The first thing that hit me was the wind — sharp and fast, dragging with it the coppery tang of wild, untamed magic, the smoke of roasted meats, and a hundred other scents I didn't care to name. I inhaled instinctively, the breath catching on my tongue just as sunlight slammed into my vision like a slap. The door creaked shut behind me, an unbothered whine of old hinges and floorboards, but I barely registered it. People moved around us in waves — laughing, shouting, trading, and living. But underneath it all, thick and pungent, was the rot. The reek of lowlifes who haunted the cracks of this city. It wasn't just a scent; it was a sound, a rhythm only I seemed cursed to hear, echoing inside my skull like a second heartbeat.
Krevyr stood beside me, calm as always, ruffling his hair — a lazy gesture I'd learned meant he was settling in, like a lion stretching before the hunt.
"So, are we going? Or are you still soaking in the scenery?" he asked, already halfway down the steps, his tone laced with that usual bored drawl like none of this mattered.
I scoffed, throwing him a half-glance before stepping down after him. The sunlight grazed my cheek like an unwanted touch, too warm, too open. I trailed Krevyr closely, letting his pace guide mine. He walked with both hands buried in his pockets, like he owned the street — and maybe, in some twisted way, he did.
The market sprawled before us, chaotic and alive. Vendors shouted over each other, flashing wares like weapons; smells of spice and sweat and steel clashed in the air. Children darted between bodies, wild and careless. One bumped into me and kept running, not even glancing back. Their joy, their normalcy — it scratched at my nerves. All of them, wrapped up in their little daily dramas, completely blind to the decay right under their feet.
They didn't see it. Couldn't smell the rot. Couldn't feel the pull of the things that slithered through alleyways after dusk. They only cared about their perfect little lives.
I clenched my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking under the strain. My jaw locked tight. I was still burning from what Victor had said — the sheer nerve of him — and it fed that ugly heat in my chest. I hated this place. Hated them for being so unbothered. And maybe I hated myself more, because deep down I knew — none of it was their fault. They weren't the ones who dragged me into this. They didn't belong in the hellfire I walked with.
But damn it, that didn't make it easier to forgive.
We kept walking. The crowd thinned as the alleys narrowed. Sunlight broke less often between the roofs. The air cooled. Krevyr took a turn without warning, slipping into a long corridor of shadows that looked like it had swallowed better people than us.
"I do recommend you hold your tongue," he said, ruffling his hair again. "They don't like disrespect."
"They?" I echoed, but the word barely escaped before it hit me.
That cold.
It slipped through my clothes like ghost fingers, numbing my skin in seconds. My knees almost gave out as my lungs seized. I caught myself against the stone wall, its surface freezing and slick. I tried to breathe, but each inhale scraped like ice down my throat. It was familiar. Horribly so.
That night—
No. I shut my eyes tight, clamping down on the memory before it could spiral. Not here. Not now.
But the cold crept closer.
"Looks like we've got company," Krevyr muttered.
I followed his gaze. At the far end of the alley, shadows shifted — not just one. Figures. Thick and unmoving.
Krevyr stepped forward, and I moved with him, close. Too close. My pride hated it, but my survival screamed louder. His presence grounded me. The scent of him was strange — like steel and ash, something cold and ancient, but familiar enough to cling to. He didn't radiate warmth, but he was solid, real. A tether in the storm.
Then came the voice.
"Well, well, well. Look who's here."
It boomed like a war drum in my ears. A figure stepped from the dark — massive, towering. To say he was huge was to insult him. His presence filled the alley, suffocating.
"It's been a while, Krev," the man rumbled, smile wide and nauseating. He extended a hand, meaty and scarred.
Krevyr didn't even flinch. Didn't pull his hands from his pockets. Just walked right past him like the man was fog.
I followed suit, practically glued to his back, grinding my teeth the whole way. The man turned his head just slightly, watching us, but didn't move.
As more figures emerged — armed, sharp-eyed, and clearly used to blood — Krevyr finally spoke.
"Krevyr," he said. Cold. Clear.
Like a name was the entire introduction these people needed.
The man smiled — wide, innocent, infuriating. "Come again?" His voice was too candid, like he didn't just butcher a name like it was a joke.
Krevyr didn't even blink. He turned just slightly, giving a side glance so cold I felt it ripple through the air. "Krevyr. Not Krev. Not Krevy. And especially not K."
That voice. Ice sculpted into syllables. He was annoyed — more than I'd ever seen him.
The man chuckled, rough like sandpaper soaked in ale. "I see you haven't changed since our last meet."
He paused as I shifted to the side to give him room, but Krevyr held still, unflinching. "Same can be said for you," he replied. "And that was seven months ago."
"I know, right?" the man boomed, stepping closer.
And gods, he was even bigger up close — not just tall, but massive, carved from brute strength and unwashed arrogance. Scars danced across his face like trophies, layered thick over his brow and cheekbone, one even slicing through his lip in a crooked grin that never left. His coat strained against his arms, patched in places and soaked in others — blood? Oil? I didn't want to know.
Krevyr finally turned toward the men behind us — they weren't close, but the scent hit like a slap. Stale liquor. Sour rum. Metal. Blood. The kind that stuck to your tongue long after the fight ended.
"Did you get the goods?" Krevyr asked, finally pulling his hands from his pockets only to rake them back into his hair like the motion alone might keep him awake.
"Straight to business," the man muttered with a grin, stepping in again. I instinctively backed up, closing the gap between me and Krevyr.
My stubbornness screamed at me to stand tall, but one wrong move here — one misstep — and I'd be another body bleeding into the stone.
Would that really be so bad? Maybe it's better than this hell — better than watching everything rot.
No. Not yet.
I clenched my jaw tight. I had to stay alive. For her. My sister — she was still out there. Maybe suffering. Maybe waiting. And I wouldn't find her dead.
The man brushed past us and gave a lazy gesture to the others cloaked in shadow. They dissolved into the darkness like ghosts trained to obey. I couldn't even hear them leave.
How the hell did a man that loud manage people that silent?
Then — boom. A whirlwind of color, sound, and perfume slapped the air behind me.
"Oh, my STARS!" a voice sang, bright and too cheery for the stench of this alley. A blur of motion zipped past, slamming full-force into Krevyr.
He actually stumbled. Stumbled.
The figure wrapped around him like ivy, clutching one of his arms and practically vibrating. "If it isn't my DEAREST nephew!"
Krevyr went from surprised to expressionless in half a breath. He turned to marble. "Aunt Rue."
She hummed like she didn't hear the venom in his voice. "Hmm? Something the matter, my child?"
"Unhug me." Cold. Flat. Lethal.
She laughed like a bell struck by thunder and jumped back in a single, graceful motion, pirouetting into the shadows again. Her hand covered her mouth in mock-shock — like some noblewoman playing theater.
"You've grown up so much!" she beamed.
She looked... no older than Krevyr. Late twenties, maybe. Early thirties at best. But there was an ancient mischief behind those gold-flecked eyes. Her dress flared dramatically with every movement, a flurry of red, green, and deep, dazzling blues. Flowery. Elegant. Out-of-place — no — wrong for this alley. She was sunshine stitched into velvet, dancing through a gutter.
Why would a woman like that be related to a lowlife bastard like Krevyr?
"This is Ruetta," he said flatly, finally speaking to me after what felt like hours in this cursed corridor. "My aunt."
He said it like it physically hurt to admit.
Ruetta grinned at me before bowing — mockingly. Her smile too wide. Too polished.
And gods help me, something in me snapped. I wanted to hit her. Hard. And I didn't even know why.
I didn't hate her. I shouldn't. But I did.
Maybe it was her energy. Or her eyes. Or maybe it was the way my cuffs suddenly sizzled — heat sparking across my collarbones as if to remind me: you're not free. Not now. Not ever.
I clenched my fists so hard I felt my nails digging into skin.
Ruetta, still twirling near the shadows, tilted her head toward Krevyr. "So, still working for that Victor boy, hmm?" she teased. "Running errands like a glorified lapdog, are we?"
Krevyr didn't flinch. "Better than wasting magic pretending to be royalty in a sewer."
She gasped dramatically. "I am not pretending. I am royalty. Queen of the Undertrash!" She grinned, twirling again. "But you — oh, my sweet Krevyr — still trailing behind Victor like he's got your spine in his pocket."
He shrugged. "That's rich, coming from someone who hides in a dress three shades too loud to be taken seriously."
Ruetta laughed, even louder. "At least I'm not afraid to look alive."
"You look like a fruit basket."
"And you act like a corpse."
"You raised me."
"I regret it."
They volleyed like this — casually, venomously, without skipping a beat. Krevyr didn't even sound insulted. If anything, he was amused.
Me? I was boiling. Why the hell was he so unbothered?
Just as Ruetta lifted her arm for another taunt, the big man returned
He tossed Krevyr something — a thick sack. It hit his chest with a dull thud, and Krevyr caught it without even looking, like his hands already knew the weight.
He opened it slowly, pulling out what looked like a hunk of metal — no, not metal. Not exactly. It shimmered faintly, resisting the light, almost swallowing it. A strange, stone-like sheen flickered across the surface, like it had its own heartbeat.
He inspected it some more — the object throbbed with a dull light, a faint pulse like a heartbeat long buried. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it upward. It twirled in the air, caught the dim alley light, and landed smooth back into his palm like it had never left.
"The miners hit the mother lode just a few months ago," the big man rumbled, voice thick with pride. Behind him, a few of the others wandered back into the alley. One of them laughed. Another clapped someone's back. Most just exchanged those crooked smirks that spoke of gold and power and things they didn't earn.
"Quality's higher, meaning?" the large man asked, inching closer to Ruetta, who looked like she could barely stay still — practically vibrating in her silks, giddy with expectation.
"Higher the price," Krevyr said lazily, tossing the stone-like shard back into the sack. The clatter of it hitting the others inside echoed sharp in the alley's hush. I edged closer, just as Krevyr ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep yawn, like the whole deal bored him to death.
"Atta boy!" Ruetta squealed, clapping her hands once, her expensive dress flaring with the breeze. The fabric snapped left, then right — petals caught in wind. The sudden chill hit me like a slap. Thick, raw magic bled into the air, a pressure that gripped the alley and made the collar around my neck hum again. It flickered once, twice — then dimmed completely.
Just stopped.
I exhaled. Not relief. No, it was something heavier. Like sandbags tied to my ribs finally slipping off — not freedom, but a pause in the weight. A false breath.
"Ryke will come with the gold," Krevyr said, already turning away. His boots clicked soft against stone as he walked. I trailed him, muscle memory more than thought.
"That bastard's still alive?" Ruetta's voice cut through the air, all mockery and poison. "I thought that huntress bitch sent him to an early grave."
I stopped.
Krevyr slowed too, glancing back over his shoulder, probably at her. Maybe at me.
Call it willpower. Or restraint. Or survival instinct masquerading as discipline. Whatever it was, it locked my limbs in place like stone, just barely holding me down as heat exploded behind my eyes. My vision sharpened and blurred all at once — red on the edges, like flame teasing the frame. My blood surged like a tide ready to crash through bone.
She insulted the Huntress.
My mother.
The woman who gave her life not for glory, not for legacy, but for me. For my little sister. She died protecting what Victor and his ilk spat on without a second thought.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. The cuffs, once dim, began to hiss — the metal branding my wrists with growing fury. I bit the inside of my cheek till the metallic tang of blood washed across my tongue.
"Sadly, he didn't," Krevyr muttered, rubbing his head like the whole conversation was a minor inconvenience. "So there's that."
"And here I thought she'd at least finish something for once," Ruetta sneered, her steps echoing fast behind us. "But nooo, of course not. Stabbed a few dogs and died like the dramatic little hero she wanted to be. Pfft. All that fire, gone in a single breath."
Krevyr didn't respond. He didn't defend. Just kept walking, slow, and steady, like her words were wind. Useless.
"She always thought she was so untouchable," Ruetta kept going, now practically parading her venom. "The noble protector, the big damn martyr. And Ryke? Hah. That arrogant little parasite is no better. Always sulking, always glaring. Like the world owed him something just because his 'precious team' got slaughtered."
Krevyr scoffed. "Ryke's a pain in the ass. Always has been."
"Ugh, tell me about it. He walks around like his piss is liquid gold. I've never met someone so self-righteous and stupid at the same time. Honestly, maybe the Huntress dying was the best thing for both of them. Now Ryke's got an excuse to be even more unbearable."
The cuffs on my wrists flared white-hot, lines of glowing light creeping up my arms like cracks in glass. The pain grounded me — barely. I tucked my hands into the folds of my clothes to hide the shine, to stop the shaking, to stop everything.
She hadn't noticed me. Not really. I was background noise to her — the barely important tag-along, the no-one, the afterthought. So was the large man.
But that attention was shifting now.
The light was drawing eyes.
And if I didn't lock it all down —
if I so much as breathed wrong —