The Hightower district gleamed like a polished jewel against Veylora's dusk skyline, its glass towers catching the last rays of sunlight. Cassian Drayce leaned against the railing of his family's penthouse balcony, the city sprawling below him Lowtide's ramshackle rooftops a distant smudge on the horizon. The motorcycle's engine still hummed in his memory, its roar mingling with the echo of Elara Voon's sharp wit. He shouldn't be thinking about her. Not her grease-streaked overalls, not her quick smile, not the way she'd made a forty-year-old bike sing. But he was, and that was dangerous. "Cassian!" His father's voice cut through the evening air, sharp as a blade. Lord Alton Drayce stood in the doorway, his silver hair immaculate, his suit tailored to intimidate. "You've been dodging me all day. Where were you?" Cassian turned, slipping on the easy grin he'd perfected over years of dodging his father's scrutiny. "Out. Had some business to handle."
"Business?" Alton's eyes narrowed, his gaze dissecting Cassian like he was a ledger with a missing entry. "You disappear for hours, come back smelling like engine oil, and call it business? We have a deal to close, son. The Voons are sniffing around our port contracts again. I need you focused."
Cassian's stomach tightened at the mention of the Voons. Elara's family. He'd known they were a thorn in his father's side Alton never shut up about "those Lowtide leeches" but meeting Elara had shifted something in him. She wasn't a leech. She was… real. More real than the polished drones in Hightower's boardrooms. He shrugged, keeping his tone light. "I'm focused, Father. Just needed some air." Alton stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "You're the heir to Drayce Shipping, Cassian. Air is for dreamers. We deal in power. The Voons are planning to bid on the east dock lease—our dock. I want you to handle it. Lean on their suppliers, spread some rumors. Make sure they can't afford to compete."
Cassian's jaw clenched. He'd heard his father's tactics before. bribes, blackmail, "accidents" at rival warehouses but this felt different. Personal. He thought of Elara's garage, the pride in her eyes when she'd shown him the motorcycle. "Isn't that a bit… heavy-handed? They're small-time. Hardly a threat." Alton's laugh was cold, humorless. "Small-time? That's what your grandfather thought before they nearly bankrupted us fifty years ago. The Voons are scavengers, Cassian. They'll bleed us dry if we let them. You'll handle it, or I'll find someone who will."
Cassian nodded, his throat tight. He knew better than to argue when Alton was in this mood. "I'll take care of it," he said, the lie tasting bitter. As his father retreated into the penthouse, Cassian's gaze drifted back to Lowtide. He needed to see her again. Not to spy or sabotage, but to understand why she'd gotten under his skin.
The Lowtide district at night was a different beast. Neon signs flickered over dive bars, and the air carried the salt of the harbor mixed with the tang of fried fish from street vendors. Cassian pulled his cap low, his jacket swapped for a worn hoodie to blend in. He'd left the motorcycle at home too conspicuous and walked the narrow streets, his pulse quickening as he neared Voon's Garage.
The shutter was half-down, but light spilled from the gap, along with the faint clink of tools. Elara was still there. Cassian hesitated, his father's words echoing in his head. The Voons are scavengers. He shook it off and ducked under the shutter, the bell above the door jingling softly. Elara was bent over a workbench, her back to him, welding sparks flying like tiny stars. She wore safety goggles, her movements precise as she fused a metal frame. The sight of her, so focused, so unapologetically herself, made something in Cassian's chest ache. He cleared his throat. "Late night?"
Elara spun around, welding torch still in hand, goggles snapping up to reveal her startled hazel eyes. "Cass? What the hell are you doing here?" She lowered the torch, her expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. "You Hightower types don't just wander into Lowtide after dark."
He grinned, leaning against a toolbox. "Maybe I'm not your typical Hightower type. Thought I'd check on my bike. Or… maybe I just wanted to see you."
Elara's cheeks flushed, but she covered it with a scoff. "Smooth talker. Bike's fine, by the way. You didn't need to trek down here to check." She set the torch down, wiping her hands on a rag. "So, what's the real reason? You lost or something?"
Cassian hesitated. He couldn't tell her about his father's orders, not yet. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice softening. "You said something yesterday. About being wasted in this garage. I keep thinking about that. Why do you stay? You could be building racers for some fancy team, not fixing junkers for Lowtide." Elara's eyes flickered with something pride, maybe, or defiance. "This garage is my family's. My grandfather built it, my mom kept it alive, and now it's on me and Torin to keep it going. It's not just a job. It's… us." She paused, studying him. "What about you? Why's a guy like you slumming it down here? Don't you have a penthouse to get back to?" He laughed, but it was hollow. "Penthouse life's not all it's cracked up to be. Too many rules, too many expectations. Down here, it feels like I can breathe."
She tilted her head, her gaze piercing. "You're running from something, aren't you?"
He didn't answer, but the silence said enough. For a moment, they just stood there, the hum of Lowtide outside filling the space between them. Then Elara grabbed a wrench and tossed it to him. "If you're gonna hang around, make yourself useful. That engine block needs dismantling."
Cassian caught the wrench, surprised. "You're putting me to work?"
"You want to breathe in Lowtide, you earn it," she said, a playful challenge in her voice. "Besides, I want to see if you're all talk."
He rolled up his sleeves, grinning. "Challenge accepted."
For the next hour, they worked side by side, dismantling the engine with a rhythm that felt almost natural. Elara explained the parts with a passion that made Cassian forget the weight of his father's orders. He told her about his childhood tinkering with model ships, a hobby his father had called "a waste of time." She laughed, teasing him about his "fancy toys," but her eyes softened when he admitted he'd always wanted to build something real, something that mattered.
As the night deepened, a loud bang echoed from the street a truck backfiring, maybe, but it snapped them out of their bubble. Elara glanced at the shutter, her expression tightening. "You should go. Torin's out there somewhere, and he's not your biggest fan."
Cassian nodded, reluctant. "I'll be back, Elara. You can't get rid of me that easy."
She smirked, but there was warmth in it. "We'll see, Hightower. Don't get caught."
As he slipped back into the night, the weight of his father's expectations settled back onto his shoulders. But for the first time in years, Cassian felt something stronger a pull toward Lowtide, toward Elara, toward a life that felt like his own. He didn't know how to reconcile that with the Drayce legacy, but he knew he'd risk it all to find out.