in after you without a word, exchanging a glance that says everything. Neither looks particularly tired, but both seem unwilling to let you rest alone. Zayne gestures to the bed with a soft smile. “Lie down. We’ll keep you warm.”

It makes you grin despite your weariness. “My own personal guard dogs.”

“More like pillows,” Xavier corrects, the faintest flush at his ears as he toes off his shoes.

You crawl onto the bed, sinking into the nest of blankets. Zayne stretches out on one side, sliding an arm beneath your head so you can tuck close against him, while Xavier eases down on your other side, tentative until you curl into him as well. His exhale softens immediately, and he shifts just enough to drape an arm over your waist.

Wrapped between them, the ache of fatigue melts into comfort. The steady beat of their hearts, the warmth of their bodies, the low hum of the engines—all of it blurs together, tugging your eyelids heavy.

“You deserve the rest,” Zayne murmurs against your hair.

Xavier shifts just slightly. His arm tightens at your waist, and you feel the tension in his chest under your cheek.

“Starlight,” he says, voice hesitant. “There’s something I should tell you.”

You hum, eyes half-closed, the sound encouraging.

Xavier clears his throat. “This morning… in the seam… Zayne and I shared a kiss.” The words tumble out fast, and you feel his breath catch as though he’s bracing for impact.

Your eyes flutter open, blinking up at him. “You… kissed?”

He nods quickly, silver hair falling forward, brushing your temple. “I’ve been… curious for a while. And I didn’t want to assume, or to impose, but—” His gaze flicks toward Zayne before coming back to you, his voice softer. “It felt safe. With him. So I tried.”

Zayne’s hand, warm against your hip, squeezes gently. “And it was good. Honest.”

Surprise flickers through you, but not upset—never that. You’d known Xavier’s curiosity had been simmering, and you’d wanted him to find his way without fear. You reach up, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “The only thing that matters is—did you like it? Did it tell you what you wanted to know?”

His blue eyes widen, as though he hadn’t expected the simplicity of the question. Then he nods once, certain. “Yes. It did.”

You smile, soft and certain, and lean up to kiss him—a gentle affirmation, your lips pressing against his until you feel the stiffness in his shoulders ease. When you draw back, his lashes are low, a faint flush across his cheekbones.

Then you turn your head toward Zayne, pressing a kiss to his mouth as well—just as soft, just as sure. When you draw back, you meet both their eyes. “I’m happy you can figure things out together. That you’re both finding what feels right.”

Zayne’s hazel gaze warms, the faintest smile touching his lips. “So am I, darling.”

Xavier relaxes by degrees, the lines around his mouth softening as he lets himself settle into the comfort you’ve offered. His hand shifts from your waist to splay gently across your stomach, protective without being possessive.

Zayne mirrors the gesture in his own way, his thumb brushing slow circles at your hip. The two of them share a quiet glance over you, and you feel it more than see it—a silent acknowledgment passing between them, something new, something steady.

You tilt your head just enough to nuzzle into Xavier’s chest. His breath stutters, then steadies, his arm tightening around you like he’s afraid to let the moment slip.

Zayne’s lips press lightly to the crown of your head, the warmth of the touch a quiet promise.

The three of you don’t speak after that. Words would only fracture the fragile stillness wrapping around you. Instead, you let yourself sink into the rhythm of them—the thrum of Xavier’s heart under your ear, the slow rise and fall of Zayne’s chest against your back, the quiet heat of their bodies bracketing yours.

Sleep doesn’t steal you all at once. It tugs in gentle waves, each pull eased by the small touches they don’t stop offering: Xavier’s fingers tracing idle shapes at your side, Zayne’s palm warm and steady at your hip. Every brush says safe, held, here.

Your eyes slip closed, and with them, the world narrows to the cocoon of their embrace. The weight of the fragments, of grief, of promise and burden—all of it softens under the sound of engines and the steady anchor of their breathing.

Warmth and the low hum of the engines cradle you until a gentle nudge stirs you back toward waking.

“Starlight,” Xavier murmurs, his breath brushing your temple. “Time to wake. We need to buckle in.”

You groan softly, burrowing against him for a moment longer before blinking your eyes open. Zayne’s face is the first you see when you shift—hazel gaze steady, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips.

“Landing soon,” he says quietly, brushing a stray strand of hair back from your cheek. “Did you rest?”

“Mm,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep. “Better. Thanks to you two.”

Xavier’s arm tightens once around your waist before he lets go, giving you space to sit up. “Good,” he says, simple but certain.

You push up slowly, and both men move with you—Xavier offering a hand to steady you, Zayne smoothing the blanket you’d tangled around yourself without comment. Small things, tender things, that ease the edges of waking.

Before you step toward the door, you lean up and press a kiss to Xavier’s cheek, catching the faint color that rises in his face. Then you tilt back toward Zayne, brushing your lips softly over his. 

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Anytime,” he murmurs back, steady as ever.

Together, the three of you leave the berth and return to the cabin, the faint announcement from the cockpit filtering overhead: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Gull’s Landing. Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for landing.”

The others are already buckled in. Tara, bright-eyed after her own nap, grins at you knowingly; Caleb tips his chin in wordless acknowledgment; Rafayel smirks like he knows exactly why your cheeks are still a little flushed. Sylus meets your eyes last, and the approval in his faint smile is subtle but unmistakable.

The cabin tilts gently as the jet dips lower, the hum of the engines changing pitch. Through the small windows, clouds break apart into slivers of cobalt sky.

Rafayel leans just far enough to peer outside, hair falling across his cheekbone. 

“Cliffs,” he says with a grin. “And surf. Looks dramatic already.”

“Fits the lore I found online,” Tara replies, hugging her journal to her chest. “Seas and stars and tragic lighthouses. I’m going to love this place.”

Caleb makes a low sound in his throat. “Love it less if we’re hiking half a day along cliffsides.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” Sylus cuts in smoothly, eyes flicking toward you with a smirk that lingers. “Tonight we have… other obligations.”

Your cheeks warm, but you lift your chin, refusing to let him have the last word. “That’s right. Obligations. Dancing. Drinking. Clubbing.”

Xavier shakes his head, but there’s the faintest smile ghosting his lips. Zayne doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens on you, a quiet sort of pride in your assertiveness.

The intercom clicks. “Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”

Everyone falls quiet as the jet descends, straps pulled snug across laps. The nose tips down further, and suddenly the view outside opens wide: cliffs carved from pale stone, homes whitewashed against the drop, observatories bristling like silver crowns along the edge. Below, the sea slams against the rocks, spray kicking high into the air, as though the whole coast is alive and breathing.

Gull’s Landing sprawls across the cliff face, a city clinging to stone and surf, every window catching the sunlight like stars pinned to the earth.

The wheels touch down with a soft thud, the jet rolling smooth across the runway perched above the sea. The roar of the engines fades as the brakes engage, until at last the plane slows to a crawl and the pilot’s voice comes overhead again. “Welcome to Gull’s Landing. Local time is one forty-three p.m., skies are clear, temperature twenty-one degrees.”

Rafayel lets out a low whistle. “Sounds perfect for a night out.”

The jet door hisses open, and a rush of salt air fills the cabin, briny and sharp after the dry heat of Orvaskar. The descent stairs extend, gleaming in the early afternoon sun. One by one, you and the others step down onto the tarmac, the roar of surf faint but constant even this far inland.

Caleb drops down behind you, his hand automatically hovering at your back until your feet touch the ground. 

“Smells like the sea already,” he says, tone warm. “Better than jet fuel.”

Rafayel lifts his face into the breeze, curls brushing his cheekbones, and grins. “I like it. Feels like a city that wants to be painted.”

“Everything’s a canvas to you,” Sylus mutters, but there’s no bite to it—just amusement.

Tara is practically bouncing as you all head toward the terminal, journal tucked under one arm. “I’m going to need a whole new journal for this place.”

You chuckle as you adjust your pack. “Don’t go filling it before we’ve even left the airport, T.”

She shoots you a grin over her shoulder, clearly taking the gentle tease for the affection it is.

Customs proves simple. The officers glance over the prepared documentation, stamp the stack of passports without question, and wave your group through. The marble-floored hall opens into wide glass doors, beyond which the whitewashed sprawl of Gull’s Landing stretches down the cliffs in tiers.

Outside, the salt wind presses stronger, cool against your skin. Gulls wheel overhead, crying sharply as the surf crashes somewhere below. The air feels charged—alive, like the whole coastline is holding its breath.

Caleb tilts his head back, studying the jagged skyline where observatories crown the cliff’s edge. 

“Not bad,” he says softly. Then, glancing at you, the edge of a smile tugging his mouth: “Could be worse places to rest up.”

The city is a clash of old bones and modern polish: whitewashed homes stacked into the cliffside, narrow streets twisting between observatories with gleaming domes, all underlaid with the constant thunder of surf below.

Glass-front cafés cling to the edges, terraces jutting out as if daring gravity to fail, while sleek electric trams snake along the upper tiers, ferrying locals and tourists alike between the docks, markets, and cliffside views. Neon signage flickers here and there—bars, restaurants, nightclubs—modern color bleeding against the pale stone backdrop.

The air smells of salt and seaweed, cut through with roasting fish from a nearby stall. A pair of gulls fight over scraps at the curb, their wings flashing white.

Tara, phone in hand, spins on her heel with a grin. 

“Okay, I’ve found us the place.” She waves the screen like a victory flag. “It’s called The Observatory—two levels, a glass roof, lasers that mimic constellations on the ceiling. Best cocktails in the city, according to three separate blogs. And they’ve got a dance floor big enough for a small army. Perfect.”

Rafayel arches a brow. “Lasers and stars. Sounds theatrical. I approve.”

“Figures you would,” Sylus teases, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Meanwhile, Caleb’s thumb swipes across his own screen, eyes steady. “Got us a place to stay. Not too far from there—modest inn, cliffside, decent reviews. Walking distance to the club, but not so close we’ll hear bass all night.” He glances up at you with a faint grin. “Sound about right?”

You nod, warmth blooming in your chest at the way he balances Tara’s enthusiasm with practicality. “Perfect.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says, pocketing his phone. “We’ll check in, get food, get dressed. And then…” He tips his head toward Tara, teasing now. “We’ll let her drag us into trouble.”

Tara beams, unbothered. “You’ll thank me later.”

The street slopes down from the terminal, opening onto a plaza where gulls wheel overhead and locals weave through tourists with practiced ease. The group falls into a loose formation, Caleb and Sylus up front with purposeful strides, Rafayel half-turned to point out some mural painted across a crumbling wall, Zayne scanning the edges with his usual sharp gaze.

You’re about to follow when Tara loops her arm through yours and tugs you back a pace. 

“Walk with me,” she says, tone suspiciously casual.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing,” she sing-songs. Then, lowering her voice so only you hear, “Except… have you actually looked at what we packed for this trip? Because unless you want to show up to a nightclub in hiking boots and hoodies, we’ve got a problem.”

You blink. “Oh.” And then laugh, realizing. “Right. Didn’t exactly put ‘club-ready outfits’ on the pilgrimage checklist.”

“Exactly.” Tara’s grin is smug, sharp with victory. “Which means we’re going shopping, babe. Dresses, makeup, the works. You are not skipping out on this.”

You groan dramatically, though you can’t keep the smile off your face. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” she admits. “But you’re going to thank me when you’re turning heads tonight. Trust.”

Up ahead, Rafayel glances back, catching the way Tara leans close to whisper in your ear. He quirks a brow, amused but not prying, before turning forward again. The others don’t seem to notice, Caleb’s voice carrying as he explains directions to the inn.

Beside you, Tara bumps her shoulder into yours. “So. We’re agreed? Shopping spree before dinner?”

You sigh, feigning defeat. “Fine. But you’re carrying the bags.”

“Deal,” she says instantly, eyes sparkling.

The walk through Gull’s Landing takes you down winding stone streets that hug the cliffs, the ocean’s roar growing louder with every turn. Small shops spill onto the walkways—jewelers hawking silver-thread shawls embroidered with constellations, cafés with dark wood tables facing the sea, and narrow storefronts glowing with racks of clothes. Tara squeezes your arm every time you pass one, and you can already tell she’s mapping out where she’ll drag you later.

At last, Caleb slows, checking the map on his phone before nodding toward a pale stone building set a little back from the main street. White shutters, ivy crawling up one side, and a carved sign of a star-tipped compass swinging above the door. 

“This is it,” he says. “Not far from the docks, close to everything we’ll need.”

The inn smells faintly of cedar and sea salt when you step inside, the polished wood floors gleaming under lantern light. The woman at the desk greets you warmly, payment exchanged with practiced ease. It doesn’t take long—Sylus handles the details smoothly, keys handed over in neat bundles.

Your rooms are on the second floor, the hallway narrow but clean. When you open the door to the suite, you find exactly what Caleb promised: modest, comfortable, and well-kept. A sitting area with low couches, a balcony overlooking the water, and three bedrooms branching offTara immediately claims one with a gleeful “Mine!”

She vanishes inside for a moment, only to pop back out, eyes alight. “Okay. Nap, food, then shopping. We’ll need time to get ready tonight.”

Rafayel chuckles, tossing his pack onto the couch. “You make it sound like a campaign.”

“It is,” she shoots back, already tugging at your arm. “And I’m dragging her with me.”

Rafayel stretches like a cat claiming territory, dark waves falling into his eyes. 

“So, cutie,” he says, grinning at you before flicking his gaze to Tara, “are you two planning to transform yourselves into dazzling nightlife icons? Because I’ll warn you now—I refuse to look anything less than fabulous standing next to you.”

Tara groans, rolling her eyes. “He’s insufferable.”

You bite back a laugh, leaning toward her so only she can hear. “Let’s drag him with us.”

Her grin turns wicked in an instant. “Oh, yes.”

Behind you, Caleb’s head tilts almost imperceptibly, his sharp hearing catching every word. He doesn’t say anything—just leans back against the wall, lips tugged into a faintly suppressed smirk.

Before Rafayel can register the plotting, you and Tara step forward in perfect sync, linking arms with him on either side.

“Congratulations,” Tara declares brightly. “You’ve been conscripted.”

Rafayel blinks, caught off guard, then tips his head back with a delighted laugh. “Oh no. Whatever shall I do, dragged away by two beautiful women to play dress-up?”

“Don’t act like you hate it,” you tease, tugging him toward the door.

“Who said I hated it?” he fires back smoothly, already matching your pace.

As the three of you sweep out of the suite, you toss over your shoulder, “We’re stealing him. Back in an hour or two!”

The others watch you go. Caleb shakes his head with quiet amusement, Sylus murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like “Good luck,” and Zayne only adjusts his sleeves, unbothered. Xavier, though, hides a faint smile as the door clicks shut behind you.

Rafayel glances down at you and Tara, eyes gleaming. “Alright then, muses. Show me the battlefield. Where are we conquering first?”

The streets of Gull’s Landing spill with color and sound as the three of you wind toward the commercial district. Tara already has her phone out, mapping boutiques with the intensity of a general scouting terrain. Rafayel, meanwhile, plays the role of overindulged noble without missing a beat, arms looped with yours and hers, head tilted back like he owns the whole city.

“Ah,” he drawls as you reach the first shop, its window glowing with sequined dresses and sleek suits. “A true temple to vanity. I feel at home already.”

“Shut up,” Tara mutters, but she’s grinning as she pushes inside.

The boutique bell jingles, and at once the air shifts—cooler, scented faintly of lavender and clean linen. The space is brighter than you expected, mirrors layered on every wall so that glittering fabrics reflect endlessly. Dresses hang in carefully spaced rows, silks and satins whispering against one another as you pass.

Tara rifles through racks like a woman possessed. Sequins flash, silks gleam, metallic thread sparkles under soft lighting. Rafayel treats the place like his personal stage, lounging by a mirror with that easy grin.

You skim hangers without much conviction at first—until your fingers catch on a fabric that feels different. Light. Fluid. You draw it out, surprised at the simplicity of the cut. Black, short enough to bare your thighs when you move, with a skirt that drapes loose and soft instead of clinging. Thin straps, a neckline that dips just enough to tease without being gaudy.

It looks unassuming at first glance, but you can imagine how it’ll move—how easy it would be to dance in it without it clinging to your legs.

You hesitate, thumb brushing the fabric.

Tara swoops in instantly. 

“What’s that? Oh.” Her eyes widen, a grin curling sharp. “Yes. Try that one.”

You duck into the changing room, the curtain whispering shut behind you. The fabric slides on like a second skin, the skirt settling against your thighs with a faint swish when you move. Not tight or constricting—just soft and easy, the hem lifting when you turn in place.

When you step out, Tara’s clap is loud enough to echo. “Holy shit. Babe, that’s it. That’s the one.”

Rafayel sits up straighter, grin faltering into something else entirely as his gaze sweeps from your legs to your neckline, then back up. For a moment, he says nothing, then: “Cutie,” he murmurs, low and reverent. “Dangerous. Perfect.”

You glance in the mirror. The dress isn’t extravagant. It isn’t dripping in sequins or flashing with color. It’s sleek, short, understated—but it’s you. The woman reflected there isn’t trying to vanish into the background. She’s stepping forward, daring the world to look.

A flush creeps up your neck, but you can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. 

“Yeah,” you admit softly. “This is the one.”

Tara beams, already digging through a rack for shoes and jewelry. “We’ll pair it with heels and maybe something shimmery for your ears. Done. You’re going to own that dance floor.”

Rafayel leans back again, lips quirking, though his eyes are still caught on you in the mirror. “Own it, Tara? She’s going to set it on fire.”

Tara dives into the accessory racks like she was born for it, emerging with a pair of black heels that gleam under the boutique lights. 

“These. Perfect height, won’t kill your feet in ten minutes. And…” She snatches a display card of earrings, small silver hoops that catch the light just right. She holds them up to your ears, squints, then nods decisively. “Done. You’re a goddess.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re relentless.”

“Damn right,” she says, triumphant, shoving the earrings and heels into your arms before turning back to the racks. “Now. My turn.”

It doesn’t take her long. She finds a scarlet slip dress that barely skims mid-thigh, the neckline plunging just enough to turn heads without crossing into overtly scandalous. The fabric clings in all the right places, a subtle sheen to it that almost glows against her skin.

She disappears into the changing room, then bursts back out with a spin, the dress swirling around her legs. “Well?”

You let out a low whistle, grin wicked. “That one says sin on legs loud enough to be heard over the bass. You’ll have men lining up before you hit the dance floor.”

Tara smirks, tugging at the hem like she already knows. “Perfect. That’s exactly the point.”

Rafayel gives her an approving once-over. “You’ll definitely stand out.”

She grins at him, bumping your shoulder affectionately. “Then we’re both set.”

Rafayel raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll carry the bags. Clearly, my role here is pack mule and critic.”

“You volunteered,” Tara teases, already pulling the tags from the dresses and accessories to hand to the clerk.

Rafayel smirks as he takes the growing pile. “Dragged, actually. But who am I to resist being accessorized myself?”

The three of you leave the boutique with glossy bags swinging from Rafayel’s arms, the late-afternoon light painting the cliffside streets in gold when Tara loops her arm through yours again.

“Okay,” she says, voice dropping conspiratorial. “We look amazing. But what about them?”

You snort, already picturing it. “Zayne and Sylus are easy. Both have slacks and shirts they can turn into something club-worthy just by rolling up their sleeves and undoing a button or two.”

“True,” Tara agrees, then adds with a sly grin, “and Zayne’s got that surgeon thing—neat, precise, annoyingly handsome. Sylus? He could walk in with just his shirt sleeves rolled and everyone would think he owns the place.”

You laugh, nodding. “Exactly. And Caleb will be fine too. He’s got that casual-grungy style—jeans and a printed t-shirt somewhere in his pack. Doesn’t matter what he puts on, he always looks… him.”

Tara arches a brow at your soft tone. “You mean hot.”

You bump her with your shoulder, cheeks warming. “Maybe.”

Rafayel, listening with one ear, smirks down at you both. “Caleb as grunge chic. Yes, I see it.”

Tara waves a hand, dismissing him before turning back to you. “That leaves Xavier. Sweet as he is, his whole wardrobe screams ‘comfort casual.’ Dark jeans, white sweaters, long-sleeves… it’s tame. Not bad, but tame.”

You hum, picturing him in one of his sweaters, silver hair catching light under the lasers of the dance floor. “It’s very… Xavi. But for tonight, maybe too soft.”

“Exactly.” Tara’s grin is wicked now. “And then there’s you.” She points at Rafayel with her free hand. “Mr. Casual artsy layers. Where’s your clubbing gear?”

Rafayel feigns offense, gasping dramatically. “Excuse me, I am versatile. My casual is anyone else’s couture.”

You and Tara share a look, identical smirks tugging at your lips.

“Uh-huh,” you say sweetly. “We might need to find something for you, too.”

His eyes narrow playfully, though the gleam in them betrays his amusement. “Careful, cutie. You’re playing with fire.”

Your grin sharpens as you glance up at Rafayel, his mock-threat hanging deliciously in the air. 

“Good thing I like the burn,” you shoot back, tightening your grip on his arm before he can get away.

Tara cackles, delighted. “Oh, she got you.”

“Did she?” Rafayel purrs, but he doesn’t pull away when you tug at him. His steps match yours, long and easy, like he’s curious where you’re dragging him.

You don’t give him a chance to stall—spotting a men’s boutique across the street, clean lines of suits and shirts gleaming in the window. You steer him straight toward it. “You’re coming in with us. No excuses.”

“Cutie—” he begins, but Tara cuts him off, practically bouncing. “Yes! Finally! We get to play dress-up with you.”

The bell over the door jingles as you pull him inside, the air cooler, scented with cedar and pressed cotton. Racks of slim-cut trousers, crisp shirts, and sharp jackets line the walls.

Rafayel exhales through his nose, long-suffering but amused, and drops the shopping bags neatly by the door. “Fine. But I expect editorial-level commentary. Nothing less.”

Tara is already rifling through a rack of fitted shirts, muttering to herself. “No sweaters. No hoodies. Dark colors, sleek cuts, maybe a little shine…”

You drift toward a row of trousers, fingers brushing fabric, and glance back at Rafayel with a mischievous spark. “You’d look good in something that actually fits instead of drapes. Show off those legs you keep pretending you don’t have.”

His eyes gleam, mouth curving in that lazy grin. “Careful, cutie. Compliments will only encourage me.”

“Good,” you say simply, pulling a pair of tailored black slacks from the rack and handing them over. “Try these. And a shirt. No arguments.”

He chuckles low, taking the clothes with a mock bow. “As you wish.”

He disappears into the fitting room with the bundle of clothes you and Tara thrust at him, his laughter following him behind the curtain.

Tara leans close, whispering like you’re conspiring. “Okay, we go hard on this. Positive reinforcement only. He thinks he’s in control, but this is our game now.”

You grin, wicked. “I can handle that.”

The curtain slides back, and Rafayel steps out wearing the black slacks and a deep navy shirt Tara found, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. The shirt’s slim cut clings in places his recent loose layers never did, the collar left unbuttoned to reveal just a hint of collarbone.

You let out a low, appreciative whistle before you can stop yourself. “Oh, that’s unfair.”

Tara claps her hands together. “See? I told you! Look at you. Absolute heartbreaker.”

Rafayel arches a brow, smug, but there’s a faint pink creeping up his ears that betrays him. “You two are dangerous.”

You step closer, tilting your head as you give him a slow once-over. “Dangerous? No. Honest. That shirt deserves a warning label. Half the club’s going to trip over themselves staring.”

He smirks, lips curving. “Good. Then you’ll have to hold onto me, cutie.”

“Gladly,” you shoot back, voice warm with shameless flirtation.

Tara makes a gagging noise but she’s grinning the whole time, grabbing a jacket from a nearby rack. “Okay, but try this too. Just to complete the look.”

Rafayel slips it on with the ease of someone who knows he looks good, but when you and Tara both light up at once—her clapping, you biting your lip—it’s clear even he’s caught off guard. His grin softens, something a little more vulnerable flickering through.

Tara beams. “Perfect. You’re wearing that tonight. No complaints.”

You reach out and adjust his collar, fingers brushing against the warm line of his throat. “Definitely no complaints.”

Rafayel watches you closely, smile lingering as he murmurs, “Cutie, you really shouldn’t look at me like that in public.”

Tara laughs outright. “Public, schmu-blic. We’re buying it. Done.”

She pivots on her heel and narrows her eyes at the racks like she’s found a new mission. “Alright. That’s one down. Now we need to rescue Xavier from his sweater problem.”

Rafayel chuckles, unbuttoning the jacket but keeping it draped over his shoulders, clearly reluctant to take it off yet. “What’s wrong with his sweaters?”

“Nothing,” Tara says, rifling through hangers with determination. “But sweaters don’t scream take me dancing. They scream I’ll read you poetry over tea.”

“That’s not inaccurate,” you say, grinning as you step beside her. “He deserves something he’ll feel good in, but not so far out of his comfort zone he shuts down.”

You both sift through shirts, Tara pulling out something silver-threaded and flashy before you shake your head. “He’d never wear that.”

Finally, your fingers catch on a deep navy button-up. The fabric is soft, breathable, with just a hint of sheen under the lights. You lift it free, imagining Xavier’s silver hair catching against it. Rolled sleeves, top two buttons undone—easy, understated, but still enough to shift him from cozy to sharp.

“This one,” you murmur, holding it up.

Tara leans in, eyes brightening. “Yes. Perfect. It’s still him, but…” she wiggles her eyebrows. “With a little extra.”

Rafayel tilts his head, studying the shirt, then glances at you. “You’re picturing it already, aren’t you? Him wearing that, standing too close, pretending he doesn’t notice the attention he’s getting.”

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t deny it. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Tara singsongs, snatching the shirt and draping it over Rafayel’s arm with the rest. “Done. He’s going to look incredible. And he’ll probably blush the entire time we tell him so.”

Rafayel smirks, his voice velvet-smooth. “Then it’s worth every coin.”

The three of you gather the last of your picks and head for the counter, Rafayel juggling the growing pile of bags with theatrical sighs. The clerk barely bats an eye, clearly used to tourists arming themselves for the nightlife, and rings everything through with brisk efficiency.

Tara pays for her own dress and jewelry with a flourish, you cover your black dress and heels, and Rafayel slides a sleek black card across the counter before either of you can argue over his shirt and jacket. “For the canvas,” he says simply, his grin daring either of you to push it.

Bags in hand, you step back out into the street. The air tastes of salt and faint smoke from food stalls, and the late afternoon sun has dipped just enough to paint the whitewashed walls with soft gold. Rafayel shifts the bags easily onto one arm, offering the other with a sly bow. “My muses, shall we return and unveil our spoils?”

Tara loops her arm through his without hesitation. “We’re going to blow their minds.”

You take his other arm, matching her grin. “Especially Xavier’s.”

Rafayel chuckles low, leading you both back up the winding street. “I can’t wait to see their faces.”

The door to the suite swings open ten minutes later, and you stride in with Tara and Rafayel at your sides, shopping bags dangling like trophies. The others glance up from where they’ve settled—Caleb lounging with his phone in hand, Zayne at the table with his laptop open, Sylus perched in an armchair, Xavier half-turned toward the balcony.

Tara immediately flops her bags onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Victory. We have achieved victory.”

Rafayel follows, dropping the rest beside hers with a theatrical groan, though his smirk gives him away. “Dragged through battlefield after battlefield, forced into jackets and slacks. My suffering knows no end.”

“You loved it,” you shoot back, grinning as you set your own bags down more carefully.

Caleb’s brow arches, the faintest twitch of a smile curving his mouth. “Looks like you three cleaned out half the city.”

“Almost,” Tara says proudly.

You plant your hands on your hips and turn toward the group. “Now, don’t get too curious. You’ll have to wait until after dinner to see what I bought.” You waggle your brows mischievously. “No sneak peeks.”

Sylus smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Kitten, you know you’re only making us want to pry more.”

You shrug, lips curving. “Suffering’s good for you.”

Then you pull one bag free from the pile and cross the room toward Xavier. His eyes widen faintly as you hold it out. “Except for you. We got you something.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “For me?”

“Mm-hm.” You nudge the bag into his hands. “Open it.”

The others watch as he carefully pulls the shirt free—navy blue, soft and sharp all at once, light catching just enough sheen in the fabric.

Xavier’s lips part slightly. He runs his thumb over the folded collar, then glances up at you, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “You… thought of me.”

“Of course we did,” you say, warmth curling in your chest. “You’ll look amazing in it.”

Tara claps her hands together. “And it’s perfect for tonight. Sleek, simple, but not too simple.”

Rafayel tilts his head, smiling slyly. “Imagine it, Xavi. Sleeves rolled, top buttons open…”

Xavier’s ears go red, and he quickly looks back at the shirt, though the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

Tara beams like she’s won a prize, and Rafayel claps his hands together, breaking the moment with his usual flourish.

“Alright,” he says, stretching like a cat and eyeing the group. “If we’re going to transform into creatures of the night, we’d better eat first. Early dinner, plenty of time to get ready afterward.”

Zayne hums in agreement, closing his laptop. “Practical.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks toward the balcony where the sun is beginning to tilt toward the sea. “Better now than trying to cram it in later.”

Rafayel brightens, practically bouncing to his feet. “Perfect. This city practically sings of seafood, doesn’t it? The air, the gulls, the salt. If Gull’s Landing doesn’t serve me the best fish I’ve ever tasted, I’ll be personally offended.”

“Shocking,” Sylus deadpans, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Not shocking at all,” Tara counters, nudging you with her elbow. “Half the time he looks like he’d sprout gills just to get closer to a plate of grilled salmon.”

Rafayel places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You say that as though it’s an insult.”

“It’s not,” you tease, biting back a laugh. “It’s adorable. Like a very elegant goldfish.”

He gasps, wide-eyed, then narrows his gaze on you with mock betrayal. “Cutie. That was a low blow.”

“Wasn’t it?” Caleb murmurs, smirking faintly.

Zayne clears his throat, reeling things back with his usual calm. “So—takeout or go out?”

“Takeout,” Xavier suggests gently, voice firm but quiet. “That way we’re not pressed for time.”

Rafayel throws his hands up. “Fine, fine, so long as someone orders me a feast from the sea.”

“Feast,” Tara repeats, rolling her eyes but already reaching for her phone. “Got it. One feast of fish for the overdramatic Lemurian.”

The decision made, everyone sprawls across the suite as Tara and Zayne scroll through restaurant menus on their phones. The debate is lively—Rafayel campaigning for “every type of fish they’ll let us order,” Caleb making a case for spiced meat skewers as backup, Sylus adding a pointed “and extra rice,” while Xavier quietly suggests vegetables before anyone can forget them.

You mostly laugh as Tara tries to keep up, rattling off orders while Rafayel dramatically gasps whenever she threatens to skip a dish he wants. By the end, the list is long enough that the delivery clerk will probably need both hands to carry it, but Tara only shrugs. “Worth it. We’ll just eat family-style.”

With the order placed, you glance around the suite, mischief sparking. “Alright, gentlemen. While we wait, showers. All of you.”

Rafayel blinks, mock-offended. “Are you trying to tell me I smell?”

“Yes,” Tara cuts in without hesitation, smirking. “All of you. We’re absolutely taking over the bathroom once we’ve eaten, so if you want hot water, move.”

Caleb huffs out a low laugh, pushing to his feet first. “Fair enough.” He disappears into the bathroom with the efficiency of a soldier who knows better than to argue.

Zayne follows after a beat, rolling his sleeves as he goes. “We’ll be quick.”

Sylus stretches, grinning as he brushes past you.

Xavier rises last, pausing with a small smile at your side. “We’ll be fast.”

When the door shuts behind them, Tara flops onto the couch, triumphant. “See? Easy. Now when the food gets here, we eat, and then…” She waggles her brows. “Bathroom takeover. Prep time.”

You laugh, settling beside her. “I’m glad you’re on my team.”

She stretches like a cat, sighing. “Finally. Girl time.” She tips her head toward you, a grin curling her lips. “So… you know what my plans are tonight, right?”

You give her a sideways look. “Oh, I know. You’ve practically been vibrating with it since we landed.”

She laughs, not even trying to deny it. “Hey, a girl’s got needs. And if I don’t find a one-night stand in a city like this—” she gestures toward the balcony, where the cliffside skyline glitters against the sea “—then when will I?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. You deserve to cut loose.” Your tone softens as you turn to face her more fully. “Just… be careful, alright? If you end up leaving with someone, text me. Let me know where you’re going before you get too swept up.”

Tara’s grin lingers, but her gaze warms as she nudges your knee with hers. “Babe. You worry too much. But I’ll text you, promise. Drop a pin, even. Safety net secured.”

“Good.” You smile, though there’s no hiding the seriousness behind it. “I just… want you safe.”

“Hey.” She hooks her arm around your shoulders and gives you a squeeze. “I know. And I love you for it. But don’t worry—tonight’s going to be fun, not risky. Besides…” she smirks, eyes glinting, “you’ll have your hands full keeping all your men from fending off admirers.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks, but you laugh anyway, leaning into her side hug. “Fair point.”

Tara shifts, tucking one leg up beneath her as she leans comfortably against the couch arm. “Alright, babe, spill. What’s on your mind? You’ve got that little crease between your brows.”

You sigh, fiddling with the strap of one of the shopping bags. “It’s just… I’ve never really been clubbing before. Not properly. So I don’t even know what to expect besides loud music and overpriced drinks.”

Tara grins, sharp and amused. “That’s basically the gist. But with more sweaty strangers trying to grind on you.”

You wrinkle your nose, which makes her laugh harder.

“Okay, maybe that part doesn’t sound great,” you admit. “But I want you to have fun, so I’ll deal with it. What really worries me is…” You pause, chewing your lip. “Other women are going to try to hit on them. On my men.”

Tara arches a brow knowingly. “Ahh. There it is.”

You gesture helplessly. “They’re all mine, but I can’t exactly announce that without looking like some jealous girlfriend collecting boyfriends like trading cards. I’ll just have to let it happen. Watch it happen. And hope they handle it.”

Tara watches you for a beat, then shakes her head, her grin softening into something warmer. “Babe, you’re underestimating them. Do you really think any of them would even look twice at someone else?”

“No,” you admit quickly. “It’s not that I doubt them. It’s more… the idea of standing there while it happens and not being able to say anything. I don’t want drama.”

Tara nudges your shoulder with hers. “Then don’t. Trust them to shut it down, because they will. And if someone really won’t back off—” her grin goes wicked again “—you’ve got a werewolf colonel, a Lemurian god, a red-eyed dragon, a literal Celestial, and a surgeon with ice powers at your side. Trust me, babe, no one’s going to get far.”

You laugh despite yourself, the tension easing from your shoulders. “You make it sound ridiculous when you put it like that.”

“Because it is ridiculous,” Tara says firmly. “They’re yours. Everyone else will figure that out fast enough.”

Her grin softens into a mischievous, calculating smirk. “Okay, new question — are you worried about how they’ll react when other men flirt with you? Because trust me, they will. You’re gorgeous, babe. It’s a guarantee.”

You shrug, cheeks warming at the compliment. “I half-expected that. I just keep thinking—what if some guy won’t take a hint?”

Tara gives you a look that’s equal parts wicked and comforting. “Then the hint needs to be louder. But also—wear someone. Stick to one of them. Stay close to whoever feels funniest to you that night. If you’re glued to someone, most people won’t try their luck.”

You consider it, picturing the club lights and the press of bodies. “I’ll probably shadow someone, yeah. Maybe Caleb—he’s subtle but solid. Or Zayne—he’s a good anchor. And if I need menacing, Sylus will give me all of it.”

Tara nods approvingly. “Good choices. Caleb’s that quiet ‘don’t test me’ energy, Zayne is steady and unreadable, Sylus will melt faces with a look. Pick your vibe and stick with it.” She pokes your knee. “And if any idiot gets handsy, you text. Or stare them down until they regret being born.”

You laugh at that, the tension easing. “Texting seems excessive, but the stare option sounds efficient.”

“Both are valid.” Tara wriggles the fingers at you in mock seriousness. “Also: wear pockets. Or a bag. Keep your phone on you. Safety and style.”

Before you can answer, a knock sounds at the door—timed perfectly. Tara shoots you a conspiratorial wink and sits up. “Dinner’s here. Time to feed the Lemurian.”

You’re halfway to the door when Tara calls after you, “Let me handle it — I ordered half the ocean, it’s only fair.” 

She darts past, tugging the door open to reveal a delivery boy with two bulging thermal bags that smell like heaven: grilled fish, kelp-wrapped rolls, spiced rice, flatbread, and something tangy with citrus.

Tara signs and slides over payment with a tip generous enough to make the boy beam before he heads off. She kicks the door shut behind her, then grins. “Alright, feast incoming.”

The two of you work quickly, unloading dish after dish onto the low table near the couch. Plates clink, steam curls into the air, and the suite fills with a heady mix of salt, spice, and char. You’ve just unwrapped the last flatbread when the bathroom door opens.

Caleb emerges first, hair damp and curling faintly at the edges, dressed down in the familiar comfort of dark jeans and a t-shirt with an edgy print. Zayne follows, sleeves rolled and collar unbuttoned, looking effortlessly polished even with his hair still drying in disarray.

Sylus saunters out behind them, tugging a black dress shirt over his shoulders with lazy precision, red eyes gleaming as he takes in the spread. “Ladies, you spoil us.”

Rafayel’s next, fully buttoned and immaculate, his freshly damp purple waves already falling perfectly around his face. He pauses just to inhale, eyes closing briefly as if cataloguing every note of the meal.

And finally Xavier steps out, comfortable in dark jeans and the new fitted shirt you’d picked for him earlier. He glances toward you with a small, almost shy smile, like he’s not entirely used to being considered in that way yet.

Tara spreads her arms dramatically toward the table. “Dinner is served. Dig in before Rafayel eats all the fish.”

Rafayel already has his chopsticks poised, grinning unrepentantly. “No promises.”

The food disappears quickly, and with it comes the kind of easy, rolling banter you’ve grown used to—a tide that carries you along no matter who’s speaking.

Rafayel all but moans at his first bite of roasted cod, prompting Sylus to groan dramatically. “Raf, if you’re going to make those sounds, at least wait until after we eat.”

Rafayel waves a piece of fish at him with his chopsticks, eyes glittering. “You’re just jealous you can’t appreciate it the same way.”

“Jealous?” Sylus snorts, leaning back against the couch cushions. “She moans louder for me than you ever will for your dinner.”

That earns him a round of groans and a scandalized laugh from Tara, who nearly chokes on a rice ball. “Oh my gods, do not make me regret sitting between you two.”

Caleb shakes his head, mouth twitching at the corners as he peels flatbread apart. “Don’t encourage him,” he mutters, though it’s clear he’s more amused than annoyed.

Meanwhile, Zayne adds a scoop of citrus-spiced kelp to his plate and eyes Sylus sidelong. “The way you inhale food, it’s a miracle you don’t choke more often.”

Sylus smirks. “That’s because I’m good with my throat, doc.”

Even Xavier—ever composed—can’t keep the red from his cheeks, ducking slightly as he focuses intently on his rice. “Stars help me…” he mutters under his breath, which only makes Tara burst out laughing.

You lean back, warmed by the food and their voices, watching them fall into the familiar rhythm of teasing, prodding, and gentle rebuttals. Every now and then, one of them catches your eye—Rafayel slipping you a morsel with his chopsticks, Caleb brushing his fingers over the back of your hand as he passes you bread, Xavier sliding the water glass closer when you reach for it.

By the time the last scraps of fish and bread are gone, everyone’s lounging in varying stages of satisfaction and food-coma. Rafayel’s stretched out on the couch like a satisfied cat, Sylus is tipping his chair back on two legs with a predator’s grin, and Caleb’s steadily gathering the empty containers into a neat pile as though order might save the table from collapse.

“Alright,” Tara announces, clapping her hands together, eyes gleaming. “Show’s over, boys.”

Zayne arches a brow over his water glass. “Show?”

“Prep time,” Tara says sweetly, already rising. She gestures toward the bathroom with a dramatic sweep. “The bathroom is officially ours. No interruptions, no complaints.”

You grin, already gathering your shopping bags. “She means it. If you need anything in the next hour, figure it out yourselves.”

Rafayel lifts his head, feigning a pout. “Even moral support?”

“Especially moral support,” Tara fires back, snatching her dress bag.

You make a quick detour to grab your hairbrush and fresh underwear, balancing them against your hip while Tara scoops up hers along with her makeup pouch. Together, you claim the bathroom with a flourish, slamming the door shut behind you.

The suite goes quiet outside except for the muted laughter of the men, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, mirror lights bright, bags spilling open across the counter. Tara spins once on her heel, grinning like a girl about to start a heist. “Alright, babe. Transformation hour begins.”

Steam curls around you as you and Tara finish rinsing the salt and city dust from your skin, the shower a quick but necessary reset. When you step out, the mirror is fogged, the air heavy with the warmth, and it feels like stepping into another world—just the two of you and the promise of the night.

You towel off, slipping into fresh underwear while Tara does the same, humming under her breath as she wrings out her chin-length hair with a towel. The counter is already cluttered with brushes, palettes, lipsticks, compacts.

“So,” Tara says, leaning toward the mirror as she pats moisturizer across her cheeks, “what’s the plan? Bold and smoky? Or do we go soft and mysterious?”

You laugh, dragging the brush through your damp hair. “Honestly? I bet Rafayel could do a better job than either of us. The man sees everything as canvases. He’d probably love it.”

Tara pauses, then her whole face lights up. “You’re right. Oh my gods, we have to rope him into this. Let him go wild. We’ll look amazing.”

She grabs her dress bag before you can say more, the fabric whispering as she pulls it free. 

“I’m going first,” she declares, shimmying into her red dress with practiced ease. It hugs her curves in all the right places, a daring cut that’s sexy without crossing the line into trashy. She smooths the fabric down with a flourish, then checks herself in the mirror with a wolfish grin. “Perfect. If I don’t get laid tonight, men in this city have no taste.”

You snort, tugging your towel higher as you remain in your underwear, brushing out the last damp strands of your hair. “Trust me, babe. You’re not going home alone.”

Tara winks at you through the mirror. “Neither are you.”

You finish tugging the brush through the last damp streaks of your hair, then set it down with a decisive little click. Tara’s already twirling in her dress like she’s on a runway, clearly feeling herself. You grin, then pad over to the bathroom door, still in just your underwear, and crack it open.

The suite beyond is filled with lazy chatter—Sylus drawling something that makes Zayne scoff under his breath, Caleb’s low chuckle rumbling in response. The moment the door opens, all their heads turn.

You lean out, resting one hand against the frame. “Rafayel,” you call, sweet and singsong.

He raises a brow from where he’s sprawled on the armchair, looking very much like a prince who owns the room without trying. “Yes, cutie?”

You crook a finger. “Come here a sec.”

Sylus lets out a low, knowing laugh. “Careful, Raf. That tone never ends clean.”

Rafayel rises anyway, curiosity glinting in his eyes as he crosses the room. He stops in front of you, gaze flicking briefly over your bare shoulders before sliding back up, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “What am I being drafted into?”

You step aside, motioning him in. Tara’s already waiting inside, pointing dramatically at the countertop piled high with palettes, brushes, and lipsticks.

Rafayel pauses, looks at the counter, then at the two of you—Tara in her dress, you in your underwear, hair damp and brushed smooth. His brows climb. 

“Ah.” A spark of amusement warms his voice. “A canvas.”

Tara beams. “Exactly.”

He steps fully inside, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, and glances between you both with an artist’s eye. 

“Well then,” he murmurs, sleeves rolling up with practiced ease. “Let’s make you unforgettable.”

Rafayel surveys the counter like a general assessing his arsenal, fingertips brushing over brushes and palettes as though weighing their moods. Then he turns, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing with focus.

“You first, cutie,” he says softly, nodding toward the stool.

You blink, still in underwear, but Tara waves you toward it before you can protest. “Sit. Trust the man. He’s in his element.”

With a laugh, you perch on the stool. Rafayel steps closer, the faint scent of ocean breeze and bergamot clinging to him as he tilts your chin gently between his fingers. His touch is featherlight, clinical and reverent all at once.

“Eyes closed.”

You obey. The soft drag of a brush follows, powder whispering across your lids. Tara leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching with the sharp grin of someone who knows she’s witnessing magic.

Rafayel hums low in his throat as he works, layering shadow with precise, sweeping strokes. 

“You’ve already got fire in your gaze,” he murmurs. “But we’ll sharpen it until no one dares look away.”

“Translation,” Tara stage-whispers, “you’re about to look so hot half the club’s going to choke.”

You snort, which earns you a gentle, “Don’t move,” from Rafayel. He brushes something darker along the crease, then blends with painstaking patience.

Minutes later, he steps back, nodding in satisfaction. “Open.”

You do, and Tara whistles. “Holy shit, babe. That’s lethal.”

Rafayel smiles, faintly smug. “Not done yet.” He adds a sweep of liner, a flick so precise it feels like a spell being inked into place, then finishes with mascara, coaxing your lashes into long, dark arcs. When he finally leans back, he murmurs, “Perfect. Don’t touch your eyes.”

He gestures for you to switch with Tara. You slide off the stool, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—and even you have to blink. It’s bolder than you’d have done on your own, smoky and sharp, but it works.

Tara takes the seat eagerly. “Alright, maestro, make me irresistible.”

“You were already irresistible,” Rafayel teases, but he sets to work. His brushstrokes are different this time—softer around the edges, more shimmer at the corners, a sultry glow to match the daring lines of her dress. Tara practically preens as he works, and when he finally leans back, she grins at her reflection like a cat who’s caught the canary.

“Okay, I look like sin. I approve.”

Rafayel dusts his hands off with exaggerated flair, as though finishing a masterpiece. “There. Two visions. One fire, one shadow.”

Tara winks at you in the mirror. “We’re going to kill them.”

Rafayel doesn’t step away when he’s finished with the makeup. Instead, his gaze lingers on your damp hair, already drying into soft waves around your shoulders. He lifts a lock between his fingers, weighing the texture.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, reaching for the dryer and a round brush from the counter. With practiced care, he coaxes shape into your hair, smoothing and curling until it falls in polished waves that frame your face. He tucks a strand behind your ear with delicate precision, the intimacy of the gesture making your breath catch.

Then he turns to Tara, who watches him with open delight. “Your turn.”

“Gods, I feel spoiled,” she says, plopping back on the stool without hesitation. Rafayel’s hands move with the same assurance, lifting, brushing, and twisting until her chin-length hair falls sleek and straight with just the faintest flick at the ends. He finishes by sweeping a touch of product through, giving it a glossy, deliberate finish.

Tara flips her hair, grinning at her reflection. “Okay, yeah. If I don’t get laid tonight, men in this city are legally blind.”

Rafayel chuckles, setting the brush aside. “My work here is done.”

She spins to point toward the door. “Out. We’ll take it from here. Jewelry, dresses, final touches—no peeking until we’re ready.”

He bows with mock solemnity, though his smile lingers. “As you wish, my muses.”

When the door clicks shut behind him, Tara holds out your dress bag. “Alright, babe. Showtime. Get dressed and stun them.”

You unzip it slowly, fabric whispering as you slip it free. The material feels cool and soft against your skin as you pull it over your head, tugging it down until it hugs your frame. The hem stops short at mid-thigh, light enough to move in, the neckline daring but not overbearing. When you smooth it down, it’s clear it was the right choice.

Tara whistles, low and appreciative. “Damn, babe. That’s dangerous. No one’s going to be looking at me if you walk in wearing that.”

You laugh, heat rising to your cheeks. “Please. You look like temptation incarnate.”

Together, you turn to the spread of jewelry. Tara helps clasp a delicate silver chain around your neck, the charm catching the light just so, while you hook earrings into her ears—sleek and sharp, perfect for her look. Then come the heels: you slip into yours, testing your balance, while Tara straps hers with a grin of approval.

Both of you pause when you’re done, standing shoulder to shoulder before the mirror. It’s almost startling—the transformation. A little makeup, styled hair, jewelry, and the right dress, and suddenly you look like versions of yourselves you don’t often see: bolder, sharper, and electric.

Tara bumps your hip with hers, her grin softening. “We look incredible. They’re not going to know what hit them.”

You can’t help but smile at your reflection, nerves and excitement twining together in your chest. “Let’s go knock them dead.”

Together, you open the bathroom door.

The men are scattered across the suite, conversation dying the instant they look up. For a moment, silence reigns.

Rafayel’s lips curve slowly, knowingly—he saw the dress before, knew how it would frame you—but even he can’t hide the heat in his eyes seeing it on you, hair and makeup complete. Sylus whistles under his breath, sharp and appreciative, red eyes narrowing as though committing the sight to memory. Zayne’s brows rise slightly, lips parting, hazel gaze tracing from your heels up to the neckline before he schools it into a warm, steady smile. Caleb blinks once, his expression shuttered in that way he does when he’s hit by something harder than he expected, though his eyes stay on you like he can’t quite pull them away.

And Xavier looks almost stricken, breath caught in his throat, blue eyes wide and bright as though the sight of you knocked something loose in him.

Beside you, Tara strikes a playful pose in her own red dress, and that breaks the spell enough that the men remember their manners. Caleb gives her a short nod of approval, Zayne offers an easy “You look stunning, Tara,” and even Xavier manages a quiet compliment for her. But their gazes always drift back to you, pulled like gravity.

Tara notices, of course. She grins and mutters under her breath for you alone, “Told you. They don’t stand a chance.”

Sylus leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Kitten, if I’d known that dress was in the bags, I’d have insisted you try it on the second we got back.”

Rafayel hums in agreement, eyes unapologetically sweeping over you. “Art doesn’t belong in a bag, it belongs on display.”

Caleb exhales through his nose, sharp but quiet. “No wonder you wanted us to shower first. You’d have knocked us flat otherwise.”

Zayne rises smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his rolled sleeve. “Careful. If you keep staring like that, we’ll never make it out the door.”

Xavier doesn’t say much at all—just crosses to you, brushing his hand briefly along yours as if to anchor himself. The touch lingers, warm and tentative, before he steps back with the faintest smile.

Tara is preening beside you, soaking in the compliments with unabashed delight. “Not too bad, right? I told you we’d kill it.” She snaps her clutch shut with a flourish. “Now—heels, bags, phones, IDs. Time to make our entrance.”

You grab your clutch, sliding your phone inside along with a compact and lipstick. The others follow suit, checking pockets and keys, and when you glance at the time, it’s late enough that the city outside has shifted: the hum of evening giving way to the pulse of nightlife.

Sylus slings on his jacket, smirking. “Shall we?”

Rafayel offers his arm with mock ceremony, Tara snatching it immediately, while the others cluster close around you in easy formation. Together, you step out into the salt-bright air of Gull’s Landing, the night stretching ahead, full of promise.

The streets hum with life as you step out into the night. Lanterns strung between whitewashed buildings sway in the ocean breeze, their glow casting warm circles on cobblestones slick with sea air. Music leaks from open doorways—strings here, a drumbeat there—melding with the rhythm of waves crashing below the cliffs.

Tara clings to Rafayel’s arm like she’s already tipsy, her heels clicking against the stone. 

“This city gets it,” she declares, nodding toward a pair of locals laughing as they spill out of a tavern draped in constellations painted on the shutters. “I can feel it. Tonight’s going to be good.”

“Good for you means dangerous for someone else,” Caleb mutters dryly, but his tone is amused, and he keeps pace just behind you, eyes scanning the street with quiet vigilance.

Sylus sidles closer on your other side, his jacket unbuttoned, hands buried in his pockets. “He’s right, kitten. Trouble tends to follow you two like moths to flame.”

“Good thing you love fire,” you shoot back, the breeze tugging at your dress.

Zayne walks a little ahead, guiding without needing to—reading the street, checking the corners, relaxed but steady. Every so often, he glances back, hazel eyes catching yours with a small smile that says he’s enjoying this, too.

Xavier is just a half-step behind your shoulder, quiet as ever, but you feel the faint brush of his hand against yours now and then, like he’s reminding himself you’re there. His gaze drifts often to the night sky overhead, to the unfamiliar constellations embroidered by city lights, but always returns to you.

The scent of spiced meat, grilled fish, and tangy fruit wine threads the air as you weave through stalls and taverns, heading steadily toward the sound of bass and laughter deeper in the city. Ahead, neon signs spill over stone walls, and the steady thrum of music grows louder—drawing you closer to the heart of Gull’s Landing nightlife.

The glow of neon grows stronger as you near the cliffside stretch where music pulses like a heartbeat. The street outside the club is already crowded—people laughing in line, groups spilling out of nearby bars, the air thick with salt, perfume, and anticipation.

Tara slows her steps, tugging lightly at your arm until you fall back beside her. Her grin is sly, conspiratorial. “Okay, babe. This is where I split off. Can’t walk in flanked by six gods—it’ll look like I’m taken, and that is not the vibe I’m going for tonight.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes fondly. “Fair point. Go on, then. We’ll keep an eye on you, but otherwise, hands off. You’re free.”

She squeezes your hand, eyes warm beneath the mischief. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you murmur back.

And then she’s gone, heels clicking as she flits toward the entrance, all charm and bright energy, already drawing glances as she slips into line with a practiced ease that screams availability.

You fall back into step with your men, who’ve slowed just enough to let you rejoin them. Sylus watches Tara vanish into the crowd, his mouth quirking. “Think she’ll actually behave?”

“Not a chance,” Caleb mutters, but there’s no judgment in it.

You just smile, shaking your head. “That’s the point.”

The line shuffles forward in waves, the bass inside the club sending faint vibrations through the pavement beneath your heels. You catch yourself swaying with it, the rhythm tugging at your pulse even before you’re through the door.

It doesn’t take long to notice the attention. Heads turn as your group advances—some subtle, some not at all. It isn’t just the men, though they draw plenty of looks on their own: Zayne’s poised calm, Sylus’s dangerous ease, Rafayel’s sculpted elegance, Caleb’s solid presence, Xavier’s quiet magnetism. But you feel eyes linger on you, too, skimming the line of your legs, the sweep of your dress, the confidence of the men orbiting close around you.

You hear someone behind murmur something you don’t quite catch, followed by a stifled laugh. Another pair of girls near the front shoot quick, appraising glances—equal parts intrigued and wary.

Sylus notices, of course. He leans closer, voice pitched low for your ears alone. “Kitten, we’re making half this line nervous.”

“Good,” Caleb rumbles, the corner of his mouth twitching as his gaze stays fixed forward.

You can’t help a quiet laugh, but there’s a ripple of awareness under your skin. 

The bouncer at the door barely glances at your group before waving you through—whether it’s the confidence you all wear or simply the undeniable weight of presence, you don’t know.

The moment the door swings shut behind you, the world changes.

Heat rolls over your skin, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and the sharp tang of spilled alcohol. Strobing lights slice through the dim, painting the press of bodies in shifting color—blue, violet, red—each flash carving new shadows across laughing faces and swaying hips. The bass is relentless, vibrating through the floor, up your legs, into your chest until your heartbeat feels like it syncs with the music.

You move in close to the men instinctively, the crowd parting around their presence. Sylus slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature, guiding you through the shifting bodies until you find a small pocket of space near the bar.

Tara’s already gone, swallowed by the crowd, her laughter trailing faintly as she disappears deeper into the throng. You smile after her, then glance back at the men—Rafayel’s gaze already tracking the dance floor like he’s reading it as a canvas, Zayne’s sharp eyes scanning without a hint of strain, Caleb’s hand brushing the small of your back protectively, Xavier quiet and wide-eyed at the sensory overload but steady.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat once you’ve carved out a sliver of space at the bar. He catches the bartender’s attention with a snap of his fingers and leans in, rattling off the order like he’s rehearsed it a hundred times. No menus, no second-guessing.

When the drinks arrive, it’s almost unsettling how perfect the choices are.

He slides a salt-rimmed glass of something citrus-bright toward you. “For my kitten—sweet with a burn at the back, just like you.”

You arch a brow, amused, but the sip proves him right. It’s exactly the balance you like.

Next, he hands Rafayel a tall glass of something clear and crisp with just the faintest floral bite. “For the dramatic fish. Fresh. Complex. Pretentious enough to keep him entertained.”

Rafayel smirks over the rim as he takes his first sip. “Pretentious, hm? You wound me.”

“Not yet,” Sylus purrs.

For Caleb, it’s a dark, no-nonsense pour over ice—clean, strong, zero frills. Caleb lifts the glass, gives a grunt of approval after the first swallow, and murmurs, “Not bad.” 

Then Sylus slides a short, neat glass toward Zayne. Clear, non-alcoholic, garnished with a twist of citrus. “For the doctor. Looks like the real thing, so no one pries, but no alcohol to mess with your walls.”

Zayne stares at the glass, then at Sylus. “…You shouldn’t know that.”

“I notice things,” Sylus says, smirking. “Especially about you.”

Finally, he nudges a smooth amber drink toward Xavier, the glass warmed by a curl of steam. “For our starry-eyed prince. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Warmth to keep the nerves from chewing at you.”

Xavier hesitates, then sips. His lashes flutter just slightly at the taste, and he glances away, murmuring, “Thank you.”

The rest of them are still processing how uncannily precise Sylus has been. Caleb shakes his head, half-amused. “That’s disturbing.”

“Disturbingly accurate,” Zayne corrects.

Sylus leans back against the bar, smug grin stretching wide. “What can I say? I’m a connoisseur of appetites.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your smile.

Rafayel swirls his drink delicately, nose lifting. “Connoisseur, hm? That implies refinement. Yours feels more like a blunt instrument.”

Sylus grins, raising his own glass in mock salute. “A blunt instrument that still got you the perfect pour.”

“Fair,” Rafayel concedes, sipping again with a sigh that borders on indulgent. “This is divine.”

Caleb smirks faintly, nursing his darker drink. “You two are like an old married couple.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” you say, earning a low chuckle from Caleb and a wolfish grin from Sylus.

Zayne takes a careful sip of his non-alcoholic drink, expression unreadable until he sets the glass down. “I’ll admit… I’m impressed. You’ve removed my excuse to refuse. That takes work.”

Sylus tilts his head, red eyes glinting. “I aim to please.”

“And succeed more often than you should,” Zayne says dryly, though there’s the faintest quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Xavier hasn’t said much, though you catch him cradling his glass like a warm stone, shoulders loosening fractionally. When Sylus nudges him lightly, Xavier glances up, startled, then manages a small smile. “It’s… really good. Thank you.”

Sylus winks. “See? Even Xavier approves.”

You drain the last of your drink, the warmth sliding down into your chest until the music feels like it’s part of your bloodstream. Around you, the men sip at theirs, settled but not moving. 

You set your glass back on the bar with a decisive little click and glance at the dance floor—flashing lights, bodies pressed close, the air alive with motion. Then you turn back to your bondeds, a grin tugging at your lips.

“Alright,” you say, voice pitched to cut through the bass. “Who’s going to dance with me?”

They exchange looks—quick, assessing glances over the rims of their glasses. Sylus raises a brow, clearly tempted, but stays leaning against the bar with his wolfish grin. Caleb just shakes his head slightly, his expression unreadable but his protective watch clear.

Your gaze catches Rafayel’s across the line of glasses, and his lips are already curving in that knowing, conspiratorial way. You extend your hand without hesitation.

“Come dance with me.”

He doesn’t need coaxing. With a smooth, unhurried motion, Rafayel sets his drink aside and takes your hand, fingers warm, grip firm but elegant. “As my cutie commands.”

The others watch as he draws you toward the dance floor, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. The lights catch in his dark purple waves, casting them in shades of blue and violet, making him look every bit the artist-turned-prince in this chaotic, strobing gallery.

When you reach the swell of bodies, the music hits harder, vibrating through your chest. Rafayel slips a hand around your waist, guiding you closer with natural ease. He moves with you—fluid, confident, syncing his steps to yours until the two of you are part of the beat itself.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs, lips brushing close to your ear, voice a low current under the bass.

Heat prickles across your skin, but you laugh, swaying with him, letting yourself fall into the rhythm. He matches you perfectly, the curve of his smile daring, the weight of his hand steady, his eyes fixed only on you no matter how many others pack the floor.

His hand on your waist slides lower, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, guiding without demanding. The crowd presses close on all sides, but his presence carves out a pocket of space just for you.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs, lips near your ear so only you can hear over the music. His breath is warm, his words threaded with a teasing reverence. “Every time I think I’ve seen the peak of you, you show me there’s more.”

Your laugh is low, breathless with the heat curling in your belly. “You’re just saying that because you like the dress.”

“I like the way you wear it,” he corrects smoothly, his eyes darkening in the flashing light.

You roll your hips against his just enough to test him, and his answering smile is dangerous. He presses a fraction closer, his thigh brushing yours, the suggestion unmistakable though he keeps it subtle. “Careful, cutie. You’ll start things I’ll want to finish.”

The heat of his words and the deliberate control of his movements send a shiver down your spine, your pulse skipping to the same rhythm as the beat crashing around you. You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Maybe that’s the point.”

His laugh is low, rougher than usual, and the hand on your hip tightens briefly. But then he eases, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, blue-pink gaze glinting under the lights. 

“Not here,” he murmurs, though his voice carries a promise. “Later.”

The restraint is almost hotter than if he’d let go, and it leaves your blood stirring, your body alive with anticipation. Around you, the crowd dances on, oblivious to the quiet storm threading between you and him.

The lights strobe violet, then blue, then red, shadows slicing across Rafayel’s smile as he keeps you moving with him, teasing just enough to let the heat build. You’re so wrapped in him that at first you don’t notice the shift in the crowd—until a familiar heat curls behind you, pressing close.

Sylus.

His chest brushes your back, one arm sliding smoothly around your waist as though the space was always his. His breath ghosts your ear, lower and rougher than Rafayel’s velvet murmur: “Thought I’d cut in before he steals all your fun, kitten.”

Rafayel smirks over your shoulder, eyes glinting. “Jealous already?”

“Hardly,” Sylus rumbles, his hips falling into the beat behind yours, syncing with Rafayel’s rhythm until you’re caught between them. “Just greedy.”

The bass thrums through you as the three of you move together, perfectly in time, Rafayel’s hand guiding your hip forward while Sylus presses you back against him, firm and unyielding. It’s temptation painted in rhythm, a wicked sandwich of restraint and promise.

You can feel Sylus’s grin against your temple as he murmurs, “You’re blushing.”

Rafayel leans close from the front, so near your lips that you taste the citrus of his drink in his breath. “She likes it.”

The world could be burning around you and you wouldn’t care—the music, the heat, the press of them both is enough to stir something molten in your blood, to leave your body humming like it remembers what comes after. You let yourself move with them, caught in the dangerous little game, knowing full well you’re being teased and primed—and you don’t mind one bit.

Then, as the lights strobe bright white for a beat, your gaze slips past Rafayel’s shoulder and catches a flash of familiar movement.

Tara.

She’s a little ways off, lost in the sway of the crowd, her laughter rising above the music as she dances with a man. He’s tall—easily over six feet—with neatly styled dark brown hair that catches the colored lights, throwing copper glints into the strands. His shirt is black and fitted, sleeves rolled just enough to show strong forearms, and the lean cut of his frame looks sculpted for this kind of scene. Dark jeans cling to long legs, the fabric hugging in all the right places.

Tara has her hands on his shoulders, smiling up at him, while he leans closer with that easy confidence of someone who knows he looks good and is used to being looked at.

You smile to yourself, heat blooming for her the same way it burns in your own blood. She’s found what she came here for.

And then Rafayel’s hand tightens on your waist, pulling your attention back, his eyes glinting under the lights. 

“Focus, cutie,” he teases, lips brushing so close you almost forget the world exists beyond the press of them and the music.

The music pounds on, relentless, and Rafayel and Sylus take turns drawing you tighter into their orbit. Rafayel’s fingers trace a slow line up your spine before settling at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just enough that his lips graze your cheekbone when he leans close. Sylus responds by pressing his hips flush against yours from behind, a deliberate roll in time with the bass that makes your breath catch.

You’re flushed, pulse racing, body humming with want. Every shift of their hands, every deliberate brush of thigh against thigh, winds you tighter. Rafayel murmurs something low in Lemurian—words you don’t understand but feel in the way his lips ghost the shell of your ear. Sylus chuckles darkly against your hair, voice gravel-warm. “You’re going to combust before we make it home, kitten.”

“I just might.” Your laugh is shaky, breathless, and entirely too honest.

The song crests, lights strobing brighter, and it’s enough of a break in the rhythm for you to drag in a steadier breath. Rafayel smirks knowingly, Sylus grins like a wolf, and the three of you peel away from the floor, weaving through the bodies back toward the bar.

You catch sight of Zayne standing there, posture relaxed but spine straight, as a woman in a glittering blue dress leans in toward him. She says something you can’t catch, smiling wide, clearly testing her luck. Zayne’s expression doesn’t shift—calm, polite, but immovable. He shakes his head once, lips moving in a quiet refusal, his hazel eyes holding hers.

The woman falters, shrugs, and with a little smile, she slips back into the crowd. 

You slip back up to the bar, still flushed from the heat of the dance, and catch Zayne adjusting his sleeve with the same calm precision he brings to everything.

You lean an elbow on the counter, lips curving. “That was smooth, Dr. Snowman. Very polite.”

He glances sidelong at you, hazel eyes glinting. “You were watching?”

“Of course I was. I didn’t want to miss your big debut—turning down admirers left and right.”

Zayne sets his glass down, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Then he steps closer, close enough that the din of the club muffles, his voice low just for you. “Funny. I could say the same about you.”

Your heart gives a little skip, and before you can fire back, he leans in slightly, head angled so his breath brushes your temple. His fingers ghost the inside of your wrist, feather-light, right over your pulse. 

“Still racing,” he murmurs, almost clinical, almost teasing. “Not from me, though.”

Heat rushes up your neck, your body remembering too well the way Rafayel and Sylus pressed against you. You try for a smirk. “Jealous?”

His smile sharpens, quiet and sure. “Not at all. Just… curious what it’ll take for me to make it jump like that.”

Before you can answer, the bass kicks into a new song, drowning out everything but the thrum in your chest and the spark in his gaze.

You meet Zayne’s steady gaze, your lips curving into something sly. “You can find out now,” you murmur, letting your fingers slide down his arm until they catch his hand.

For a heartbeat he doesn’t move, only watching you with that unreadable calm—but then his grip tightens, and he lets you tug him off the bar. The crowd swallows you both in strobing light and pounding bass, the press of bodies closing in as you find space on the dance floor.

Behind you, Sylus whistles low, and Rafayel smirks knowingly. 

“Well,” he says, voice carrying just enough over the music, “looks like the doctor’s experiment is underway.”

“Not here,” Caleb grumbles good-naturedly, jerking his chin toward the far side of the club. “Let’s see if we can find a booth so we’re not crowding the bar.”

Xavier gives you one last glance before following the others as they drift away, carving their own path through the crowd toward the shadowy edges of the room.

And then it’s just you and Zayne, the bass slamming down like a second heartbeat, his hazel eyes lit by neon. He’s not a natural showman like Rafayel, not a teasing predator like Sylus—his movements are precise, but he adjusts to you effortlessly, syncing his rhythm to yours. His hands slide to your waist, his body close but not pressing, his focus locked entirely on you as though the rest of the club has ceased to exist.

Your pulse answers, quickening beneath his touch, just like he said it would.

You tilt your head up, lips brushing close to his ear so he can hear you over the music. “Honestly? I didn’t think you’d let me drag you out here. Much less in a nightclub.”

Zayne’s mouth curves faintly, the barest suggestion of a smirk. “You think I don’t dance?”

“Not like this,” you tease, letting your body roll against his, testing. “You seem more like… the waltzing type.”

That earns you a quiet laugh, low and warm against your temple. His hazel eyes glitter in the shifting lights as he leans down, murmuring back, “Maybe I am. But I’m adaptable.”

He proves it with the next beat—hips shifting closer, rhythm syncing so tightly with yours that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath brushing your hairline. Not showy, just utterly present, every motion like he’s dissecting the music and stitching the pieces into something only the two of you can share.

Your pulse jumps, undeniable, and his lips quirk into that same knowing smile. 

“Darling,” he murmurs, voice nearly lost to the bass. “Your heart is racing again.”

The music coils tighter around you, Zayne keeping pace with every shift of your body, every roll of your hips. His focus never strays, hazel eyes fixed on you like you’re the only anchor in the chaos.

But after another song crests and breaks, he leans closer, lips brushing your ear. 

“I should excuse myself before I forget where we are.” His tone is calm, but the warmth of his breath betrays how much the dance has stirred in him. He pulls back enough to catch your gaze, steady and intent. “Let me bring you back to the others.”

You shake your head, smile curving sly as the bass rattles your chest. “Not yet. I’m not ready to stop dancing.”

His brows lift just slightly, amused. “You’d rather stay out here alone?”

“Just for a bit,” you say, squeezing his hand before letting go. “Go on ahead. I’ll join you.”

For a moment he studies you, hazel eyes sharp under the shifting lights, the doctor’s caution warring with something softer. “Will you be alright?”

You nod, the grin spreading. “I will. Promise.”

His lips twitch at the corner, as though he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans down one last time, voice pitched low so it cuts clean over the bass. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Then he releases you, slipping back through the crowd with that same calm grace, leaving you in the strobing lights, pulse still racing, body still thrumming for more.

The music crashes into another song, heavy with bass and glittering synth, and you let yourself sink into it. Alone now, you dance at the edge of the crowd, the heat of bodies all around but enough space to move freely.

It doesn’t take long for the first approach now that you’re alone. A blond man in a fitted white shirt drifts into your orbit, smiling easily as he leans just close enough to be heard over the music. “You dance like you own the floor.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you step neatly aside. “Not tonight.”

He grins good-naturedly, lifts his hands in surrender, and melts back into the crowd without fuss.

Another follows—a tall man in a green button-down, moving confidently with the beat as he matches your rhythm for a few bars. He leans in, murmuring something you can’t quite hear, but the implication is clear.

You smile politely, shaking your head again. “Sorry. Not available.”

His brows flick up, then he chuckles and tips an imaginary hat before twirling away toward another cluster of dancers.

The third is smoother—a short-haired brunette with a sharp jaw, wearing a black tee that clings to lean muscle. He dances with a natural ease, closing the space between you until he’s just inside arm’s reach. His smile is wicked, but when you shake your head, he laughs and backs off without hesitation, offering a playful salute before disappearing into the haze of lights.

Each attempt leaves you oddly buoyed—confidence confirmed, reassurance thrumming in your chest. You’re wanted, yes. But more importantly: you’re free to choose. And every time, you choose no, they’ve moved on to try their luck with someone else without a fuss.

The music surges, lights flashing hot red and cool blue across the dance floor, and you catch the shift almost instantly.

The others who approached you—bright-eyed, hopeful, some even charming—had looked at you like a chance, an invitation they knew they might not get. Their gazes had been appreciative, curious, almost playful.

This one is different.

He’s tall, broad through the shoulders, his dark shirt stretched across muscle that looks like it belongs to someone who knows how to use it. His hair is close-cropped, his jaw heavy, and when his eyes land on you, they’re already… claiming. Not hopeful or curious—.just a flat, arrogant certainty. Like he’s already decided how the night will end, and you’re simply part of the plan.

Still, he starts politely enough. He sidles closer, lowering his head slightly so his words thread just under the bass. “You’re wasted out here alone. Care for a partner?”

His tone is smooth,—but the way his gaze travels down your body is anything but polite. There’s no spark of admiration, no gleam of fun. It’s lecherous, hungry, as if he’s not seeing you at all—just a body he wants, and one he’s already sure he’ll take.

Your skin prickles, not from the heat of the crowd or the thrum of music, but from the way he looks at you.

You force a polite smile, pitching your voice steady over the music. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested.”

It should have been enough. The others took the hint and peeled away.

But this man grins like you’ve just thrown down a gauntlet. His eyes darken with challenge. He leans in closer, his broad frame cutting into your space, the heat of him pressing nearer even as you instinctively step back.

“Not interested yet,” he says, like he’s already rewriting your answer.

The lights flash hot white across his face, and the smug curl of his mouth makes your stomach knot. You take another small step back, spine brushing against the sway of another dancer, your pulse ticking faster now—not from the music or the heat, but from the way this man doesn’t hear your no.

And still, his grin lingers, like he’s certain he’ll wear you down.

Your smile sharpens, all trace of politeness gone. 

“I’m already here with someone,” you tell him, voice cutting cleaner than the bass around you. “He’s just grabbing a booth. I’m not available.”

It should have been the final line in the sand.

But his grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, his eyes glinting with a kind of smug disbelief. 

“He’s not here now, though, is he?” he counters smoothly, stepping closer again. His hand starts to lift, fingers reaching like he has every right to touch your arm, your waist, something.

You step back, heat flaring in your chest, pulse pounding. 

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, the word cold, sharp as glass.

For a flicker of a moment, his grin falters—but only enough to twist into something uglier. He doesn’t heed the warning. His hand keeps reaching, the arrogance in his eyes making it clear: he thinks no is just another kind of game.

The press of bodies shifts, dancers swaying to the bass, and suddenly you’re cut off—hemmed in by a group lost in their own rhythm, their laughter and movement a careless wall behind you.

The man takes the chance. His hand closes around your wrist possessively, like he’s already claimed the right to guide you wherever he pleases.

Your breath spikes in fury, ready to tear into him—but before you can, another hand clamps down on his wrist. 

The man stiffens, the smug grin sliding from his face as he’s forced to look sideways. Caleb stands there, taller, broader, eyes like frozen amethyst in the strobe light. There’s nothing warm in him now, nothing teasing or wry. He radiates raw, merciless authority, the air around him turning frigid in a way that makes even the bass feel thinner.

“Let go of her,” Caleb says, voice quiet, but it cuts through the music like a blade. There’s no room for question. No room for anything but obedience.

The man falters under that stare, but he hasn’t yet released you—his arrogance twitching against the grip Caleb has locked him in.

The man’s lip curls, arrogance flaring even through his unease. “What, you think she’s yours to—”

Caleb’s grip tightens, bones grinding audibly beneath his hand. His other hand flicks up, palm angled, and the weight of the air itself shifts. Gravity spikes in a focused pulse, crushing down on the man’s knees with invisible force.

The stranger chokes on a startled grunt as his legs buckle, his hand torn away from your wrist by the brutal twist of Caleb’s own. The man drops half a step, pinned, spine straining against the sudden heaviness.

Caleb leans in close, voice so low only you and the stranger hear it. “She’s mine. And if you ever put your hands on her again—” His eyes narrow, merciless. “—you’ll leave here with more than your pride broken.”

He wrenches the man’s wrist once more before releasing him, the shift of gravity easing in the same breath. The man stumbles back, cradling his arm, his arrogance shattered under the weight of Caleb’s cold, unblinking stare.

Caleb’s hand doesn’t loosen after he wrenches the stranger away. His arm is iron at your waist, steering you through the blur of lights and sweat-slick bodies. He doesn’t stop until he finds a shadowed alcove tucked between two pillars, where the strobe lights stutter and the crush of dancers doesn’t reach.

You stumble a half-step against the wall, breath catching. His grip pins you there, his chest rising sharp against yours. His face is carved in cold lines, eyes still burning with the same merciless steel he’d leveled on the man who dared touch you—the same steel you’d seen in his eyes in Skyhaven.

Your stomach twists, unsure. “Caleb—are you mad at me?” The question slips out, softer than you intend, almost lost under the bass.

His jaw tightens, then he shakes his head once. When he leans in, the heat of his breath brushes your ear, his voice almost a growl. “Not mad. But you’re mine. And I need you to know it.”

The words strike deep—half promise, half command—and your whole body prickles in answer. The ache from the teasing dances earlier sharpens instantly, readiness spilling through you at the sheer force of his claim.

His mouth claims yours in a hard, crushing kiss, all teeth and heat, and you can taste the iron edge of his restraint in it. His hand drags up your side, fingers curling possessively at your hip, before sliding lower to grip the curve of your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

When he presses into you, there’s no mistaking the hard, insistent line of his erection straining against his jeans. The feel of it makes your breath catch, your pulse stuttering faster, need shivering down your spine.

Then, with a fluid, commanding motion, he spins you. Your chest meets the cool stone of the alcove pillar, his palm braced beside your head for a heartbeat before he shoves you forward, his chest closing in behind you. The music still pounds, but all you hear is your own ragged inhale as he fists the hem of your dress and shoves it upward. The fabric flares briefly, then drapes back down, soft and flowy, still skimming mid-thigh like nothing’s changed at all.

You barely have time to register the exposure, the vulnerable thrill of it, before his hand is already between your legs. His fingers hook the edge of your panties, yanking them to the side with ruthless efficiency.

And then he’s there— inone rough, driving thrust that buries him inside you, the sudden stretch making your knees buckle. The cry tears up your throat, sharp and helpless, and you bite down hard on your wrist to muffle it, teeth sinking into your own skin as your eyes squeeze shut.

His body cages yours against the pillar, every line of him pressed hard to your back. One arm snakes around your middle, pinning you in place, while the other fists the fabric of your dress at your hip to hold it up, making sure you can’t wriggle away even if you wanted to. His chest crushes to your shoulder blades, the solid weight of him forcing you to feel every deliberate grind of his cock as he thrusts deep.

You muffle another cry into your wrist, teeth biting down hard enough to sting. The sound of the bass thrums around you, but your ears ring only with the slick, relentless slap of his hips driving into you.

The thrill of it makes your skin buzz—the thought that just steps away, in the wash of strobing light and sound, anyone could notice the shape of you bent forward against the wall, dress hiked, Caleb moving behind you with merciless rhythm. That he doesn’t care. That if anyone did look too close, he’d wear it like a declaration—showing the whole world exactly whose you are.

He hisses against your ear, words rough and low, each syllable timed with the thrusts that push you higher, harder. “Mine. Every fucking inch of you—mine.”

The possessiveness rolls off him in waves, feeding your own arousal until your muffled cries come faster, sharper, your body clenching around him with desperate need.

Your wrist slips from between your teeth, the taste of your own skin lingering as the sounds rip free anyway, thin and breathless. Your head tips back against his shoulder, and through the ragged edge of your moans you manage to gasp out, half-plea, half-warning, “Caleb—fuck—you’re gonna make me come if you keep fucking me like that—”

His answer is a low, guttural growl of approval right against your ear, vibrating through you. “Good.” The word is clipped, dripping satisfaction.

 His hips don’t falter; if anything, they slam harder, his rhythm ruthless, grinding every nerve raw until you can’t hold yourself steady without his iron grip bracing you in place.

You’re right at the edge, body taut and trembling, when motion flickers at the corner of your vision.

Xavier.

For one suspended heartbeat you freeze, breath caught, the shock of being seen threatening to tip you over completely. His bright blue eyes take in everything—the way Caleb has you pinned, the dress hiked, your lips parted around muffled cries. 

He angles his body to the side closest to the crowd, broad shoulders cutting off what little light had spilled into the alcove. His presence deepens the shadow, shielding you completely. And then—without hesitation—he catches your jaw in one firm hand, tilts your face toward his, and claims your mouth with his own.

The kiss is deep, molten, stealing what little breath you had left. His tongue presses in, sweeping against yours, catching the broken moans that spill as Caleb pounds into you from behind. It’s possessive in a different way—less brutal force, more consuming fire—but it feeds the same raw need, makes you whimper against him as your hands claw up into his shirt to keep yourself grounded.

Caleb growls low in satisfaction at the way you writhe between them, his thrusts unrelenting, each one a reminder of the claim he’s staked. Xavier swallows your cries, his lips and teeth and tongue keeping you locked in silence for the world beyond the alcove. 

The heat crests suddenly, blindingly. Caleb groans into your hair as your walls clamp down around him. Your cry is caught in Xavier’s mouth, muffled into his kiss as your whole body shatters—pleasure rolling through you in violent, helpless waves. 

Even as your climax tears through you, body shuddering and weak, Caleb drags you back into him with relentless force. Each thrust is deep, his breath a ragged growl against your ear.

You whimper into Xavier’s mouth, clinging to him as if you’ll fall without his anchor. Xavier keeps kissing you, steady and unyielding, his tongue tangling with yours, catching every broken sound as Caleb pounds through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

The rhythm sharpens—harder, faster—his control unraveling with every grind of your hips meeting his. Caleb snarls your name like a vow, hips slamming flush one final time as he buries himself to the hilt. Heat floods you in a violent rush, his release searing as his body locks tight against your back.

You feel him shudder through it, groaning into your shoulder, fingers bruising at your hip and stomach as he holds you there, as if staking his claim even in the final throes of pleasure. Xavier swallows your muffled cry, lips pressing harder to yours until the storm ebbs, until Caleb’s ragged breaths fan hot against your neck and the weight of him slumps slightly over you.

You feel him soften inside you before he finally eases back, careful, his grip gentling as he lowers the hem of your dress back into place. His touch lingers, smoothing the fabric as though erasing any trace of what just happened, though the heat still pulses between your thighs.

Xavier’s lips break from yours with slow reluctance. He doesn’t move away entirely, though—his forehead rests against yours for a moment, his breath steadying yours, a gentle counterpoint to Caleb’s ragged intensity.

“You okay?” Xavier murmurs softly, just for you, his thumb brushing your cheek.

Your answering nod comes with a shaky laugh, muffled against his lips. “Better than okay.”

Caleb exhales behind you, the edge of his voice rough but calmer now. “Good. That’s all I need to know.” 

He leans down, pressing a brief kiss into the side of your neck—more tender than you expect after the ruthless pace he’d set—before straightening, his hand settling at your hip in a gentler claim.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, half to yourself, half to them, muffling the words with a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe we just… here. In a club.”

Caleb’s answering rumble is low and unapologetic. “Would again.”

You can’t help the way your lips curve, shaking your head. “I didn’t say I minded.”

Xavier chuckles, the sound warm and amused as he finally steps back, smoothing your hair back into place with gentle fingers. “The others might, though. I’m willing to bet they felt that echo.”

Your cheeks flame hot at the thought of Rafayel’s smirk, Sylus’s sharp-eyed satisfaction, Zayne’s knowing look.

With a groan, you cover your face in your hands, laughter spilling helplessly between your fingers. “Don’t tell me that right now.”

You lower your hands at last, still flushed and laughing, though the slick reminder between your thighs tells you you’re not exactly in a state to waltz back to the others. 

“I need to… clean up,” you admit, voice soft but wry.

Xavier’s smile tips knowing. He brushes one last kiss to your temple before stepping back fully. “I’ll head back to the booth, let them know you’re fine. Take your time.”

Caleb doesn’t move his arm from your waist until Xavier’s gone. Then he dips his head close, his voice final. “We’ll join them in a moment.”

You nod, and he guides you from the alcove, his hand steady at your back as though daring anyone else to try again. The crowd swallows you both, neon slicing across his sharp profile as he steers you toward the restrooms tucked just off the bar.

At the door to the ladies’, he stops, turning you to face him. For a heartbeat, the Colonel is still there in his gaze—sharp, protective, the ice still thawing from his veins. But his thumb lifts, brushing gently at the flush along your cheek. “I’ll wait right here.”

Your throat softens around the lump there, and you nod again, slipping into the restroom while he stations himself outside like a sentinel, his broad shoulders unmistakable even against the churn of the club.

The restroom door thuds shut behind you, muting the bass into a dull vibration through the tiled walls. For a moment you just lean against it, palms flat to the cool wood, heart still beating like you’re back against that pillar.

In the mirror, you catch your reflection—flushed cheeks, mussed hair where Xavier’s fingers had smoothed and Caleb’s grip had tangled. Your lips are swollen, dress still slightly askew, fabric clinging wrong until you tug it back into place.

You breathe out a laugh, half-shocked, half-delighted. 

“Holy shit,” you murmur again, this time to the empty room.

At the sinks, you grab a wad of paper towels, dampening them under the cold tap. The chill makes you shiver as you run them along your thighs and folds, easing away the slick heat still marking you, then grab dry paper to wipe away the traces in your underwear where they haven’t already seeped into the fabric. You fix your panties back into place, straighten your dress, then pause to really look at yourself again in the mirror.

That coil low in your belly hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper now—not just from Caleb’s claiming thrusts or Xavier’s steady kiss, but from the setting. From the risk. From the way the idea of being seen had sent you spiraling higher instead of shutting you down.

The realization that you might be a bit of an exhibitionist clicks with startling clarity.

You’ve always liked being watched by them—by your men, your soulmates. That had felt natural, inevitable, like it was just part of the bonds. You never questioned why you loved the way Rafayel’s gaze seared into you, or how Sylus’s smirk tightened when he had the vantage, or the way Zayne and Xavier’s eyes burned whenever they weren’t the one inside you. It had always been safe with them.

But tonight… with strangers just steps away, the notion that someone might see Caleb pin you against that wall, might catch Xavier’s mouth devouring your cries, might realize who you belong to—that had only made it hotter.

Weird. Amusing. Equal parts shocking and undeniable. Because you know damn well you would never let anyone watch you claim them, never let another soul see you take any of your men into your body. That feels sacred. But when it’s them pinning you, staking their claim? Apparently other rules apply.

You shake your head at yourself, laugh bubbling low as you blot your lipstick back into place and sweep your hair over your shoulder. “Well. Guess that’s a thing.”

You toss the towels, smooth the hem of your dress one last time, and step back toward the door, the thought still humming like a secret under your skin.

The door swings open, and Caleb is right there, just as promised—broad shoulders squared, scanning the crowd like he’s daring anyone else to try what the last man did. His gaze softens the instant it lands on you, though, and without a word his hand slides back to your waist as he guides you through the press of bodies.

As you near the booth where the others are gathered, your attention snags. At the bar, Tara leans against the counter, chin tilted, laughter spilling free as she twirls a strand of her short brown hair around her finger. And next to her—the man from earlier. The broad-shouldered one with the easy smile and sharp jaw. He’s leaning close, his hand resting on the bar beside hers, every line of his posture screaming interest.

Tara’s grinning, eyes bright, her body angled toward him in a way that’s loud as a billboard: she’s interested, too.

Your chest tightens with a flicker of excitement for her. Yes, bestie. Go get it. The thought makes you grin, a private cheer, even as Caleb nudges you gently toward the booth.

He steers you the last few steps, and the booth comes into view—Rafayel draped back with his usual feline sprawl, Zayne upright and watchful with a glass of something clear at his elbow, Sylus lounging with one arm hooked over the backrest, Xavier beside him.

Four pairs of eyes turn to you and Caleb at once, and you know immediately.

Rafayel’s smirk is wicked, like he already has the perfect quip lined up. “So… that echo.”

Sylus’s red eyes glitter, voice a purr as he adds, “Didn’t exactly feel subtle.”

Zayne hides his mouth behind his glass, but the twitch of his lips betrays him anyway. “No, it really didn’t.”

And Xavier has the gall to keep a perfectly straight face, though the faint pink high on his cheekbones tells a different story.

Your face flames hot enough to rival the strobe lights. 

“You’re all impossible,” you mutter as Caleb slips in first, tugging you down beside him. You reach straight for the drink waiting at your spot and take a long sip, if only to keep your mouth too busy to respond to their teasing properly.

The smirks don’t fade. If anything, they deepen, your bondeds clearly enjoying your fluster far too much.

You bury your face in your glass for another swallow, trying not to combust, the heat still thrumming in your body from Caleb’s rough possession—and Xavier’s kiss—burning under your skin.

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

He doesn’t belong here.

He knows it the second he steps through the pulsing doors, the bass hammering against his ribs, the neon slicing the air into feverish shards of color. He isn’t dressed for it—plain tee, worn boots, curls almost falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes them back—but that familiar tug in his chest had led him here, the same instinct that’s pulled him away from disaster more times than he can count.

And it’s rarely wrong.

He threads through the crowd, jaw set, scanning faces without knowing what he’s looking for—until he sees her.

Short brown hair. Red dress that clings and shimmers under the shifting lights. Laughing as she leans against the bar, one shoulder bared, every line of her posture sharp with confidence.

But it isn’t her that snags the instinct hard and fast. It’s the man she’s laughing with.

Tall, sharp-suited, dark hair slicked just enough to look intentional. Broad shoulders, practiced grin. On the surface, nothing out of place—he could be any tourist, any local looking for company. And yet his gut coils. Something about him hums wrong, like a badly tuned chord.

He watches the man lean closer, saying something in her ear that makes her laugh harder. She doesn’t see it—the gleam in his eyes that isn’t mirth, but something else, something darker. His fingers twitch against the quartz pendant at his throat. His instincts whisper, louder now. Danger. That one.

He edges closer, weaving between dancers, though he doesn’t yet step in. He doesn’t even know what he’d say if he did. But when the man finishes his drink and offers her his hand, when she takes it with a playful smile and lets him guide her toward the door, his pulse spikes.

His boots scuff against the floor as he hesitates, just for a beat. Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe she’s just another woman out for a night she fully intends to enjoy.

But his instincts have never screamed at him without reason—and right now they roar.

So he pushes off the column and follows, keeping his distance as they slip out into the night. He doesn’t know who she is. He doesn’t know why this man sets his teeth on edge. He just knows one thing: if the guy’s bad news, he won’t let her walk out into it alone.

They don’t head for the main drag where cabs idle and neon signs flicker over the street. No—the man steers her down a narrower road, one that angles away from the music and the lights, each step carrying them further into shadow.

He follows at a distance, boots quiet on the cracked pavement, pulse hammering as the noise of the club fades to a dull throb behind them. Instincts grow sharper with every turn, each one peeling away the safety of the crowd until the air feels wrong.

The man slows beneath a half-dead streetlamp, turning her into the curve of his arm, mouth brushing her neck like a lover. From where he watches, it looks like any other embrace—until the gleam of metal catches the light.

A gun. Drawn smooth as breath, pressed low against her ribs, nearly hidden by the slope of his body.

His stomach knots, rage and instinct snapping into focus at once. His hand closes tight around the crystal shard at his throat, and before thought can catch up, the magic pours out of him.

.・゜゜・╰──╮ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ╭──╯ ・゜゜・．

Your eyes track Tara as she slips from the bar, hand laced with the tall, dark-haired man’s. She throws you one last grin over her shoulder—bright, triumphant, her whole body saying mission accomplished. You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. Go get it, bestie.

Rafayel chooses that moment to lean in, his smirk wicked under the neon glow. “So,” he drawls, “how was your little… detour?”

Your cheeks blaze hotter. “I’m not answering that.”

Sylus chuckles low, tapping his glass against Zayne’s. “She doesn’t have to. The echo already answered for her.”

Zayne hides a smile behind his drink, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes betrays him. Even Xavier, sitting a little too straight, can’t keep the warmth from creeping into his expression.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I hate all of you.”

Their laughter blends with the bass thudding from the dance floor, the familiar teasing grounding you—until, slowly, the comfort frays.

At first it’s just a tickle in your chest, a ripple of discomfort. You frown, shifting in your seat. Then it sharpens, prickling at the base of your spine, wrongness curling like smoke in your lungs. Not the echo of Caleb’s possession. Not Sylus’s simmering energy or Rafayel’s steady pulse. Something else entirely.

The air tastes… off.

You glance toward the exit where Tara disappeared a minute ago, your gut twisting.

Rafayel’s smirk fades before you even find the words. His eyes, sharpen as he leans forward, hand brushing against your thigh beneath the table. 

“Cutie,” he murmurs, “what is it? You feel… off.”

You swallow, pressing a hand to your chest. The wrongness is a tight coil now, humming through your bones, impossible to ignore. 

“It’s Tara,” you say finally, certain. “I don’t know how I know, but something’s wrong. But—” you glance at each of them, pulse spiking, “—I just feel it.”

For a beat, the table is still. Then Sylus straightens, the lazy slouch gone in an instant. “If you feel it, kitten, we don’t ignore it.” 

Caleb’s jaw flexes, his hand already curling into a fist. “After Astra’s tricks? No chance we chalk this up to nerves.”

Zayne sets his glass down carefully, hazel eyes clear and steady. “We trust you. Always.”

Xavier rises first, his chair scraping back, silver hair catching the light. “Let’s go.” His voice is calm, but there’s a hard edge under it, as though he’s already preparing for the worst.

You push up with them, heart hammering, the wrongness tightening in your gut like a noose. Together, you weave out of the booth, slipping back into the crush of music and light. But this time, there’s no laughter, no teasing banter.

The cool night air slams into you as the six of you spill out of the club, the throb of music swallowed by the dark press of the street. For a heartbeat you falter, scanning the scattering of people, the neon haze, the endless avenues stretching into shadow. How the hell are we supposed to find her?

Before you can give voice to it, Caleb steps ahead, shoulders squared, nostrils flaring as he inhales deep. 

“Her scent,” he growls. “I’ve got it.”

Relief spikes sharp in your chest, tangled with dread. “Then lead.”

He does, cutting a swift line through the thinning crowd, the rest of you falling in tight behind. His steps are unerring, his posture all soldier again—cold, focused, and deadly.

And then, just before the mouth of a side street, you hear a scream—Tara’s, sharp and terrified—splinters the night. It’s cut almost at once by the muffled crack of a gunshot, the sound bouncing hard against the alley walls.

Your blood ices, resonance sparking wild inside you. Caleb snarls and breaks into a sprint. The others surge after him, you hard on their heels even as your heart seizes, one thought crashing louder than the bass had ever been: Too late. Too late.

The men stop short, forming an instinctive wall in front of you. Their bodies go rigid, blocking your view, the air around them tense as bowstrings.

You shove between Caleb and Sylus, heart in your throat, barreling past their shoulders—and freeze.

Tara is there. Alive. Safe. Her chest heaves, chin tucked against the collar of another man’s shirt as he shelters her with his body. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, curls shadowing his brow, stance set wide in protective defiance. His arm is anchored firm around her, shielding her from everything behind him.

And behind him—the dark-haired man she’d left the club with lies sprawled, unconscious, a gun glinting uselessly near his hand.

You don’t process it, don’t care. All that matters is Tara.

“Tara!” you cry, voice breaking.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide and wet, and she shoves out of the stranger’s arms without hesitation. “Babe!”

You collide in the middle of the alley, arms clamping around each other so tightly it’s hard to breathe. Relief crashes through you so violently your knees nearly buckle, tears stinging hot at your lashes as you bury your face in her shoulder.

She clutches you back just as fiercely, breathless and shaking, the two of you clinging like lifelines while the men stand tense behind you, and the stranger—this unknown protector—watches in silence, still standing guard.

Your men have fanned around you instinctively—Caleb just a step forward, shoulders squared; Sylus’s eyes narrowed to a predator’s slits; Zayne steady and calculating; Xavier tense but unreadable; Rafayel’s smirk sharpened into something razor-cold. The weight of their stares all pin toward the stranger who still stands a few feet away, broad-shouldered, curls shadowing his face.

He hasn’t moved since releasing Tara. He only watches, posture guarded but not hostile, one hand still faintly hovering near her as though to shield her again if needed.

Tara feels the shift immediately. She pulls back from you, wiping quickly at her eyes, and shakes her head at the wall of tense muscle between you and the man. “Stop. He’s not the enemy.”

Sylus’s voice is edged. “He’s unknown.”

“And he saved me,” Tara cuts in, her tone sharp enough to make even Caleb’s posture ease by a fraction. She steps forward, one hand still clutching your wrist, the other gesturing toward the stranger. 

“The other guy—he pulled a gun, I didn’t even see it coming. He—” she falters, glancing back at him, her brown eyes bright with fierce gratitude—“he stopped him. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead right now.”

Your men shift, wary but no longer bristling on the edge of violence, their focus sharpening instead into evaluation, into questions.

The stranger slowly takes one step back, broad shoulders easing a fraction as his hand rises to brush the pendant at his neck.

Caleb’s eyes narrow. His head tilts, voice flat but cutting as a blade. “We didn’t expect to encounter a witch tonight.”

The stranger’s jaw tightens. For the briefest moment, shock flares in his grey eyes—quick as lightning—before his expression shutters, the mask dropping smooth and impassive. But the slip was there.

You feel Tara stiffen in your arms. She turns sharply, searching Caleb’s face. “You’re sure?”

Caleb doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Tara whirls, staring at the man who’d just saved her life. And then—before anyone can stop her—she surges forward, snatching his wrist with both hands, eyes wide and blazing. “You’re a witch, too?!”

Her voice rings off the alley walls, burning with something raw hope and disbelief.

The man’s eyes flick from Tara’s hands to her face, and something raw flashes there—too quick, too sharp. But his voice, when it comes, is certain.

“There’s no such thing as witches.”

He carefully, almost gently, frees himself from Tara’s grip, his fingers brushing free of hers with a finality that makes her flinch. Then he takes a step back, then another, shoulders straightening as if already turning his back on all of you. 

“You’re safe now,” he says, tone distant. His gaze skims over you, over the others, before fixing again on Tara. “Your friends are here. They’ll keep you safe.”

He turns, stepping toward the mouth of the alley.

Tara’s hands tremble as she lifts them desperately, and a shimmer of power bursts outward—semi-translucent, like starlight caught in glass—spilling into the air and hardening into a ward that cuts off his path.

The man stops short, spinning around with a startled snap of movement. His eyes lock on the shimmering barrier, disbelief scything across his face, stark and unguarded.

Slowly, he drags his gaze back to Tara—who’s standing with her chin high, chest heaving, a faint tremor in her outstretched hands. 

His mouth opens, words hanging on the edge—when a low groan splits the alley as the gunman shifts where he lies crumpled, head rolling against the pavement.

Before anyone else can move, Caleb is already there. One sharp stride forward, one brutal, precise strike of his boot, and the man slumps back into silence. Unconscious again.

The sound is sickeningly final. You see the man’s head snap toward him, brows lifting, clearly startled by the ruthless efficiency—the lack of hesitation. But Caleb only exhales, flat and cold, like a soldier swatting down a nuisance.

You force your attention back to Tara, your hand tightening on her arm when you step to her side. “What happened?”

She swallows hard, still trembling, but she meets your gaze. 

“He—he leaned in, like he was going to kiss me. But he whispered first.” Her throat bobs, eyes wide with the weight of it. “‘Without you, they will fail.’ Then he pulled the gun.”

The words thud through your chest like another gunshot, sick recognition igniting in your gut. Around you, the others all go taut, exchanging sharp, grim glances.

It’s manipulation. A thread of the same poisoned pattern you’ve faced before.

You don’t say the name Astra—not with the stranger still standing there, silent and watchful, his eyes darting between each of you as though measuring the weight of your reaction. But you don’t need to. The men feel it too. The shared certainty presses heavy in the air: whatever game is being played, this attack wasn’t random.

The stranger’s gaze flicks from the unconscious man to Caleb, his jaw tight. “Is he dead?”

Caleb doesn’t even blink. “No. Whatever pushed him to this, it wasn’t his own will. He’s out cold. That’s enough.”

The finality in his tone makes the truth clear—if Caleb had decided otherwise, the man would already be a corpse. The man seems to register it, a faint hardening in his eyes.

Beside you, Tara’s breath comes quicker, arms trembling as the shimmering ward shivers in the air. You catch her wrists gently, voice urgent but soft. “T, let go. Don’t wear yourself out.”

She swallows, nods once, and lowers her hands. The ward breaks apart instantly, dissolving into sparks of light that vanish into the dark.

The stranger takes it in with sharp intensity. His eyes flick from Tara’s empty hands to you, then across the line of men—all steady, all calm, none showing even a flicker of surprise.

When he speaks, his tone is searching. “You’re… not surprised.”

You meet his gaze. “If you want to know why we’re not, if you want answers to what you just helped prevent—and to who you just helped save—then come with us. We’re staying at an inn nearby.”

The stranger lingers in silence, gaze sweeping over each of you in turn—Caleb’s icy control, Zayne’s clinical watchfulness, Xavier’s calm but alert stance, Rafayel’s smirk edged like a blade, Sylus’s unreadable eyes gleaming in the dark. Finally, his attention lands on Tara, still pressed close to your side, her trembling subdued but not gone.

Something in his shoulders eases and he exhales slowly. “Fine. I’ll come.”

There’s the faintest shift in the group—relief wrapped in tension, the collective coil of instincts easing but not gone. Caleb gives a sharp nod, already angling toward the mouth of the alley.

Zayne, ever direct, tilts his head toward him. “Your name?”

The man’s expression hardens, and he shakes his head. “Not yet.”

A flicker of respectful silence follows before you speak. “Alright.” 

Sylus mouth quirks, a flash of teeth in the shadows. He doesn’t say a word, but the smirk speaks volumes, promising knowledge without effort. You know him well enough to read it instantly. If he wanted to, he could unravel every detail of this stranger within the hour—name, history, secrets.

But he doesn’t. He lets the silence hold, doesn’t wield that power. You can feel it’s deliberate, a choice to avoid antagonizing the man who just saved Tara’s life.

You fall into step, the group shifting subtly so Tara and you stay surrounded, the stranger folded just inside the perimeter. Trust not yet given—but space allowed.

The walk back is quiet, the thrum of the city muffled by the weight hanging over the group. Neon and salt wind pass by in silence, boots scuffing stone streets in steady rhythm. No banter, no quips—just a wary respect that leaves space but no cracks.

The only break comes from Tara. At one point, she edges close enough to the stranger to glance up at him, voice small but steady. “I’m glad you came with. I’ve… I’ve never met another like me before.”

It’s not loud, not even really meant for the rest of you. But you hear it. And though he doesn’t respond, you notice the way his jaw loosens, how his posture shifts almost imperceptibly. It softens him, just a fraction.

By the time you reach the inn, the weight of the silence feels heavier than the walk itself. Caleb takes the lead inside, and the others file in behind, forming a loose half-circle as you enter the modest lobby. Lanterns burn warm in sconces shaped like starbursts, shadows dancing against pale stone walls.

Caleb leads the way up the narrow stairwell, boots whispering against the worn runner. The inn is modest but clean—whitewashed walls, beams darkened with salt air, the faint hum of the sea through open windows.

The stranger keeps to the rear, never straying too close, never too far. A shadow within the group’s formation, tolerated but not yet trusted. Tara glances back at him often, her expression a tug-of-war between hope and worry, and each time he meets her gaze, something shifts in his face—like he’s not used to being looked at that way.

At the end of the hall, Caleb slides the key into the suite’s lock and shoulders the door open. The room beyond is warm with lamplight, two sitting areas split by a low table, bedrooms branching off either side. Space enough for all of you, though the air feels tight as everyone files in.

Tara gravitates toward you at once, her red dress brushing your side as she all but collapses onto the couch with you. She tucks close, her arm slipping around your waist, chin trembling against your shoulder. You pull her in without hesitation, cradling her warmth, letting her breathe in sync with you until the shiver in her frame slows.

Across the room, Caleb doesn’t sit. He remains a sentinel near the door, hands loose at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed but every inch of him coiled with readiness. His gaze never leaves the stranger.

The others take seats without a word. Rafayel drops into an armchair like a lounging predator, one ankle hooked over a knee, watching with hooded eyes. Zayne sits forward on the edge of the second couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Xavier chooses the far end of your couch, posture straight, palms resting lightly on his thighs, quiet but attentive. Sylus, unhurried as always, drapes himself into the seat opposite Rafayel, one hand tapping a slow rhythm against the armrest.

The stranger remains standing, planting himself near the wall, arms folded, wary eyes shifting over each of you in turn. He’s chosen his ground: close enough to hear, far enough to defend if needed.

The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. You can feel Tara’s pulse hammering where her wrist brushes yours. She leans forward a little, her fingers knotting tight in the hem of her dress, her voice soft but steady.

“You’re like me,” she says, looking at the man near the wall. “A witch.”

His eyes narrow beneath his curly hair, his jaw setting. 

“That’s not—” he cuts himself off, gaze sliding briefly to the floor before he shakes his head. “That word means nothing. I’m not whatever you’re calling me.”

“It means something to me,” Tara presses. She pulls in a breath, steadies it. “It’s the only word I’ve ever had for it. The only way I knew how to explain what I can do.” She glances toward you briefly, then back to him. “Call it what you want, but I know what I am.”

His arms fold tighter across his chest, suspicion still hard in his grey eyes. “Then how do you think you know what I am? You’ve never seen me before tonight.”

This time, Caleb steps in. Still standing by the door, he doesn’t move closer, but his voice carries like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Because I can smell it on you.”

The man’s head snaps toward him, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his guarded calm. Caleb’s expression doesn’t shift, cool and matter-of-fact.

“Normally, I can’t,” Caleb goes on, tone clipped. “But in that alley? When you used it, I caught the trace. Magic has a scent. Hard to miss once it’s out.”

The stranger’s jaw works, his stance stiffening. He doesn’t deny it outright this time. His silence is its own kind of confirmation.

Tara seizes it, leaning forward, desperate. “You see? I knew I wasn’t imagining it. You are like me.”

He drags a hand down his face, mutters, “You’re wrong,” though there’s no force in it.

Tara’s chin lifts, her trembling steadied by a flash of resolve. She fixes him with a look that refuses to let him retreat back behind denial.

“If you’re not,” she says, voice firm now, “then explain it. How did you save me?”

He stiffens, but she doesn’t let him speak yet. Words pour out, sharp and certain.

“The gun was pressed against my ribs. I felt the cold metal. I heard the trigger pull. He fired. I should be dead.” Her voice catches on that last word, but she pushes through, eyes locked on him. “And I’m not. Because of you.”

His throat works. He doesn’t answer.

She leans forward, searching his face. “So what was it? Coincidence? Luck? Because I don’t believe in that anymore. Not after tonight. Not after you stepped in at the exact moment I needed someone. How did you know to be there?”

The man’s gaze flicks away, to the floor, to the lamplight pooling across the rug, to anything but her. His hand twitches against his arm where it’s folded. He looks like a man cornered, not by force but by truth.

Sylus breaks the silence, voice edged with dry humor. “Not a great night to play modest, friend. You somehow shielded her, dropped the shooter without visibly harming him, and we all saw the aftermath. So either own it or tell us what other trick you’re hiding.”

The man’s jaw clenches, but still he doesn’t answer.

It’s you who feels Tara’s grip tighten against your side, her pulse still rabbit-quick. She whispers, not for him but for you, “He saved me. Whatever he is—he saved me.”

Zayne leans forward where he sits, elbows balanced on his knees, fingers loosely folded. His tone is steady, but not without a thread of gentleness.

“The man with the gun,” he says, hazel eyes cutting briefly to Tara before returning to the stranger, “was likely not acting under his own will. He was manipulated. People don’t say things like he did without being pushed by something bigger than themselves.”

Tara shivers faintly against your side, as though hearing it aloud makes it real all over again.

The stranger shifts where he stands, unfolding his arms, voice rough when it comes. 

“Then how did you know to find her? The timing—” his gaze flicks from Zayne to Caleb, to you—“too precise. You weren’t just wandering by chance.”

A silence falls, thick and expectant. You feel their eyes on you, and for a moment, you want to hold your tongue, keep it tucked close where it’s safe. But then you catch Tara’s trembling hand in yours, and your voice rises, quiet but certain.

“I’ve learned to trust my instincts,” you say simply. “They’ve never steered me wrong.”

The stranger stills. His eyes lock on yours, something raw flickering there—recognition, maybe even relief. For a long heartbeat he says nothing, then exhales, shoulders loosening by a fraction.

“That’s how I knew, too,” he admits at last. “Something felt wrong. Off. I don’t know how else to explain it. It pulled me to the bar. Drew me to him.” He jerks his chin toward the window, indicating the direction of the club. “So when they walked out together, I followed.”

Sylus leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. His eyes, however, are sharp and unblinking as they fix on the stranger.

“What exactly did you feel?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a knife, cool and precise. “Instincts aren’t vague. Not the kind that drive you straight into a bar at the exact moment someone’s life hangs on a trigger pull. So tell me—was it fear? Hunger? Heat? A pull behind your ribs?”

The man stiffens under the scrutiny, his hand twitching once against the wall at his back. “I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Try,” Sylus presses, the drumming of his fingers stopping. “Because we’ve all felt it too. Different flavors, same weight.”

The stranger exhales, dragging a hand down his jaw. 

“It was like…” He falters, brow furrowing. “Like being watched. Like the air shifted, the sound dulled, and something pointed at me that no one else could see. And when I turned, he was the center of it. That man. He carried it with him like a shadow. I knew if I let him leave with her, it wouldn’t end well.”

No one speaks at first. The description cuts close to home—too close to ignore.

The man’s gaze drops, voice lowering. “Why her, though? Why did he try to kill her?”

Tara stiffens beside you, her nails biting lightly into your wrist. All eyes turn to you, but it’s Xavier who leans forward this time, his silver hair catching lamplight. His tone is calm, careful, as though each word must be chosen with intent.

“She’s the only one who can open the seams.”

The man blinks, confusion knitting his features. “The seams?”

Xavier doesn’t falter under the stranger’s gaze. He sits forward, forearms resting on his thighs, voice even.

“The seams are places where the world frays. Doorways, if you will—into lives already lived. They pull us in, force us to walk through the fragments of the past.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Past lives.”

You pick up where Xavier leaves off, the words spilling from you with a conviction born of having no choice but to believe them. “Yes. Every seam holds pieces of what came before. We step through, we live them again, and we see exactly how Astra twisted them.”

At the name, his brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You lean into Tara’s side, anchoring her trembling. “Tara’s the only one who can open them. That’s why he targeted her.”

The man’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening as the pieces begin to slot together. His voice is low when he speaks again. “And who is this… Astra?”

Sylus is the one who speaks up. “Astra is a primordial god. The one who made the Wanderers in the first place.”

The man’s head jerks slightly, as if the word god lands heavier than he expected. 

“A god.” His voice is flat, almost disbelieving, though not dismissive.

You draw in a breath and add softly, “Every life we’ve relived inside those seams was shaped by him. We have to find a relic inside them and destroy it in order to weaken him.”

That silences him completely. He stands very still, eyes shadowed, as though he’s holding your words up against the instinct that dragged him into the alley tonight, weighing the shape of them against his own truths.

Finally, his gaze flicks to you again. “And why are you trying to weaken him?”

It isn’t accusation—more a quiet demand.

Xavier answers with the same calm he’s held all evening, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “Because someone has to. And because we can.”

You feel the moment teeter there—an offering but not yet full trust. So you finish it, your words careful. 

“That’s all we can say for now. You’ve seen enough tonight to know the danger is real. But trust has to be earned. We’re not ready to lay every card on the table until we know where you stand.”

The stranger’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue. The silence that follows feels less sharp now—strained, but not hostile.

And then, at last, he exhales, eyes dropping. “Atlas.”

Tara blinks. “What?”

“My name,” he clarifies, lifting his gaze to meet hers, then yours. “Atlas.”

It’s Zayne who inclines his head first, the simplest of gestures, before introducing himself in turn. One by one, the others follow—Rafayel with a lopsided smirk, Sylus with a clipped “Sylus”, Caleb with his curt precision, Xavier with a quiet grace.

And then you last, your voice soft but firm.

Atlas nods once, his shoulders finally loosening just a fraction. A foundation—not trust yet, but something close—laid between all of you.

Tara is the first to break the hush that follows the round of introductions. She squeezes your hand once, then leans forward, eyes fixed on the stranger with a tentative smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Atlas,” she says softly, his name rolling out for the first time with warmth instead of suspicion.

He flinches—not visibly to most, but you catch the subtle twitch at his jaw, the way his shoulders draw tighter before he schools them back down. Then his gaze restlessly flicks between you all. 

“I don’t know what to believe yet. Not about seams. Not about gods.” He hesitates, then looks at Caleb with narrowed eyes. “And definitely not about you claiming you can smell magic.”

Caleb’s face doesn’t change, cool and composed as ever, but you feel the pulse of iron certainty radiating off him.

“You don’t have to believe it,” he replies simply, voice even. Then he shrugs, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I can prove it.”

Atlas arches a brow, skepticism sharp. “And how do you propose to do that?”

You’re the one who cuts in before the tension can edge sharper. “Pretty easily.”

All eyes turn to you. You lift your chin toward Caleb, then to Atlas. “We cover Caleb’s eyes, turn him away so he can’t see you. Then you do something—use whatever it is you’ve been hiding. If he can tell the moment it happens, without seeing, then that’s proof enough.”

For a moment, Atlas studies you, unreadable. Then his gaze slides to Caleb. Finally, he gives a small, tight nod. “Fine.”

Caleb doesn’t argue. He simply grabs the hem of his shirt, strips it off in one smooth motion, and folds it once before tying it snug over his own eyes. Bare skin gleams in the lamplight as he tugs the knot firm, then turns deliberately to face the far wall, his posture easy, almost careless—but you can feel the razor readiness beneath it.

Atlas lingers where he stands, looking at each of you now that Caleb’s blindfolded. His gaze pauses on Rafayel and Sylus in particular—two predators watching him with matching intensity, one amused, one cold. It’s clear he registers the weight of their attention, though he gives nothing away.

Then, finally, his hand rises to the pendant at his throat. A slow breath escapes him, more like surrender than effort. When he exhales, he starts changing.

The grey in his eyes dissolves, bleeding into vivid heterochromia: one iris a deep, storm-tossed blue, the other a sharp green that catches the lamplight like cut glass. Freckles bloom faintly across his cheekbones, scattered like constellations—markings hidden until now, and startling in their sudden presence. His light brown curly hair stays as it was, but the small, human imperfection of him has shifted into something both sharper and more real.

“Now,” Caleb’s voice cuts through, firm and certain, even blindfolded and facing the other way. 

Atlas freezes, chest rising and falling just once before his gaze snaps to Caleb’s back. The certainty in his tone leaves no room for doubt. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

Caleb just gives a slight shrug, arms loose at his sides, as if he hadn’t just proven something monumental. “Told you I could smell it.”

Atlas doesn’t dismiss it. Whatever glamour he shed, whatever mask he carried—it stays gone. He stands there bare in the truth of himself, shoulders taut but unbowed, mismatched eyes catching the lamplight, freckles dusted like starlight over his skin.

Tara is the first to find her voice. She blinks, lips parting, and then a breath slips free. “...Beautiful.”

The word hangs in the air, fragile and utterly sincere—and then the color rises hot in her cheeks, blooming fast as realization strikes her. She clamps her mouth shut, eyes darting down at once, mortified.

Beside her, you nearly choke on your laugh. The sight of Tara—the bold, teasing Tara—actually blushing sends a rush of amusement curling in your chest. You bite your lip to contain it, but the sparkle in your eyes betrays you.

Atlas notices, of course. His gaze cuts to you, then back to Tara, his expression unreadable but tinged with the faintest flicker of confusion—as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment, or the way it slipped so freely from her.

Tara buries her face in your shoulder, groaning under her breath. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

You can’t resist. You grin, tilting your head down to murmur against Tara’s hair, “Oh, I’m saying plenty. Consider it payback for every time you’ve teased me into oblivion.”

She groans louder, swatting weakly at your knee without lifting her face, her blush only deepening. The sound of your laugh, the easy give-and-take, softens the weight in the room. Even Atlas seems to notice—his posture easing just slightly, the hard edge of his wariness dulling as he watches the two of you. For the first time since you met him, he looks less like a blade waiting to strike and more like a man simply standing in a room.

The reprieve doesn’t last long. Zayne clears his throat softly, leaning forward once more, his calm hazel eyes finding Atlas. His voice is gentle and pragmatic, as though he’s guiding a patient through a difficult truth.

“You’ve seen what Tara can do. You’ve heard what we’ve told you. You’ve felt it yourself tonight.” He pauses, folding his hands. “Is it enough to prove to you there’s more to this than what you’ve seen?”

The silence stretches taut, Atlas’s mismatched eyes shadowed with thought. His hands flex at his sides in hesitation—clearly intrigued, yet not ready to let himself believe.

Sylus is the one who finally breaks it, his voice smooth but edged with practical steel. “Then don’t take our word for it. Pack a weeks worth of clothes and meet us in the lobby tomorrow at ten.”

Atlas looks up, wary.

Sylus goes on, unhurried. “We’re heading out to the next seam. Tidewatch, three to four hours’ hike from there. I assume you know it.”

Atlas’s jaw tightens, just enough to be confirmation.

“Good.” Sylus leans forward slightly, his crimson gaze fixed. “Come with us. When you see the portal open, you’ll know we speak true. If you don’t…” He lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. “What’s the harm in spending a Sunday traveling in good company? And if you do see it—and still don’t believe us—you can turn right back around and forget you ever met us.”

Atlas doesn’t answer. He studies Sylus, then each of the others in turn—Rafayel’s sharp smirk, Zayne’s calm, Xavier’s steady watchfulness, Caleb’s alert readiness. Finally, his gaze lingers on Tara.

She shifts slightly in your arms, caught in his stare, her blush still faint on her cheeks. He holds it for a moment longer, unreadable, and then turns toward the door.

The door shuts with a soft click, and for a moment, the suite is filled only with the faint hush of the sea through the window.

Rafayel exhales a long breath, breaking the quiet first. 

“Well. That was… something.” He leans back in his chair, arms folding loosely, expression wry. “But I wouldn’t put coin on him showing up tomorrow.”

Caleb grunts his agreement, eyes sharp on the place Atlas had just been. “Too cagey. Men like that don’t tie themselves to strangers after one night.”

Zayne tilts his head, fingers steepled under his chin again. “Cagey, yes. But careful doesn’t mean unwilling. He didn’t slam the door, either. He’s calculating.”

Sylus smirks faintly, red eyes glinting in the lamplight. “He’ll come. Curiosity’s already sunk its teeth in. Men like him don’t ignore instincts that loud.”

Across from him, Xavier inclines his head. “I agree. He looked as if he wanted a reason to believe. Tomorrow gives him that.”

Rafayel arches a brow, amused. “So we’ve got wagers now? Two for yes, two for no.”

Zayne’s mouth quirks faintly. “And me in the middle, apparently.”

You glance at Tara still pressed against your side, her silence more telling than any bet. She hasn’t let go of your hand.

She straightens suddenly, tugging at the hem of her dress as though remembering herself. 

“We should… y’know, wash this off before it smears all over the pillows.” She nods toward the bathroom, her voice a touch too bright, too quick. “Come with me?”

You catch the flicker in her eyes—this isn’t just about makeup. Not really.

Pushing a smile, you glance at the men. “Why don’t you guys get the air mattress set up while we de-glam? We’ll be out soon.”

Rafayel raises a brow, but only smirks. “Bossing us around now, cutie?”

You roll your eyes at him, standing with Tara’s hand still tangled in yours. “Someone has to.”

Sylus flicks his fingers in a mock salute from where he’s sprawled, already fishing the pump from a pack. Zayne and Xavier exchange a small look, then move to help without protest.

Tara doesn’t wait for the chorus of reactions. She pulls you toward the bathroom with a quiet urgency, shutting the door behind you both.

The room muffles instantly—lamplight warm against tile, the faint drip of a faucet the only sound. Tara leans against the counter, finally letting her shoulders sag, her reflection in the mirror raw and tired. The silence stretches, thick with everything she’s holding back.

Then, finally, she lifts her gaze to the mirror, eyes finding yours in the reflection. Her voice is quiet, almost fragile in a way you rarely hear from her.

“I don’t… I don’t want to get my hopes up. About him.”

Her fingers curl against the counter. “But, gods, babe… I’d given up hope that there was anyone else who can do what I can. And now—him. Atlas. It feels like…” She shakes her head, breath catching. “Like maybe I’m not alone anymore.”

She presses her lips together, blinking hard. “And I want that to be true so badly, it scares me.”

You step closer, sliding an arm around her shoulders and tugging her in until her temple rests against yours. Her trembling eases just slightly at the contact, her breath fogging a faint patch on the mirror.

“I don’t know if he’ll show tomorrow,” you admit softly. “Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.” You squeeze her, gentle but firm. “But if he doesn’t… once all of this is over, I’ll help you find him again. We’ll track him down, wherever he is. And then maybe you’ll get the chance to figure something out with him, to learn more about what you are.”

Tara swallows hard, a quiet sound breaking in her throat before she nods, pressing in closer to you. “You mean that?”

You tip your head, lips brushing her hair. “Of course I do. You’ve never let me feel alone. I won’t let you feel that way either.”

Tara’s voice is small when it comes, muffled against your shoulder. “I love you. You know that, right?”

You smile, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I know. I love you too, T.”

The heaviness lingers for a moment longer before you decide to nudge it lighter, tilting your head to glance at her reflection in the mirror. “And speaking of love… you realize you called him beautiful out loud, right?”

Her head snaps up, her blush returning in full force. “Oh my gods, don’t—”

You laugh, warm and unrepentant. “No, really, it was adorable. I’ve never seen you trip over your own tongue like that.”

Tara covers her face with her hands, groaning. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud!” She peeks at you through her fingers, cheeks still blazing. “But… gods, I wasn’t lying either. He’s… stunning.”

You wiggle your brows at her reflection, unable to resist. “Mhm. That curly hair and those freckles really spell out cute with a capital C.”

She shoves your shoulder with a muffled laugh, her embarrassment finally breaking into something easier. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” you tease back, squeezing her once more before letting the moment dissolve into laughter instead of weight.

The two of you fall into a familiar rhythm, the intimacy of friendship smoothing away the last raw edges of the night. You dampen cotton pads, swipe off mascara and liner while Tara leans close to steady your hand, then trade places so you can gently wipe away the smoky red that clings to her lashes. Brushes drag through damp hair, tugging out tangles, the sound of bristles and soft laughter filling the warm, steamy quiet.

When the dresses finally come off, you both slip into towels, fabric cinched snug around ribs and thighs. You’re just reaching to fold your dress neatly over the counter when Tara’s gaze snags downward. Her expression shifts, eyes narrowing slightly in a way you know too well.

She’s noticed. The faint, unmistakable dried stain marking your panties.

Her lips part, realization flashing bright and fast across her face. Her head snaps up to you, eyes incredulous. 

“You—” she hisses under her breath, voice pitched low even though the door is shut. “In the club?”

Heat flares instantly in your cheeks, though you know denying it is pointless.

You exhale, pressing a hand over your face, because there’s no dodging Tara when she’s got that look in her eyes. “Alright. Fine. Yes.”

Her mouth drops open, and you hurry on before she explodes.

“There was this creep—wouldn’t take no for an answer. Caleb stepped in, shut him down so fast the guy nearly pissed himself. But he was… different afterward. Possessive. Like caveman mine energy. He hauled me into this alcove, pinned me to the wall, and—” You trail off, your cheeks burning hotter at the memory. “Let’s just say he made sure I remembered exactly who I belonged to.”

Tara stares at you, towel slipping slightly as she grips it tighter around herself. Then she half-whispers, half-hisses, “You fucked in the club?” Her voice pitches up, scandal and awe tangled together. “Oh my gods, babe—Caleb did that? Mister Colonel Ice-Block?”

You can’t help it—you laugh, face still in your hands. “Yeah. Rough, fast, caveman style. And Xavier showed up halfway through, just to make it worse.”

Tara squeaks, actually squeaks, clapping her hands over her mouth. Her eyes are huge, equal parts horrified and gleeful. “You’re unreal. I can’t take you anywhere.”

Her grin melts from wide to softer, almost proud—like you’ve graduated into some elite club she’s always suspected existed. She bumps her hip against yours with exaggerated approval. “Look at you, babe. Who knew? I always said you were dangerous.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up easy and bright. 

“Dangerous and dramatic,” you say, shaking your head. Then you drop your voice, playful and wicked. “If you only knew half the things they can do to me with their abilities…”

Tara’s eyes go wide in delicious speculation, and she leans in, conspiratorial. “Ohhh. Do I want to know?”

You tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear, grin curling. “Probably not. Some things are best kept as mysteries—temptation works better that way.”

She pouts mockingly, then sobers, squeezing your hand. “Still—proud of you. For owning it. For letting them love you like that.”

You roll your eyes, warm and touched. “Shut up. I’m the one who gets to brag.”

She snorts, then wiggles her fingers at the towel knot. “Come on. We should actually sleep before the others wake us with bets.”

You shove the towel at her with a grin. “Fine—sleep. But tomorrow? If he shows up, I’m making you help me stalk him.”

Tara whoops. “Deal. And if he ghosts, we’ll hunt him down like bloodhounds.”

Laughing, you finish drying off, fold the towels, and toss them on the counter, then knot the inn’s soft robes around your waists, hair brushed smooth, faces bare, and step back into the suite.

The sound of the pump has gone silent—replaced now by the low hum of quiet voices. The men have already inflated the mattress, layered it thick with blankets and pillows until it’s the familiar sprawl of a nest. The lamplight softens their sharp edges, turning them into something warm and waiting.

Tara pauses by your side, drawing in a breath. She lifts her chin, voice lighter than it had been in the bathroom, though you can still feel the tremor beneath it. “Goodnight.”

They all return it, each in their own way—Rafayel with an easy “Sleep well, T,” Caleb with a curt but steady “Rest,” Xavier with his gentle warmth, Zayne with his quiet sincerity, Sylus with a faint, almost teasing hum of “Try not to dream too hard.”

Tara vanishes into one of the adjoining rooms, shutting the door softly behind her.

You cross to the edge of the nest, fingers tugging loose the tie at your waist. The robe slips off your shoulders and puddles at your feet. Before you can even straighten fully, hands catch your wrists, your waist, your thighs—steadying, welcoming, claiming.

And then they pull.

The mattress dips under your weight as you tumble into the nest, laughter bubbling out of you before it’s swallowed by the warmth of bodies pressing in from every side. Arms wrap around you, legs tangle, breath stirs your hair. It’s not rough, not desperate—just that fierce, quiet need to have you close. To remind you that you are theirs, and they are yours.

You melt into it, into them, into the comfort of being held from every angle until the night’s edges blur.