"Set what on fire?"
The words left my mouth before I could swallow them back. Henry's smile lingered, pleasant and almost pitying, the kind a doctor might wear before telling you the illness had spread.
"I'll need you to set a building on fire," he said calmly. "More specifically, someone's house."
My face locked. "What do you mean—someone's house? With them in it?"
He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "Hmm. Not necessarily with them in it. Just… their house."
A long silence followed. The kind that makes the air feel too heavy for breathing. I stared at him, trying to find the humor, the absurdity — anything that would make it a joke. But he looked at me the same way he had when I signed the contract: steady, expectant, already sure of the answer he would get.
"Why?" I asked.
He gave a small laugh, soft but sharp enough to cut through the air. "That's not in the contract."
"You said we're friends," I said, my voice lower now, controlled but trembling at the edge.
"Yeah," he replied lightly. "But you didn't trust me a minute ago, remember?"
"And do you blame me?" I leaned forward, elbows on the table, pulse drumming against my throat.
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the window — the sun glaring over the field outside, the grass too bright, too still. When he finally looked back, his eyes had changed. The warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, older. "Are you going to do it or not, Hugo?"
I swallowed. "This needs some thinking. We just met today, and the first thing you ask of me is to burn someone's home."
"You have twenty-four hours to think it through," he said, rising from his chair, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "Get back to me with an answer."
I pushed myself up, the chair legs scraping against the polished floor. "Where should I contact you?"
Henry reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small card. His hand extended toward me, steady, casual — a gesture that might have seemed harmless in any other world. I took it. The paper was thick, embossed with his name in gold.
He smiled again. "That'll do."
I nodded once and turned toward the door. The floorboards creaked under my shoes as I walked, the sunlight shifting across the walls as if following me. My fingers tightened around the card until the edges bit into my skin.
Outside, the air was hot, the kind that burned without mercy. The sky looked clear —too clear— and for a moment, I thought of what he'd asked. A house. A fire with no root, no smoke, no trace.
Somewhere behind me, through the glass wall, Henry Powell was still standing where I left him. Watching.
By the time I reached the apartment, the air felt like it was trying to melt through skin. The hallway reeked of varnish and trapped sunlight, and the key almost slipped from my fingers as I turned it in the lock.
Inside, the air was still—no fan, no movement, only that oppressive summer warmth that clung to the walls. Corvian sat in the living room, shirtless, sprawled across the couch as if he had been poured there. His hair was tousled, glinting where the light caught it. For a second, I thought he looked almost human—until I remembered he wasn't.
"What's up with that?" I asked, dropping my keys onto the counter.
He didn't look up. "The heat today is unbearable. Not for me, but for this body." His tone was dry, almost bored. "It's useless in the summer, apparently."
I walked past him and tossed the business card from Henry onto the table. It landed face-up, white and gold, gleaming like something holy. "Henry wants me to burn down someone's house," I said. "Said my fire has no trace, no cause, so it's going to be good."
Corvian raised both eyebrows, expression unreadable. "And you agreed?"
"No," I said quickly. "I just signed an NDA." I sat across from him, elbows on my knees. "Do you think I should do it?"
He shrugged, slow and deliberate. "It's up to you."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
He looked at me then, properly. His eyes were steady, cold, too old for the room they were in. "Henry could sell you in a blink of an eye."
I scoffed. "Then it's his word against mine."
"And who will believe you, Hugo?" His voice didn't rise, but it carried weight. "You're nothing but a fool. Your father is in jail, your mother is nowhere to be found, you have no lineage, no protection. You're a name without a shadow."
I met his gaze. "But I will have the money."
"Exactly," he said, sitting forward. "But this money is on a leash, and you don't have the leash."
I let out a humorless laugh. "Are you being virtuous now?"
He scoffed, the sound quiet but sharp. "I'm just thinking out loud. You're tunnel-visioned, focused only on what glitters. Always have been."
"Isn't that the whole cause?" I asked, voice low. "Isn't that what all of this was for?"
Corvian leaned back again, the light stretching across his chest like spilled silk. "Maybe. But the cause was never the same thing as the price."
His words hung there, heavy and unanswerable. The city outside buzzed somewhere far below—cars, voices, the dull heat of summer pressing through the window glass. Inside, it felt like the air had stopped moving entirely.
Henry's card lay between us on the table, catching the light each time one of us breathed.
"Funny," I said after a moment. "You talking about price. You're the one who put a leash on me first."
Corvian's head turned slowly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in amusement. "Did I?"
"You gave me the power. The fire. You said I'd be unstoppable. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
He didn't answer right away. The corners of his mouth curved slightly, though it wasn't a smile. "You asked for it, Hugo. You begged for it."
"Don't twist it," I snapped. "I wanted to make something of myself. You knew that. You used it. And now you sit there like a priest pretending to care about virtue."
He tilted his head. "Virtue isn't what I care about."
"Then what?" I asked. "Why this performance? Why the warnings, the lectures, the riddles about price? You're a devil, aren't you supposed to enjoy watching me fall?"
Corvian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice almost a whisper. "You mistake curiosity for cruelty."
"That's rich," I said, laughing under my breath. "So this—" I gestured between us, at the card, at the heat that lingered in the air. "All of this is just curiosity to you?"
He met my eyes, unblinking. "You think too small, Hugo. You think in bargains and stage tricks. You think sin is about desire and punishment. But what you're doing now—what he's asking of you—that's not sin. That's imitation. It's men pretending to have power they can't contain."
I fell silent. The words landed somewhere deep, somewhere that felt like recognition.
He continued softly. "And when men pretend long enough, something real starts to answer."
For a long time, I didn't speak. The air was too still, the light too bright, and Corvian's gaze too steady. I wanted to say something sharp, something that would pierce that calm detachment he wore like armor—but the words didn't come.
Finally, I muttered, "You think Henry's pretending?"
"No," Corvian said. "I think Henry's found something that stopped pretending first."
The room felt smaller then. I looked back down at the card, its gold edge catching the sunlight, and wondered what kind of man asks another to burn a house and calls it friendship.
Corvian stretched his arm along the back of the couch, voice quieter now, almost kind. "You don't have to prove anything to him. Or to me."
I looked at him, at the curve of his jaw, the way the heat slicked across his skin. He didn't look divine. He looked like a man made of stillness and shadow, someone who could wait forever.
"Then why does it feel like I do?" I asked.
He smiled, and this time it wasn't cruel. "Because you still think fire answers to you."
The room had gone still. Even the air seemed to pause as I reached for it.
My fingers slid over the raised gold letters, tracing Henry Powell like a curse. There was a number beneath, printed in clean serif, no prefix, no extension. Just a line that led somewhere I couldn't see.
I picked up my phone and dialed.
The ring was short, clipped. Then a woman's voice, smooth and brisk, answered: "This is Helena Seign from Powell's office."
I hesitated for half a breath before saying, "Tell Henry I'll do it."
There was a pause on her end, the kind that felt like surprise or disbelief. "Is this Mr. Hollands?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "It's him."
And I hung up.
The sound of the click cut through the room like the closing of a door I'd never open again.
Corvian, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened. For a moment, he just stared— not angry, not horrified, just... unamused. Shock wrapped in exhaustion. "There's no limit to how bad you can get," he said quietly.
"Fuck it," I muttered, setting the phone face down on the table. "I have nothing to lose anyway. Like you said— no lineage, no backbone, nothing."
He studied me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, as if accepting a truth he'd known all along.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. His bare shoulders caught the light as he passed, the skin of his borrowed body gleaming like something alive only by imitation.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a long while, I stayed seated, staring at the reflection of the card in the glass tabletop. The gold lettering looked warped through the light — stretching, burning, reshaping itself until it resembled a sigil more than a name.
The summer heat pressed through the walls, and I could almost smell the fire that hadn't yet begun.
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September 8th, 2025.
Hugo Verran, 25.
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The television bathed the room in a flickering blue, a voice crackling through the static brightness:
"As we're counting down the days to the Fall Ball, we're not only excited about the fashion and the glamour, but because two of the greatest magicians of our time are performing! The rising star, Hugo Verran Hollands, and the magnificent Igor Ivanov will share the stage. We're all wondering—what happens when you mix two of those powerful performers together? Let's review Hugo Verran's latest tricks from his last night's show—"
The voice stopped with a click. Poppy held the remote like a weapon.
"I went over the wardrobe with the stylist," she said briskly, already crossing the room to the table. "The accessories are set. Here are the pictures and the list. Let me know if there's anything else I need to add."
She slid the tablet toward me, her hair pinned up, her movements quick and efficient. She was always like this before a big show—focused, deliberate, keeping everything precise so I could fall apart in peace.
I took the tablet, skimmed through the images—rows of suits, chains, gloves, rings, colors matched to lighting cues. Everything in order, everything perfect. "That's fine," I said. "Proceed."
She nodded. "Got it."
When she left, the silence in the apartment felt almost rehearsed. I stood for a while, staring at the blank screen of the television. My own face had been there seconds ago, replayed and dissected by strangers. They spoke about me like a marvel, but I couldn't shake the thought that all I'd done was learn how to fake wonder convincingly.
I grabbed my jacket and left. I took only the keys and the burner. No wallet, no cards. Cash folded twice in my pocket—untraceable as breath.
Outside, the air was bright and restless. Cars lined the curb, the smell of hot asphalt mingling with exhaust. I raised my hand and a taxi pulled over, its brakes sighing against the pavement.
"Take me to the old Saint Lewis Hospital," I said as I climbed in.
The driver nodded without a word and pulled into traffic.
The city slid past the window in fragments of shadow and light. Streetlamps burned in long rows, their halos blurring through the glass like molten moons. Storefronts slept behind shutters. The sidewalks were empty, save for the rare figure wandering under neon signs that hummed and stuttered above the dark. The rhythm of it all should have been calming, but it wasn't.
Tonight was the night.
They'd given me the location this morning—no address, no coordinates—just a single instruction and a map pinned with a cross. They said the way I got there was up to me.
I watched the skyline retreat behind me, the towers thinning into shapes that looked more like bones than buildings. The air through the window was warm, thick with the smell of asphalt and the memory of day. I could almost feel the pulse of the city fading, replaced by the low, steady quiet that follows when everyone who matters is asleep.
The driver turned onto Saint Lewis Avenue. The world outside began to decay—glass to brick, noise to whisper, light to absence. The trees leaned over the road like listeners, their leaves trembling under the slow current of wind.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I could still hear the echo of the commentator's voice, chirping about glamour and magic, about the spectacle of men who play with fire.
I looked out the window again and wondered what kind of fire waited for me at the end of this drive.
The driver's eyes flicked toward me in the mirror, his voice cutting through the low hum of the engine. "You got someone in Saint Lewis Hospital?"
I hesitated for a moment. "Yeah," I said finally. "A relative. Just checking on him."
He nodded with quiet sympathy. "May he get well soon."
"Thank you."
The rest of the ride slipped into silence. The roads grew emptier the farther we went, the streetlights thinning like teeth knocked out of a jaw. When the taxi finally slowed to a stop, the hospital loomed ahead — a massive carcass of a building, windows black, its sign half-erased by time. The letters that remained spelled ST. LOU… HOSPI…, as if even its name had begun to die.
I paid the driver, stepped out into the heat that still clung to the pavement, and watched the red glow of his taillights vanish around the corner. The air smelled of old stone and wilted grass. The building didn't move, didn't breathe — it just existed, a memory left standing.
But the hospital wasn't my destination.
To its right, tucked behind a line of overgrown hedges, the mouth of the subway waited, hollow and unlit. I descended the stairs quickly, each step echoing against tile slick with humidity. Hood up, head down, I let the station cameras keep the face of a stranger. The burner stayed dark unless I needed it; my real phone slept at home like an alibi.
The air underground was thick and stale, the kind that pressed against your lungs. I boarded the next train without looking at anyone. The few passengers inside were half-asleep, heads leaning against windows, faces washed in the dull yellow of the carriage lights.
When the doors opened at Ebonreach Malcolm Station, I stepped out and began to walk. Before leaving the platform, I pulled a mask over my face — a simple black cloth one — the kind that turned anyone into no one. Then I drew my hood up, shadowing what was left. The city above was quiet, almost reverent, the lamps burning low like watchful eyes as I surfaced and started down the street.
The air outside carried that strange stillness that only exists after midnight — the world holding its breath, streets emptied of consequence. I walked along narrow roads and quiet intersections, past closed shops and houses sealed behind curtains. The city's pulse felt far away now, like I'd slipped into its shadow.
The location they gave me wasn't far, but I chose to walk anyway. It was safer that way. No more cars, no cameras, no witnesses. They'd refused to send a driver, and I couldn't take mine — everything had to be clean, unseen.
By the time I reached the address, sweat clung to the back of my neck and the sky above had dulled into a soft black, the kind that made the stars look drowned.
The house stood alone at the end of a quiet lane. It was larger than I expected — two stories, pale walls, a porch with chipped wood. It looked normal. Too normal. No guards, no gates, no motion lights, nothing but the low whisper of wind brushing through the trees.
I studied it from across the street. The windows were dark, every one of them. No silhouettes, no flicker of television light, no trace of movement. Whoever lived here wasn't home — or they were sleeping deeply enough to miss the trespass.
I checked my watch. 9:57.
Three minutes.
The instructions had been clear — execute at exactly ten o'clock. No deviation. No witnesses.
I crossed the road, my footsteps muffled against the dry earth. Around the back of the house, the grass grew long and uneven, the soil rich with the smell of summer rot. I stopped near a cluster of plants growing wild along the wooden panels.
The air trembled slightly when I clicked my fingers. Light bloomed, small at first — a trembling pulse, a whisper of warmth against my skin — then it spread, catching the edge of the wood. The glow climbed upward in delicate threads, golden and alive, licking the base of the wall before beginning to feed.
I didn't wait to watch it take hold.
I turned, my shadow sliding across the grass as I walked away. Behind me, the fire would grow on its own — it always did. No smoke, no sound, no trace of its birth.
Just a quiet light consuming something that once belonged to someone.
I had already crossed the street when the first light appeared behind me. A soft, almost tender glow spilled across the glass of one of the upper windows. Then another. Then every window of the house burst alive.
I froze.
Shadows began to move inside— slow, human silhouettes shifting behind the curtains. Arms, torsos, the suggestion of voices, though I couldn't hear them. Someone was there. People were inside.
My stomach turned cold. Henry had said ten o'clock. He'd said nothing about anyone being home. The house had looked deserted — quiet, dark, the way it was supposed to be. My hand went numb where the spark had bloomed only minutes before.
For a moment, I thought about going back, about rushing to the door, yelling, doing something. But the thought tangled on itself before it could become action. The fire had already caught. It was small still, feeding on the wooden frame at the back, spreading like breath across kindling. It would take only minutes before the heat reached the walls.
I couldn't take it anymore. I turned away.
I didn't run. Running would have made it real. I just walked, slow, deliberate, as if distance could undo what I'd done.
My heart beat unevenly in my chest. What the fuck did I just do? The words kept circling, sharp and useless. Did I just kill people?
The night air pressed heavy against my face mask. I wanted to rip it off, to breathe properly, but my hands wouldn't move. Every part of me felt borrowed — body, breath, name.
Maybe they'd make it out. Maybe someone would call for help. Maybe the fire would stay small.
The sound of my footsteps filled the street, too loud against the stillness. I took a different route, one that curved away from the subway, deeper into the sleeping parts of the city. I didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to be seen. Each passing block felt longer, the air thicker.
The smell of heat clung to my throat, though I wasn't sure if it was real or imagined. When I reached the main road, I kept walking. The night stretched before me, wide and silent, the lights of Ebonreach glimmering like indifferent stars.
At some point I stopped under a streetlamp and sniffed at my sleeve, then the collar of my jacket. Nothing. No smoke. No powder. No trace of fire.
The flames had burned clean, just as Henry said they would.
I kept walking. The asphalt shimmered under the pale wash of lamps, and behind me, somewhere in the distance, a fire was eating its way through a life I hadn't meant to end.
Two blocks later, I broke the burner in my palm and dropped its pieces into separate bins. Nothing left to ring.
I didn't look back again.