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Minrathous.

Every corner of the city screamed for attention, beckoning like a siren towards each highrise, each advertisement, each shopping center. Even as high above as they were, the call never ceased, the city never slept, even at this hour. Rain pattered down the window, the droplets green and gold and blue, backlit by the lights shining from billboards and neon signs. It was colder now as the season turned, Wintersend getting closer by the day. Soon the rain would turn to snow—or perhaps not, she wondered, as Tevinter tended to be warmer in the winter season.

The clinking of glass distracted her from the window, and she turned to see Dorian had entered the sitting room, wine glasses and a bottle in his hands. He was the picture of elegance, sharply dressed in a tailored suit that whispered of wealth and refinement. His dark hair, peppered with distinguished grey streaks at the temples, was meticulously combed back, and a curled mustache framed his lips with quiet sophistication. His tan skin, sun-kissed yet always immaculate, spoke of a life well-lived, but his eyes betrayed a deeper awareness—he knew the privilege his good looks and fortune afforded him, and would rather flaunt the former than the latter. He gave her a glance that mixed disappointment with amusement, shaking his head and sighing as he approached.

“Professor Ingellvar,” he chastised, eyebrow raised as he placed a glass in her hand. “Whatever are you doing hiding in here?”

Her dark eyebrows shot up in return at his unusually formal greeting. “Well, Magister Pavus,” she began, a small grin forming at the corner of her lips as he poured her some of the wine. “If you must know, I’m just taking a break from the hedonism you call a social gathering,” her grin widened as she brought the glass to her lips and he poured his own, then set the bottle on a small ornate table.

Dorian brought a hand to his chest in a feign of shock. “You wound me, madam,” he replied, but couldn’t keep the chuckle from escaping his voice, and she returned his humor with a smile. Then he dropped his hand as his expression shifted to one of curiosity. “Besides, your daughter seems to be having a marvelous time,” he pointed out.

“I know,” she rolled her eyes and looked back out the window, watching a singular drop of rain roll down the glass until it was blurred out by the lights below. It was her daughter’s party, for her twentieth birthday, held by Dorian at his insistence that she be welcomed into adulthood and society with a bash. She was still unfamiliar with Tevinter customs, but she tried to assimilate as much as she could. It was easier for her daughter, having known nothing of the world outside of Nevarra for most of her life. She was excited and eager to learn and experience, but was still wholly unaware of the dangers. It was a mother’s job to worry. “If I’m honest, my friend, I’m simply feeling my age.”

Dorian moved to stand beside her, staring out to the street below as he replied. “Francesca,” he muttered, gaining her attention back. He gave her an honest expression. “She will be fine. She’s got you, me, and all the Shadow Dragons in Minrathous to look out for her.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ve never been away from her, Dorian,” she explained, opening her eyes to stare at the crimson lipstick stain she left on the edge of the glass as the wine swirled—nearly black in the moonlight. She shook her head. “If it wasn’t for that damned war, we’d still be in the Necropolis. She’d still be training with the Mourn Watch,” she said regretfully. The War of the Banners, undead rising and taking arms against each other as if their ancient animosities still mattered, drove she and her daughter away from their home. Temporarily, it was said, but it had been nearly a year and they still hadn’t received word as to whether the noble families of Nevarra had forgiven, or at least forgotten.

“You did the right thing,” he replied, nodding towards her. “It’s important she sees life outside the Necropolis.

You

did,” he gave her a naughty wag of his eyebrow and she rolled her eyes at him again.

“And look where that’s gotten me,” she grimaced, thinking back to those years, when she was caught in a life she never imagined, bound by someone else's beliefs, and wondered how she had made it out with only her daughter and a sliver of herself left.

“Ah, well,” Dorian huffed, turning to look out the window again. “We’ll steer her away from any magister who thinks too highly of themselves.”

Francesca snorted inelegantly as she gave Dorian an incredulous glare. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your judgement, Magister Pavus, but you were the one that introduced us.”

He put his hands up in mock surrender. “How was I to know he was in a cult?” She couldn't blame him, of course. The Venatori hadn't been as conspicuous in their youth. Over the years, they'd grown bolder, but when she and Dorian traveled, they kept to the shadows, blending in with ordinary people. No one would suspect they were caught in the cult's grip until it was far too late. Or in her case, pregnant.

She raised an eyebrow at him and gave a disapproving look. “I think I’ll trust your husband’s good sense, thank you. How was the South, by the way?” she chuckled, and his displeased grimace was thanks enough for his unpleasant reminder of her ex-husband.

“The South is… quaint,” he grumbled, and she started chuckling at his apparent dislike. He sighed. “I wish he would just agree to stay here. I loathe the South.”

Francesca was chittering with giggles. “Too cold?”

Dorian blew a raspberry, disheveling his perfectly styled mustache. “Too…

not

Minrathous.”

She gave him a pitying look and reached out to pat his arm. “My poor, spoiled little Magister,” she chuckled.

He grumbled. “Alright, enough of this. Will you accompany me back to the hedonistic party which you detest so entirely?” he asked, offering her his arm.

She sighed and looked at her wine glass, then downed the rest of it and set it beside the bottle on the table. “If I must,” she replied as she took his arm and he led her out of the dark sitting room.

She had to blink a few times as they entered the boisterous main hall of Dorian’s lavish penthouse. It was bathed in soft, golden light, the glow of crystal chandeliers casting a warm radiance over the polished marble floors. The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cigars and cocktails. Satin-clad women with perfectly styled hair moved gracefully through the crowd, their laughter soft and echoing, while men in sharp tuxedos and tailored suits exchanged whispers, clinking glasses of champagne. The walls, draped in velvet, were adorned with modern art, and the windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, twinkling beneath the night sky.

A jazz band played live in the corner, the smooth sound of saxophones and pianos filling the room as couples swayed in time to the music. Waiters glided by with silver trays laden with hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, offering delicate finger foods to the elegantly dressed guests. The chatter was a low hum, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of crystal. It was a scene of extravagance, where money, power, and beauty were on full display—everyone mingling, laughing, and living in a world that felt just a touch removed from the ordinary.

“I’m so glad you let me go shopping for you,” Dorian mentioned as they skirted their way around the crowd. “It’s marvelous paired with your grave gold.” She pressed the fabric of the dress between her fingers as they moved around, aware the compliment was meant to distract her. It was far fancier than anything she would have worn in Nevarra, but she had to admit the deep emerald green was a wonderful color with the gold she always wore. It was one of the few things Dorian found for her that she dared to wear. The rest was a bit too… modern.

“Ah, there she is,” she heard Dorian say over the music. Francesca looked up from across the room, her heart swelling with something she couldn't quite name. Her daughter looked like a dream, her dark curly hair framing her face in soft waves, the curls bouncing with every movement. Dorian dressed her in a long, teal dress to go with her own gold embellishments—her pale skin seemed to glow against the vibrant color, its glittering fabric catching the light with every turn she made. She was so much older now, standing tall with a grace that felt like a whisper of who she was becoming—strong, poised, yet somehow still her little girl, lost somewhere between childhood and womanhood. She was speaking animatedly to a tall, blonde woman who appeared thoroughly engaged in the conversation.

“Who is that with her?” Francesca asked as they began their approach.

“Sotera Crataeis,” Dorian muttered close to her ear. “She’s one of us. Lucerni. She’s sort of filling in for Mae while she’s away,” he explained.

Francesca nodded, her gaze shifting to the woman beside her daughter as they drew closer. Sotera turned at their approach, offering a warm smile that was practiced yet disarming, her sharp blue eyes glinting in the light. Everything about her radiated elegance and control, from the soft curls of her blonde hair, perfectly arranged to frame her face, to the deep blue evening gown she wore.

The gown, made of flowing silk, clung to her figure in all the right places, with a sweetheart neckline and capped sleeves that added a touch of timeless sophistication. A delicate brooch in the shape of a starburst sparkled on her shoulder, catching the light as she moved. Her gloved hands—cream-colored and perfectly fitted—completed the ensemble, and the faintest trace of expensive perfume lingered in the air as she stepped forward.

“You must be Professor Ingellvar,” Sotera said, extending a gloved hand, her voice smooth and lightly accented, each syllable carefully measured. “Sotera Crataeis. So lovely to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Francesca replied, shaking her hand. She couldn’t help but note the subtle hints of wealth and power Sotera wore like a second skin. Her high status was undeniable, but there was something more—a quiet authority that spoke of someone used to navigating delicate, high-stakes situations. “Dorian has told me you’re part of the Lucerni,” Francesca added, keeping her tone polite but guarded.

Sotera inclined her head demurely, her smile unwavering. “Oh, yes. But we mustn’t talk politics here,” she said lightly, her tone airy but firm, before turning her attention back to Francesca’s daughter, as if effortlessly redirecting the conversation.

“Mum, you won’t believe it,” her daughter exclaimed, her expression full of excitement. “Sotera just offered to let me use her library for my research. She has hundreds of ancient texts for me to pilfer through.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow as she looked between her daughter and Sotera. “Dione, I’m sure Ms. Crataeis would rather you not

pilfer

her books.”

“Oh, I quite insist on it, actually,” Sotera intervened. “I’ve entirely too many just collecting dust, and quite a few that might help on her subject.”

“I’ve seen her library,” Dorian said from beside her. “It’s impressive.”

“I would love to study there after class,” Dione begged, and suddenly Francesca realized that the decision was being laid at her feet. She knew her daughter, and she knew if she’d say no, that Dione would just find a way to do what she wanted anyway. An unfortunate trait she handed down herself. At least if she agreed, she would know where she would be, and not have to worry about where she might have snuck off to. Her concern was less with her daughter, and more with the woman offering. She didn’t harbor any ill will towards her, just the uncertainty of a stranger offering their space to her daughter.

“The library sounds lovely,” she began, and she could see Dione begin to deflate. “I would like to visit with Dione as well, if you don’t mind. We had a fairly large collection of books in the Necropolis.”

Sotera remained undeterred, her smile unfaltering. “Of course. It’s always nice to have company,” she replied lightly, her tone cheerful but with an air of quiet confidence. She turned her gaze back to Dione, her expression briefly softening. “Happy birthday, my dear. It was a pleasure speaking with you.” Her words were warm, leaving an impression that lingered even after they were spoken.

She nodded gracefully to Francesca and Dorian. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a dance to attend to,” she said, her voice carrying a touch of charm and finality. Without waiting for a reply, she slipped into the crowd, her movements fluid and deliberate, as though she belonged wherever she stepped.

Francesca’s gaze followed her as she approached an intoxicated gentleman. With an effortless grace, Sotera exchanged a few pleasantries before leading him onto the dance floor. Her gown swirled in time with the lively swing of the music, her movements so seamless that they seemed almost choreographed. She seemed polite enough, but Francesca’s protectiveness of Dione knew no bounds.

“

Stop it,

” she heard both Dorian and Dione say from either side of her. She blinked and looked between both of them, then huffed and straightened her dress.

“My goodness. I haven’t done anything,” she replied to them with an indignant eyebrow.

Dorian’s face lifted in amusement as he seemed to watch her. “We’ll turn you into a high society lady yet, what with all that glaring.”

Francesca folded her hands neatly in front of her, turning to her daughter with an air of calm curiosity, effectively dismissing Dorian’s comment. “What were you two discussing?”

Dione met her mother’s gaze, her expression sharp and faintly defensive, a familiar glimmer of defiance flickering in her eyes. “My dissertation, mother. She found the topic intriguing because it’s… not exactly standard.”

Francesca arched an eyebrow, her curiosity sharpening. “Not exactly standard?”

For a moment, Dione hesitated, the faintest crack in her composure. “Unorthodox,” she admitted, her tone firmer now, as though willing the word to deflect further inquiry.

But Francesca had spent a lifetime reading people, especially her daughter. She saw the flicker of something hidden in Dione’s eyes—a secret being carefully guarded, and specifically from her. Her heart tightened as realization began to creep in. Her eyes widened, the calm she had projected breaking into bewilderment. “

Dione

,” she hissed, the word edged with both worry and frustration. Dione shook her head and turned away.

“I’m not starting this conversation,” she stated, taking a champagne flute off a passing tray and removing herself from her mother’s vicinity.

Francesca sighed, though she could feel an uncomfortable tightening in her chest, and throbbing at her temples as blood rushed to her head. She swallowed thickly as her thoughts raced to all sorts of unsavory subjects her daughter might’ve found. Ancient Tevinter texts had all sorts of terrible magic that had either been banned or outlawed over the years. She knew she was spinning herself up, but she couldn’t help but worry if the attraction to dark magic ran in Dione’s veins. She felt Dorian’s hand at her back as she tried to shake off her fear.

“She’s not like him,” Dorian said to her, and she felt a flood of everything she’d been trying to hold back crash through her. All of her fear of Dione turning out to be drawn to the type of magic her father was drawn to, what turned him against them, what he’d try to do to them. Dione was too young to remember, but every moment of their time with him was so clear before her. It settled behind her eyelids at night, and threatened to force its way from her chest in her waking hours. Being in Tevinter had only compounded her anxieties, and now she felt like she was watching her daughter waltz down the same path.

Francesca blinked away her tears. “Just tell me it doesn’t run in her blood, Dorian,” she muttered back, looking up to her friend pathetically. His expression was stoic, but she knew him well enough to see right through it.

Magisters and their damned bloodlines

, she thought angrily.

“We’ll make sure she won’t be led astray,” he assured her, then reached for two champagne flutes. “Besides, you may not know Sotera, but I do,” he said as she took the flute from his hand. “She’s knowledgeable on old practices enough to know where to stop Dione, and we will also be there to prevent her from getting too close.”

She took a deep breath and toasted Dorian before downing the glass of champagne. He shook his head at her. “Your etiquette just goes out the window when you’re stressed, doesn’t it,” he muttered, receiving a pointed glare in return. “Oh, my apologies, my lady.”

She grinned at that, remembering his earlier comment. “You can take the lady out of Nevarra...”

“Yes, but I thought Nevarra had etiquettes, no?” he retorted smugly.

She sighed. “I need to find Dione and apologize. It’s her birthday, Dorian. I’m horrible,” she grumbled as she craned her neck to look in the direction her daughter walked in.

“Don’t fret. Just give her time. She’ll come back around,” Dorian told her, then took a sip of his glass. As Francesca continued to search the party for her daughter, an attendant approached Dorian to whisper something in his ear. His eyes widened and Francesca vaguely heard him swear in tevene before he turned to give his flute to the man and take her by the shoulder. “Neve called,” he told her, and she immediately halted her search to widen her eyes at him. “There’s another one.”

“Right now?” she hissed back, looking around the party again quickly. She finally spotted a wisp of teal floating towards the center of the floor, swinging with the rest of the party goers.

“I know,” he grimaced, following her gaze. He sighed. “I’ll talk to Sotera, tell her to keep Dione happy and distracted, and we’ll head to Docktown.”

Francesca nodded in resignation and turned to find her way to the sitting room again to get her coat. Of course with her luck, a body would be found when she was actually busy. She could already feel the distance she’d created with Dione, and leaving her mid-party would just increase it. She hoped Sotera would be a good enough distraction, at least she seemed to be earlier. The last thing she needed from her daughter was to be called a hypocrite, but she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing Dione into the darkness of the world again. Not yet.

Francesca slid on her coat, fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons as her thoughts raced. She made to slip out through the other door to the foyer when the sharp clack of heels echoed behind her.

“Mum?”

She froze, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. The weight in that single word—fragile and questioning—settled heavily on her shoulders. Turning, she found Dione standing in the doorway, staring at her with an expression that twisted something deep inside her.

Dione looked heartbreakingly young in that moment, her usually poised demeanor faltering. Her brows were knitted together, a crease marring the smooth, fair skin of her forehead. Those familiar green eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her lips quivered—caught halfway between a question and a plea—and the proud, straight line of her posture seemed to sag under an invisible weight. For a moment, Francesca’s resolve wavered, caught in the overwhelming ache of seeing her daughter so lost and confused. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Dione’s gaze with the calm she didn’t entirely feel.

“Is this because of my dissertation? You don’t have to leave I-”

“No, no Dione. No, I’m so sorry, dove,” she answered quickly as she rushed to pull her daughter into her arms. She gave her a kiss on the forehead and rubbed her shoulders. “No, I have to go with Dorian to meet Neve. I’m so sorry, but it’s an emergency.”

“Oh,” Dione mumbled. “Okay. Will you be back tonight?”

Francesca pulled away to look her daughter in the eyes, brushing a hand through her hair and wiping a tear that fell down her cheek. “Of course I will. Enjoy the rest of your party. Dorian says Sotera is staying to keep the celebration alive,” she joked, raising a small smile from Dione. “I’m glad you found a friend too.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, then frowned again. “I’m sorry too.”

“No,” she stated. “Don’t be sorry. This is your project, your decision. I’m just…” she trailed off, shaking her head as she twirled the edge of Dione’s hair.

“Scared?”

She sighed and looked down, nodding. “Yeah. You’ve grown up so fast,” she murmured, gazing at Dione’s face. Not a trace of her father. Her genes ruled over his, thankfully. Everything except her eyes. Dione’s emeralds stared back at her amethysts, and she frowned remembering the squishy round face they used to sit in.

“Don’t get all teary eyed on me,” Dione grinned, rolling her eyes. “It’s embarrassing.”

Francesca couldn’t help but smile, though tears pricked as she sniffed and finally stepped away. “Happy birthday, my dove,” she said, then nodded towards the door to the main hall. “Now go have fun.”

Dione gave her a sheepish smile, then quickly pecked her mother on the cheek and took off back through the door. Francesca’s smile faded as she watched Dione walk away, her figure disappearing down the hall. She took a deep breath to steady herself, brushing aside the creeping pull of sentiment. There was no time for that now.

Turning toward the foyer, she met Dorian by the door. Together, they stepped into the elevator, the hum of the machinery filling the silence as it descended to the lobby. The car was already waiting when they arrived, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the soft glow of the overhang. Dorian gave the driver an address as they slid into the back seat, and the car peeled into the evening traffic with practiced ease.

The rain had intensified, drumming against the car roof in a steady rhythm. Outside, the city lights streaked and blurred, smearing across the windows in a kaleidoscope of color. Neon adverts and towering billboards dissolved into abstract shapes, their caricatures warped and distorted as if painted on water. A glowing pearl of light crowned a high-rise, casting a faint halo through the haze of rain.

Francesca let her gaze linger on the spectacle, the city’s vibrancy dulled by the storm. It felt almost suffocating—the endless hum of activity, the relentless glow of neon. Thank the Maker for curtains, she thought. Without them, this truly would be the city that never slept. The drive from the upper west side of Minrathous to Docktown didn’t take long, but from the address Dorian gave, it sounded like they were meeting Neve at the scene instead of her office.

Neve Gallus had stepped in as a special investigator on the case, working with local law enforcement thanks to her renowned skill in dismantling Venatori operations. Her reputation preceded her, and Dorian had come to know her through his work with the Shadow Dragons. Francesca had been brought in for her more intimate knowledge of the cult’s inner workings—a grim knowledge gained through a difficult experience. But it was her years with the Mourn Watch that had honed her expertise in anatomy, making her invaluable when it came to examining bodies. And lately, Minrathous had been providing no shortage of them.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the Cobbled Swan, and she could see Neve waiting for them under the eaves, a cloud of smoke billowing away from her. Francesca was always impressed with Tevinter fashion, and Neve was a connoisseur of the craft. She was a sharp, unflinching presence in tailored suits that turned heads with their elegance and edge. Her dark skin gleamed under the city lights, a contrast to the sharp lines of her wardrobe, which spoke of both eloquence and grace. A smoking stick was almost always perched between her fingers, trailing smoke as she walked with a confident, almost predatory pace. Despite the prosthetic leg hidden beneath her perfectly hemmed trousers, she moved with a fluidity that belied the hardship it represented—her steps were measured, but never slow, and she wore her resilience like a second skin. Her eyes, keen and calculating, missed nothing, always scanning her surroundings as she made her way through the haze of the city, an undeniable force of both beauty and intelligence. She gave them a crooked grin as they approached, hand on her hip as she blew out another puff.

“Sorry to ruin the party,” she mused in her low, velvety tone, her eyes grazing over their wardrobe.

“If we’re quick, it’ll still be there,” Dorian proposed haughtily, and Neve huffed a short laugh.

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” she grimaced, then nodded behind her shoulder as she turned. “This way.”

They followed her to the narrow alley behind the building, drenched in shadows, its damp cobblestones glistening under the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp. A thick fog curled along the ground, swallowing the faint sounds of jazz spilling from the bar’s cracked windows. The stench of stale alcohol and rotting garbage hung heavy in the air, but it was the metallic tang of blood that dominated the scene. Francesca and Dorian froze at the end of the alleyway, eyes pinned at the lifeless body of a man speared against the crumbling brick wall, his torso impaled by a sword. The weapon pierced clean through his chest, embedding itself into the wall behind him, leaving his limbs limp and dangling like a broken marionette.

But it was the sight just above the body that froze the breath of every investigator who stepped into the alley. Suspended in midair hovered the man’s severed head. It turned ever so slightly, as if surveying the scene—a faint, bluish glow emanated from the space where the neck had been severed, pulsating rhythmically like a heartbeat into the orb that surrounded it.

After a moment to process the tableau, she and Dorian followed Neve closer. The head was indeed suspended by an enchantment, the man’s lips were parted in a final, silent scream, and his expression seemed locked in terror. Detectives stood frozen, their fedoras pulled low over pale faces, while a rookie officer muttered a quick prayer under his breath.

“So, I suppose we can rule out the Venatori then?” Dorian muttered, baffled at the sight.

Neve scoffed. “Not officially. Perhaps this man betrayed them, and this was punishment?”

“Neve, please,” Dorian argued. “This is the third body. Are they doing a mass excommunication?”

“It’s a humiliation,” Francesca stated, staring at the body as the other two bickered. They both turned to her quietly and then followed her gaze. “You don’t just die; you’re disgraced,” she recalled a phrase heard long ago, her gaze tracing from the body to the head, its eyes gaping at her. “This man insulted someone in power.”

Neve sidled up to her and crossed her arms as she gestured with her chin to the head. “Didn’t want to disable the enchantment til you got here. Ready?” she asked.

Francesca nodded, extending her hands as frost flurried from Neve’s fingertips. The cold, glittering magic swirled in the air before dissolving the orb that encased the disembodied head. A soft

pop

echoed as the barrier vanished, and the head dropped into Francesca’s waiting palms.

Its empty, terrified eyes stared unseeing, wide and frozen in a silent scream. The slack jaw hung at an unnatural angle, a grotesque reminder of its final moments. The flesh was cold, almost icy, against her hands—until it wasn’t.

A sudden, searing heat surged through her fingers as flames licked at the base of the head. She gasped, instinctively trying to fling it away, but her hands refused to obey. They were glued to the weight, her grip tightening involuntarily. The empty eyes shifted, their pale irises darkening, blackness bleeding into every vein. A guttural hiss rose from the slack mouth as smoke poured out in choking, acrid plumes.

Chessssssss.

Francesca’s breath quickened, her chest tightening as dread coiled around her heart like a vice.

How did it know?

Her fear held her paralyzed, rooted in place as tar-like liquid—thick and glistening like molten shadow—began to seep from the head. It oozed down her wrists, burning like acid, each droplet biting into her skin before dripping onto the ground below. The eyes bore into hers, black as the void, unblinking and relentless. The jaw twitched once, then snapped shut, grinding with a bone-chilling crack before prying open again. The sound that followed wasn’t a scream or a groan; it was a deep, guttural hiss, layered with a sharp, animalistic growl. It burrowed into her ears, a sound that felt alive, clawing at her mind.

Chessssssss!

Francesca’s pulse thundered in her ears as the tar crawled higher, coiling around her arms like living tendrils. The world around her blurred, her vision tunneling as the fear threatened to consume her.

—esca!

Francesca!

” she vaguely heard both Neve and Dorian shouting her name until it was so clear that she blinked and opened her eyes, and the flames were in her hands, burning and hissing up her arm. She gasped and threw the head down, shaking out her hands to pat out the fire.

The head was ablaze at their feet as Dorian helped her extinguish the flames. “Francesca, what happened?”

Her eyes were still locked on the head, until the smell of charred hair and melting flesh made her convulse and turn away. She stared at her palms, and checked the sleeves of her coat, trying to figure out where the black tar disappeared to. “It… talked,” she choked out, leaning heavily on Dorian as she forced herself to control her breathing.

Dorian held her by the shoulders, eyes wide with fear and watching her dubiously. “No, darling, it didn’t,” he shook his head.

She blinked and furrowed her brows at him, then turned to see Neve kneeling next to the charred head, put out with her ice magic. “Someone put a charm in the mouth,” she stated, prodding at it with her stave. “We’ll have to be careful about disabling it. I think we might have set it off by disenchanting it.”

“Why display the body just to sabotage it?” Dorian asked as Francesca finally righted herself enough to stand on her own. It must have been a cursed charm, and setting it off gave her a terrible sense of fear and dread, creating visions of tar snaking up her arms. It wasn’t real, she kept repeating to herself.

“Because whoever it is knew we would be trying to investigate,” Neve replied, looking up at Francesca warily. “You said it talked to you?”

Francesca took in a shaky breath. “It said my name,” she admitted, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Not just my name, my nickname. Very few people called me that, and not since I was young.”

They all exchanged a wary look before Neve held up a hand. “We need to figure out what kind of charm this is before we jump to conclusions,” she said, then stood and walked over to the nearest officer to begin instructing them where to take the body.

Francesca took another look at the torso, staring at the all too familiar robes, the placement of the sword in its chest. It was a tableau, a display of power, almost mockingly. Who was it mocking? Her brows furrowed as she focused on the sword. The positioning looked familiar. It was just a sword in a chest, but everything about the exhibit was intentional, done for a reason. It was a display of shame, disgrace. It was too… artistic to be Venatori. It was a demonstration that whoever did it knew better, was already two steps ahead.

“Someone is mocking us,” she said absentmindedly. Dorian raised an eyebrow at her, then paused to follow her gaze to the sword.

“Hmph,” he muttered, turning his head to the side. “Didn’t know the Venatori had a sense of humor.”

“That’s the point,” she said, looking back at him. “I don’t think it’s Venatori.”

Dorian was silent for a moment as he considered. “He

is

dressed in old Venatori robes. One would assume the cult ousted one of their own.”

“One would assume,” Francesca echoed, stepping closer to the body.

One of the lifeless hands was clenched tightly around something, its grip unnaturally rigid, the object coiled around the wrist like a sinister bracelet. She leaned in closer, her breath catching as she carefully summoned her magic, gently urging the stiffened fingers to loosen. The grip was unyielding at first, rigor mortis locking the digits into place. Francesca frowned, concentrating as she manipulated each joint, forcing the stiffened flesh to move. The strain was almost palpable as the fingers resisted her will, creaking faintly as they began to give way. One by one, they bent back, until the hand fell open.

Something dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

Francesca recoiled instinctively, and Dorian flinched beside her as the object came into view. A snake. Dead and lifeless, its limp body coiled unnaturally on the cobblestones.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked on the creature. Francesca’s eyes traced the glossy scales—iridescent blue and green, with flecks of crimson like droplets of blood scattered across its length. Recognition struck her like a blow to the chest.

“It’s not just any snake,” she whispered, her voice tight with disbelief.

Dorian’s sharp intake of breath confirmed her thoughts. His wide eyes met hers, and they shared an unspoken realization.

“Neve!” Dorian bellowed, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, waving her over.

Francesca’s gaze lingered on the snake, unease prickling at her skin. This wasn’t merely a serpent—it was

the

serpent. The emblem of the Shadow Dragons. Its scales mirrored their symbolic colors, a brilliant tapestry of blue, green, and red. It wasn’t just a symbol; it was their creed, their banner, their beacon of hope in the darkness.

And now, it lay dead at their feet. The message was unmistakable.

She heard the familiar ping of Neve’s metal leg against the pavement as she walked up beside them, her own eyes widening. “

Kaffas

,” she hissed. “Was the victim a Shadow?”

Dorian shook his head. “I couldn’t tell. He got kind of…” he trailed off and looked at Francesca, who gave him an apologetic look. “Well, once we examine the body, we’ll know more.”

“Right,” Neve replied, clicking her finger as she turned and began barking at the officers to get the body down. “We’ll meet back at the shop.”

Francesca walked back up the alleyway beside Dorian, their footsteps muffled against the damp cobblestones. At the end of the path, she paused, drawn to turn back one last time.

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t noticed it when they first arrived.

The Cobbled Swan blazed like a beacon, its lights burning brighter than any other building on the block. Red, gold, and shades of blue spilled from its windows, casting the alleyway in a kaleidoscope of color. The shifting hues danced across the walls like sunlight filtering through stained glass, bathing the darkened path in a surreal glow.

The edges of her vision trembled, colors melting together as the world fell away. A sharp, vivid memory surged to the forefront of her mind. A woman’s monotone voice droned from a pulpit, its words muffled as if underwater. She was sat in a pew, morning light pouring through the chantry’s stained glass. Reds, golds, and blues painted the sacred hall in vibrant, holy light. The figures in the glass loomed above her, frozen in eternal reverence—or judgment.

Hessarian’s Mercy.

The image was seared into her memory. It was a favored depiction in the Chantry: Archon Hessarian delivering his merciful strike to Andraste, ending her suffering as she burned at the stake. The colors were vivid in her mind now, bleeding into the present. Andraste’s form, wreathed in flames, her head severed mid-rise, her face serene. Below her stood Hessarian, his sword raised, his face a mask of sorrowful duty. Below him, snakes twisted and coiled, symbols of divine mercy intertwined with mortal sin.

Mercy killing. The phrase hung heavy in her mind, an unshakable shadow.

“Mercy?” Neve was asking. “What about this screams mercy to you?”

She blinked at the photograph before her, recalling the scene of the crime. It was nearly midnight now, the only source of illumination in Neve’s Docktown office from the lamp on her desk and the streetlights outside the narrow windows. She barely remembered leaving the scene, or examining the body, as her thoughts were wrapped around the image the tableau created.

The office itself seemed to mirror the shadows of her mind. Tucked away at the end of a dark, narrow alley, the space was a hidden sanctuary in the quarrelsome city. The iron door, unmarked and heavy, was nearly impossible to spot unless you knew exactly where to look. Inside, the room was cramped but purposeful, a single green-shaded lamp cast its warm glow over the desk, cluttered with files, crime scene photos, and an ashtray filled with crushed cigarette stubs.

The faint buzz of a neon sign outside barely penetrated the thick black curtains that hung over the window, blocking out prying eyes. A tall filing cabinet in the corner stood locked tight, and a pinboard on the far wall was covered with photographs, notes, and red string connecting fragments of evidence. The space was both a fortress and a puzzle, designed to keep secrets safe while unraveling those of others. It was the kind of place where time seemed to stand still, consumed by the weight of unanswered questions.

Francesca looked up, dropping the photos in her lap. They were pouring over the crime scene documents, comparing them to the other two crimes connected to the case, trying to figure out how they all lined up. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. It just reminded me of a depiction from the chantry. Hessarian’s Mercy. Do you know it?” she asked, pushing one of the photos of the scene onto her desk.

Neve picked it up and considered it. “I didn’t really follow the chantry much, but I’m sure our portrayals are a bit different than in Nevarra. Although, Hessarian…”

“Did we figure out anything about the charm in the victim’s mouth?” Francesca wondered. She had been dutifully examining the body while Neve carefully extracted the charm without setting it off. No one had caught fire, at least as far as she knew.

Neve sighed. “It was too charred to really get an indication, but from what I gathered it seemed to be an immolation charm. Did just that, anyways,” she replied, looking quite annoyed that she couldn’t salvage it. It made Francesca worried as well, considering the voice she heard and the vision she saw. She wondered if that hadn’t been the charm after all. “What about the body?” she heard Neve ask.

Francesca flicked through the photos and found some of the body, sliding them onto Neve’s desk as she spoke. “Same as the last two. Blood drained from them, but not from their wounds. The impalement was post-mortem, as was the severed head,” she explained as Neve spread them out before her.

“Blood magic,” she muttered, then looked at the photo of the crime scene in her hand. “Typical of Venatori, but if they kill their own, why display them?”

“They usually humiliate before they kill, not after,” Francesca replied thoughtfully, her eyes glassy as she recalled. Torture was their specialty, especially for those who would dissent and try to leave. Once you were in, there was no out. For most, anyways. “Displaying the body is normal, but not in robes. Nothing that would lead back to them.”

Dorian snatched the crime scene photo out of Neve’s hand and looked over it, standing next to the window behind her desk. “Why would our murderer mimic a depiction from the chantry?”

“Perhaps the killings are religiously motivated? But I’m having trouble understanding how

merciful

that display could have been,” Neve replied, reaching up to snatch the photo back.

“That doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding who did it,” Dorian retorted. “I think Francesca is right. It’s not the Venatori. Whoever did this seems to be

mocking

the Venatori.”

“Mocking and merciful? Our murderer wants the two to coexist?” Neve wondered, getting up to walk over to her cork board covered in case notes and photographs. “No leads, no suspects, just more questions…” she muttered softly to herself as she placed the new crime scene photo next to the rest of them.

“You know,” Dorian pondered for a moment, tapping his chin. “We could just ask the victims.”

Francesca’s eyes shot up to him, and he gave her a knowing look.

“Ask them?” Neve’s forehead creased in dismay, then her eyes followed Dorian’s to Francesca. “Have you got a necromancy trick up your sleeve and you’ve been holding out on us?”

Francesca closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, the weight of inevitability pressing down like a familiar burden. Deep down, she had always known it would come to this. If she were being honest with herself, she should have called him after the second murder. He was the only corpse whisperer she knew—and, maddeningly, the only one Dorian trusted. The thought of him sent a bitter twist through her chest, a tangle of unresolved memories and old wounds she had worked hard to forget.

Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the faint ripple of Dorian’s smugness radiating beside her, an unspoken

I told you so

hanging in the air. She could practically hear him say it:

You should have called sooner.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, but the gesture did little to dispel the ache building behind her eyes—or the knot in her stomach.

Opening her eyes again, she forced herself to meet reality. She wasn’t just summoning an expert in the arcane whispers of the dead; she was summoning the man who had once whispered sweet promises to her in the dead of night. Years had passed, but the thought of seeing him again was enough to unsettle her. Yet here she was, with no better choice.

“Fine,” she replied, struggling not to roll her eyes at Dorian congratulating himself. “But you’re calling him.”

Dorian gave her a look of mock dismay, placing a saucy hand on his chest. “Oh, darling. Tis not I who-”

“Dorian,” she stopped him, giving him a warning look as he rolled his eyes and resigned.

“Fine, I’ll call him,” he said defeatedly.

“Who? What are you two talking about?” Neve demanded, rightfully annoyed at their banter considering the circumstances.

Dorian couldn’t help the mischievous grin that formed as he looked between them. “An old professor of ours.”

Francesca shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “He specializes in corpse whispering,” she continued. “Something that would very much help us if we are to move forward.”

“Well, who is it? I’ll pay to get them over here.” Neve insisted.

“Professor Emmrich Volkarin.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You did

what?

” Francesca’s voice rang sharp through the dining room, incredulous and edged with something dangerously close to betrayal. She stood rigid on one side of the table, fingers curled tightly around the back of a chair.

Dorian, stationed at the opposite end like a man preparing to bolt, sighed dramatically and flicked a finger against his temple. “Oh, I don’t know, Francesca. Where else was he supposed to stay?” he shot back, exasperation lacing his tone. “Should we have shoved him in with Neve and the Shadows? Tucked him into a cot beside the refugees?”

“I don’t know,

maybe a hotel?

” she countered, though she was starting to lose steam. “I know he can afford it.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed in frustration, his patience thinning. “And why, pray tell, would I make him stay in a

hotel

when I have two perfectly good extra rooms?”

She could tell she was getting under his skin—she could always tell. And maybe right now she was pushing too hard. She exhaled sharply and turned away, crossing her arms as she stared out the tall windows. The city stretched out before her, golden against the light of day, but she barely saw any of it. She just needed a moment.

Sensing the shift, Dorian pressed on, his voice quieter but no less pointed. “I set him up on the far side of the apartment,” he said. “He should be here late this evening—if you need to know exactly when to

avoid

him.”

She heard the retreat of his footsteps, the weight of the conversation following him into the living room.

Francesca sighed as she gazed out the window, watching the tiny figures below move through the city streets, their lives continuing in rhythmic normalcy. On any other day, she would have been among them, but today she lingered, waiting for Dione to return from her classes so they could visit her new friend’s townhouse north of the city.

Her thoughts should have been on Sotera Crataeis, but instead, another name filled the space in her mind. Emmrich Volkarin. If she was being honest, he had never truly left.

She exhaled slowly, lifting a hand to the glass. The cool surface pressed against her palm, grounding her for a fleeting moment before she let her forehead rest against it, closing her eyes as she willed herself to go back—back to a time she could never quite escape.

The scent of lilac and incense lingered in her mind, as vivid as if he were standing beside her once more. It clung to his skin, subtle yet unmistakable, mingling with the warmth of him. She could still feel the smooth press of his palm against her cheek, the way his thumb had traced the curve of her jaw with absentminded reverence. His hair—dark silk and impossibly soft—had slipped between her fingers like water, a stark contrast to the sharp wit that so often danced on his lips.

He was always immaculate, never a thread out of place. His shirts crisp, his vests perfectly fitted, his posture composed. He was precision, control—until she unraveled him. She loved to leave him undone, his collar askew, his buttons uneven, the faintest pink blooming on his high cheekbones.

And he would let her.

Even now, she could picture the way he would look up at her afterward, defiant and unrepentant beneath lowered lashes, a glint of mischief in his emerald eyes. He knew what he was doing. Knew exactly how his smirk would test her restraint.

She had always been the one to step back first, to survey her handiwork with a satisfied smirk of her own, tapping her lip in mock consideration. "Better," she would declare before turning away, already reaching for her books, already pulling herself back into the routine of their shared world.

And he would let her go, but not without one last look—a promise, a challenge.

Maker, she had loved ruining him.

A shift in light made her eyes flicker open, catching her own reflection in the glass. Violet eyes, shadowed with age and sleepless nights, stared back at her. Dark hair, streaked with silver, framed her pale face in loose pin curls, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth deepened by the weight of memory. Her burgundy knit sweater, worn comfortably over a simple collared blouse, was tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers, draping elegantly without the sharp formality of a suit. A pair of sturdy oxfords peeked out from beneath the hem of her trousers—practical, dependable, much like she had always tried to be.

She looked calm, steady. But beneath the polished veneer, the ghosts of the past pressed against her ribs, refusing to be buried. She inhaled deeply, straightening, absently adjusting the cuff of her sleeve as if that simple motion could iron out the thoughts unraveling in her mind.

Twenty years. It should have been enough time to forget—to dull the edges, to make the memories feel like echoes instead of ghosts. But she hadn't. She couldn’t. Not even marriage, not even time, not even the unraveling of a life she had once thought secure could erase him. She exhaled slowly, allowing herself to sink back into the past, to indulge in it just this once before she had to face him again. Maybe if she let herself remember now, she could keep the memories from surfacing unexpectedly in his presence.

She had met Dorian through him. She could still picture the scene—the flickering candlelight, the musty scent of old parchment and dried herbs. Emmrich had been attempting to teach Dorian corpse-whispering, trying to gauge his aptitude for it. He had none. She had leaned against the doorway, watching as Dorian struggled to raise a spirit into the skull perched on Emmrich’s desk, only to accidentally animate the entire skeleton with a curious, wandering wisp. The poor thing had rattled to life in an ungainly stumble, falling apart moments later, and she had to stifle a laugh.

Emmrich had caught the sound, his sharp eyes twinkling with amusement as he beckoned her forward, introducing them as if she hadn’t just witnessed Dorian’s spectacular failure firsthand. She had worked with Dorian often after that, but he had been quick—perhaps too quick—to sniff out the truth beneath their carefully maintained professional facades.

Maker, how thrilling it had been. The secrecy, the way their stolen moments felt like bending fate to their will. He had been a young professor, freshly installed at the helm of his program, and she, a final-year student under the Mourn Watch, working on her thesis. It had been pure chance that she was assigned to his class as a teaching assistant, chance that their schedules had aligned so perfectly.

But chance had only taken them so far. The longer they were near each other, the more the barriers between them blurred, the more they found ways to mold time to their own design—adjusting schedules, shifting priorities, weaving their lives together with an inevitability neither had the will to resist.

Time had moved too quickly since then, sweeping her along in its relentless current. Looking back now, she wished she had fought harder to linger in those stolen moments.

But now, she had to prepare herself to see him again.

Her thoughts tangled, racing ahead, imagining his reaction. Had Dorian mentioned her? Had he even thought to? And if he had—did she want him to? She could pretend it was a surprise, but the truth would be difficult to spin when they inevitably found themselves together to meet Neve. There would be no easy escape, no convenient excuse.

Would he be glad to see her? Or would he turn to ice, shutting her out with a cool indifference she had no right to resent?

She swallowed hard, pressing her palms into her face, willing the thought away.

She would know soon enough.

“Mum?”

A soft voice pulled Francesca from her thoughts. She dropped her hands and turned toward her daughter, quickly smoothing her expression into something neutral.

“Dione,” she greeted with a smile, watching as the young woman stepped into the room, cautious but unreadable. “How was class?”

Dione shrugged, slinging her satchel onto a dining chair. “Semester’s almost over, so it’s mostly exam prep.” She rifled idly through her bag, her fingers skimming the edges of her notebook. “Did you still want to come with me to Sotera’s?” she asked offhandedly, as if hoping to slip the question into the conversation unnoticed.

Francesca’s smile faltered for just a moment. She kept her tone light. “Of course.”

It wasn’t that she disliked Sotera. It wasn’t even that Dione preferred studying at her townhouse instead of the university library. It was the constant, gnawing weight of another worry to carry. She wanted to trust Dorian’s assurances that Sotera was reliable, that Dione was safe in her company. Maker, she wanted to believe it. But trust wasn’t something Francesca could afford to give freely—not in Minrathous.

“Dorian said a car should be here soon,” Dione continued, flipping through her notebook without looking up.

Francesca only watched her, noticing the way Dione fidgeted, the way she busied herself to avoid something unspoken.

“I can feel your fretting from here,” Francesca said at last, leaning on the table across from her.

Dione exhaled sharply and pushed a wisp of dark hair from her eyes. “I can feel your apprehension,” she shot back, then let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her notebook onto the table with a soft thud. “Just… please,” she started, struggling to find the words. “I know you don’t like Sotera. Just try to be civil, because I—”

“Wait, Dione. I’m sorry.” Francesca held up a hand, shaking her head. “It’s not Sotera. It’s you, this city… everything that’s been happening.”

Dione blinked, her brows pulling together. “You mean the murders.”

Francesca inhaled sharply. Of course, she couldn’t have kept her daughter entirely in the dark. She swallowed and nodded. “Yes. And lately, I only trust Dorian. It’s not that I think Sotera is untrustworthy, but I don’t know her. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Dione arched a brow. “Are you investigating her?”

Francesca smirked despite herself. “No, but if I’m going to leave you in her presence, I’d like to know her better.”

Dione rolled her eyes. “Mum, I’m in university. I’m not a child.”

Francesca resisted the urge to roll her eyes back. She was still young, still learning—still her daughter. But she understood the plea for independence. “I know,” she relented. “Just let me visit with you this once, and I’ll leave it up to your good judgment afterward.”

Dione hesitated, drumming her fingers along the notebook’s edge. She chewed at the corner of her lip, considering. Finally, she huffed. “Fine.” She stuffed the notebook back into her bag and hoisted it onto her shoulder. “But the car is probably here by now. We should go.”

Francesca nodded, pushing down the lingering unease curling in her chest.

Minrathous was a different beast entirely. If they were still in the Grand Necropolis, she would have known what to expect, could have anticipated every move, every threat. Here, everything was uncertain, shifting, impossible to grasp, and that terrified her more than she’d ever admit.

They retrieved their coats and headed toward the elevator. She felt it again—that nagging sense of distance, not just physical but something deeper, more abstract. Ever since they arrived in Tevinter, Dione had been steadily pulling away, slipping from beneath her mother’s wing with quiet determination.

Once, they had been inseparable. She still remembered the excited chatter at the end of the day, the way Dione would rush to tell her about some new discovery, her green eyes alight with wonder. She had been the greatest thing to come from the horrors Francesca endured at the hands of the Venatori. A miracle born from suffering. And yet, the more Dione pulled away, the more Francesca feared Tevinter itself was reaching for her—its underground tendrils coiling around her daughter, intoxicating her with its corruption.

As the car carried them north, Francesca watched Dione gaze out the window, her reflection flickering against the glass like a ghost of herself. She took in the towering spires, the faceless crowds moving through the streets. For a moment, Francesca saw her as a child again—small, dark curls framing her round cheeks, her curiosity boundless as she pointed out every new sight, asking question after question. That insatiable curiosity was still there, but quieter now, tucked away in the pages of her notebooks or scribbled hastily on the back of her hand.

Dione turned back toward her, and Francesca offered a wistful smile for time lost, for the years that had not been kind to either of them.

“Dione,” she began, unable to shake her earlier unease. “About your dissertation…”

Her daughter groaned. “Mum…” She rolled her eyes, bracing for yet another argument.

“You understand why I’m wary?”

“Of course,” Dione muttered, idly picking at a loose thread on her satchel. “But I’m not going to be practicing. I’m researching—the psychology of blood magic, how it pertains to power, and whether there are medical applications for certain types of magic without the cost of losing one’s…” She trailed off, hesitating.

Francesca’s knowing gaze met hers.

“I know,” she said gently. “And I think the pursuit is noble. But I’m afraid of—”

“What might happen to my mind,” Dione finished for her, her voice resigned. She exhaled sharply, hands tightening around the strap of her bag. “I know you’re afraid of this.” She gestured to herself, searching for the right words. “Of me becoming him, of falling into the same pattern and losing myself to the darkness of Venatori magic.”

Francesca stiffened at the name, her gaze flicking to the driver, who had glanced up at them through the mirror. She gave Dione a pointed look, wordlessly chastising her for saying too much in front of an audience.

Dione caught the warning and lowered her voice. “That’s why I asked Sotera. She has a similar history to us.”

Francesca’s brows knitted together. “What do you mean, similar?”

Dione hesitated before whispering, “Not our… affiliation. Just—” Her eyes darted to the driver again before she leaned in. “She has Venatori ancestors.”

Francesca blinked, the revelation settling uncomfortably in her chest. That explained the unease she felt upon first meeting the woman, the instinctive wariness she hadn’t been able to name. She didn’t claim to have some innate sense for the Venatori, but perhaps… perhaps they left an impression that never quite faded. A stain in the blood.

She hummed in acknowledgment but offered nothing more. The admission lingered between them, stretching into silence. Dione didn’t push, and Francesca let it drop.

The rest of the ride passed without another word, the city rolling past them as they neared the mysterious magister’s home.

The townhouse was imposing even in broad daylight, standing out from its neighbors not only in structure but in design. The tall, arched windows reflected the sky like a mirror, offering little hint of what lay beyond. The brass knocker on the dark, heavy door gleamed brilliantly, polished to a shine that caught the eye, almost daring one to approach. The cement path leading to the entrance was clean, precise, and deliberate—just like everything else about the house. It radiated elegance and order, a testament to its owner’s impeccable taste. Yet, there was an odd stillness to it, a sense that its perfection was meant to be observed rather than lived in, as if the house itself were holding its secrets close.

Francesca and Dione stepped out with very different expressions; Dione’s one of eagerness, and Francesca’s one of caution. She let her daughter lead as they followed the short path to the door and she dropped the brass knocker on the heavy wood. The door opened only a few moments later, and Sotera radiated warmth as she smiled and welcomed them in.

“Professor, Dione. Please come in,” she greeted, stepping aside as they tentatively entered the foyer and exchanged pleasantries. She was a vision of understated elegance even in her more relaxed attire, her golden hair down in soft waves. She wore high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in a soft gray wool, perfectly pressed with sharp creases running down the front. Paired with the trousers was a cream-colored silk blouse, its delicate pleats framing a modest yet flattering neckline. The cuffs were buttoned neatly at her wrists, the fabric catching the daylight in subtle shimmers. She closed the door behind them and gestured for them to follow her.

“The library is just above the main sitting room,” she explained as they followed her slowly, taking in their surroundings. The foyer was understated in its elegance, every element carefully curated to make an impression without shouting its intent. The dark wooden floors gleamed, polished to perfection, their rich grain reflecting the soft light from a chandelier overhead. The hallway was lined with artworks, spotlighted and contrasted with the rich green wallpaper, and at the end were several mahogany doors. Sotera opened one at the center, and her study opened up to them.

The room was expansive, yet every inch of it felt deliberate, curated to perfection. The centerpiece was a massive, imposing desk of dark mahogany, its polished surface gleaming under the soft light of a bronze banker’s lamp. Behind it stood an imposing bookcase that spanned the height of the wall, filled with leather-bound tomes and ancient texts, their spines gleaming gold and red in the light.

A grand window framed with heavy, dark curtains let in a muted glow, illuminating the deep greens and browns of the room. An Orlesian rug sprawled across the floor, its intricate patterns complementing the rich wooden floors. Nearby, a pair of leather armchairs faced each other over a low table adorned with neatly arranged artifacts—a bone-handled letter opener, a perfectly balanced sculpture, a single bloom in a crystal vase.

The walls were decorated with subtle, thought-provoking art, each piece carrying an unsettling edge that revealed more the longer one studied it. A taxidermied bird perched under a glass dome sat on one of the shelves, an oddly elegant reminder of the macabre interests woven into the fabric of the space.

The air carried a faint scent—subtle, almost undetectable—of fine leather and something herbal, grounding the atmosphere in a sense of calculated calm. As they stepped further inside, their gazes were drawn upward to the towering shelves of books, the upper levels accessible by a polished brass ladder that gleamed softly in the light.

Dorian was right. It

was

impressive.

Sotera stood near the desk, her posture graceful and collected, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She watched them with a faint, knowing smile—patient but expectant, as though she had been waiting for this exact moment.

Dione, unable to contain her awe, turned in slow circles, her eyes wide as she tried to take in the sheer scope of the room. “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with wonder. She turned to Sotera hesitantly. “May I?”

“Of course,” Sotera replied, her tone warm yet composed. “The ladder is at your disposal. The texts you are looking for are secured on the upper level, but feel free to explore anything else that catches your eye.”

Dione set her bag down carefully beside the desk, her excitement almost childlike as she approached the shelves. Her fingers brushed along the spines of the lower books before she began to climb the ladder, disappearing into the stacks.

Sotera chuckled softly, the sound refined, almost musical. Her gaze fell on Francesca, sharp but not unkind. For a moment, they simply regarded each other, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. Sotera’s smile deepened slightly, and she stepped forward. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to Francesca’s coat.

She blinked, then nodded, removing her coat and handing it over. Sotera took it with the same care she gave to every motion, gathering Dione’s coat as well before moving to the sleek rack near the door.

Francesca glanced toward Dione, who was already immersed in the shelves, her delight evident in the way her fingers danced across the spines. Normally, Francesca might have found some solace here too, surrounded by books, by knowledge. But this place wasn’t hers. It belonged to Sotera, and that fact seemed to hum in the air. Francesca thought of Dorian—with him, she never felt this gnawing sense of displacement. He had a way of grounding her, of making her feel like she belonged, even in the most opulent of spaces.

But here, in Sotera’s world, Francesca couldn’t shake the feeling that she was out of place—an intruder among all this elegance and ease. She shifted her weight, folding her arms across her chest, and tried to quiet the unease creeping up her spine.

“Would you care for some wine, Professor?” Sotera’s voice floated over from behind, calm and measured. Francesca spun on her heel, caught slightly off guard, to find Sotera approaching with a polite smile that hinted at quiet amusement. “Your daughter seems completely engrossed in her task,” Sotera continued, her sharp eyes flicking briefly to Francesca’s tense shoulders and folded arms before meeting her gaze again. “Perhaps we might pass the time with some conversation? You seem like someone who carries more thoughts than you speak aloud.”

Francesca blinked and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, quietly absorbing how sharp Sotera’s observations were. She couldn’t help but replay their earlier interactions, particularly at the party, where her nerves had been anything but subtle. Perhaps that had fed Sotera’s impression of her. Wariness crept in as she conceded that Dione might be right—her fears had fumbled the first impression.

Sotera seemed to take the nod as a sufficient response and slipped gracefully from the room, leaving Francesca to gather herself. She watched her daughter flit from shelf to shelf, utterly captivated by the vast collection of books. Questions bubbled in Francesca’s mind, unspoken but insistent. Dione’s offhand comment in the car lingered, the hint of familiarity between her daughter and Sotera gnawing at her. How long had they been corresponding? What had been shared? She made a mental note to ask Dorian—he always had a way of uncovering things without stirring waters.

But even as the thought formed, she stopped herself. She had to let go, didn’t she? Dione wasn’t a child anymore, no matter how fiercely Francesca’s instincts screamed otherwise. Back in Nevarra, she hadn’t been this protective—she had given Dione her space, trusted her judgment. But Tevinter was different. This city thrived on secrecy, its power struggles as deadly as its politics. And then there were the murders—the brutal, ritualistic killings that still somehow traced back to the Venatori. That was what truly set her on edge. To think that Dione might be tangled, however indirectly, in something that even brushed against their shadow sent an icy dread through her.

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sank into one of the leather chairs at the center of the room, exhaling slowly as she tried to ease the tightness in her chest.

The clack of heels on the polished floor drew her attention. She looked up to find Sotera standing before her, a wine glass extended with the same effortless poise she carried in everything. She managed a small smile and accepted it, the glass cool against her fingers. She swirled the wine, watching its deep red ripple, as Sotera took a seat across from her. The woman settled with an elegance that seemed practiced yet natural, crossing her legs with a serene air.

“I suspect you have questions,” Sotera murmured, her tone soft but pointed.

Francesca met her gaze, unnerved by the intensity of the woman’s stare. There was something disquieting about the way Sotera’s eyes moved, as though she were cataloging every detail, dissecting her without a word. She told herself it was caution—a natural defense given the circumstances. But beneath it all, a nagging curiosity tugged at her. Why did Sotera seem so interested?

She cleared her throat, settling back into her chair as she balanced the wine glass on the armrest. “Dione mentioned a few things to me that were… concerning,” she began, keeping her tone composed as she watched Sotera closely. The other woman didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed faintly amused, a reaction that only made Francesca bristle further.

“You’re cautious because of my family’s ancient affiliations,” Sotera stated evenly, her voice laced with a calm certainty that prickled Francesca’s nerves.

Francesca’s eyes narrowed slightly. The woman had a knack for steering the conversation before it even began, and somehow it already felt like a trap. “Caution doesn’t equate to distrust,” she replied. “Erring on the side of sense is a reasonable approach in unfamiliar circumstances.”

Sotera’s smile deepened as she took a sip of her wine, her movements unhurried. “A fair distinction. Although I imagine the various forbidden texts I’ve locked away in my library might nudge you closer to the side of suspicion.”

Francesca’s gaze sharpened. The collection itself wasn’t what had set her on edge—it was Sotera’s willingness to let Dione explore it. “My caution is for my daughter’s sake,” she clarified, glancing toward the shelves where Dione had disappeared. “Distrust, on the other hand, would require knowing you well enough to form such an opinion.”

“Ah,” Sotera murmured, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Maker forbid we ever grow too familiar.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow, her grip tightening slightly on the wine glass. “Should I not trust you?”

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Sotera tilted her head, studying Francesca with an inscrutable expression, her smile faint but still present. “Trust, Professor Ingellvar, is a delicate thing,” she began, her tone smooth, unhurried. “One might argue that your affiliation was a bit more personal than my own, and thus my trust in you should be, as you say, erring on the side of caution.”

Francesca didn’t immediately respond, her breath hitching as Sotera’s words settled between them like the final piece of a puzzle she hadn’t meant to solve. The subtle accusation, veiled in polite conversation, left her reeling. Had Dione told her?

Her words hung in the air, sharp and precise, as if daring Francesca to challenge them. Then, with a faint smirk, she added, “I suppose you’ll have to decide for yourself whether I’m deserving of it.”

She didn’t have time to process the thought before Sotera leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering, precise and deliberate.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about the trauma you suffered at their hands?”

The question landed like a physical blow, and Francesca realized, with a cold sense of clarity, that she had indeed walked directly into a trap. She’d been vivisected—her fears, her pain, her carefully guarded memories all dragged to the surface to be examined by the woman before her.

Her breath caught in her throat as she fought to contain the flood of emotions crashing over her. Was she visibly trembling? Frozen in place? Both? She couldn’t be sure. All she knew was the sudden, urgent need to flee, but her legs felt rooted to the ground, betraying her entirely.

Sotera’s expression softened, her brow knitting as though she truly regretted the discomfort her question had caused. “Dorian mentioned a bit of yours and Dione’s past when you arrived,” she said gently. “To your credit, you both seem remarkably well-adjusted.”

Dorian. Francesca felt her jaw tighten. She was going to have words with him when they returned home, that much was certain. The flash of anger helped cut through the overwhelming fear surging within her, just enough to regain her composure. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “No, neither of us have,” she replied, deliberately addressing Sotera’s earlier question to avoid commenting on Dorian. “Except with Dorian and a few trusted friends back in Nevarra.”

Sotera nodded thoughtfully. “Not professionally, then,” she assumed, her tone still gentle, and Francesca shook her head again. “Therapy isn’t a common practice, but I’ve always found it to be an intriguing science of thought.”

Francesca felt a coldness lingering in her chest, the sensation pooling in her veins despite the wine she drank to dispel it. Her eyes flicked to the upper floor, ears straining for the sound of Dione’s footsteps among the stacks. “I’m not interested in digging up the past,” she said flatly, her tone carrying a finality she hoped would close the topic.

But Sotera raised a perfectly arched brow, her next words cutting through Francesca’s defenses with surgical precision. “And yet you bury your daughter in it with your fear.”

Francesca’s gaze snapped to the woman across from her, heat rising to her face. Anger churned in her chest, but it was laced with the sting of recognition—because Sotera wasn’t wrong. It was a truth she had wrestled with, and likely the very thing Sotera had seen in her from the moment they met.

Usually, Francesca was a master of her emotions, but something about Sotera made her feel laid bare, as though the woman could peel back every layer of pretense and see the raw, vulnerable parts of her. It was unnerving in a way she hadn’t expected, and she hated the power Sotera seemed to hold in this room.

“I have several friends in the field,” Sotera continued, her tone unruffled, her offer entirely sincere despite Francesca’s tension. “I could recommend one to you, or you could speak with me when Dione comes to study. Either option might prove beneficial.”

Francesca hesitated, giving the suggestion more thought than she wanted to admit. The idea of being present while Dione engaged with Sotera offered a certain level of oversight—an opportunity to watch over her daughter while also unraveling the enigma of this woman. Yet, she couldn’t shake her wariness. Her brows furrowed as she studied Sotera, taking in the woman’s serene demeanor and laissez-faire attitude. There was no urgency in her words, no sign of manipulation, but still Francesca couldn’t discern Sotera’s true stake in all this.

“Why?” she asked finally, the word escaping her lips with the weight of cautious curiosity.

Sotera’s expression shifted, a flicker of something almost triumphant crossing her features, as if Francesca had finally asked the right question. The moment passed as quickly as it appeared, and she masked her emotion with practiced ease. “I was a healer before I became a magister,” she began, her voice steady. “I once studied the same subject as Dione and even wrote a similar dissertation on the potential benefits of blood magic in the medical field.”

Francesca’s expression softened slightly, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place as Sotera continued. “Dione reached out to me through Dorian after reading a book I published on the subject. It was... an unpopular one, for obvious reasons, so I was surprised to find someone interested. I thought perhaps she might find an answer I couldn’t.”

And there it was—the connection. Some of the tension that had been coiling in her chest loosened, as if the mystery had begun to unravel itself. Sotera was more than just a magister and a highborn woman. She was someone who had previously walked the same path as Dione, and perhaps, in some ways, still did. The realization made Francesca wonder, for a moment, if she'd seemed like a novice in comparison. She’d always thought herself knowledgeable as a teacher, but there was an undeniable air of wisdom in Sotera’s words, a depth of experience that went far beyond her years.

Some of Francesca’s wariness began to ebb as the conversation circled back to her daughter. Dione was the reason she was there. And though there would be much to discuss when they returned home, particularly about what information should remain behind closed doors, she couldn’t deny that Sotera seemed to have Dione’s best interests at heart.

The faint tap of footsteps drew their attention upward. Dione leaned over the balcony railing, eyes alight with anticipation. “Would you mind very much showing me those books now?”

Sotera met her with a controlled, practiced smile. “Of course.” Then, turning back to Francesca, she held her gaze with an expression both polite and expectant. “Would you like to observe, Professor?”

For the first time in their conversation, Francesca felt firmly in control, her thoughts aligning with clarity. She gave a slow, measured nod, allowing herself the satisfaction of a carefully placed reply. “After you, Doctor.”

The reaction was subtle—barely a flicker—but Francesca caught it. Sotera’s polished smile faltered, if only for a heartbeat, before she smoothed it away. That was telling. Doctors hadn’t been called "healers" in decades, which meant Sotera was being deliberately evasive about her past.

Curious.

She had spoken so freely of her family’s history, their ancient ties to the Venatori—a cult of fanatical blood mages—yet when it came to herself, she sidestepped and deflected. A contradiction, and one Francesca found deeply intriguing.

One personal secret for another.

Eye for an eye.

She followed Sotera toward the ladder, her mind turning over the possibilities.

On the upper floor, they met Dione at the far end of the balcony, where more shelves lay tucked away in the dim light. In the darkest corner, an entire bookcase stood sealed behind an enchantment, the air around it shimmering faintly like a heat mirage. A faint red glow pulsed from within, emanating from a single book at the center, casting flickering shadows across the spines of the others.

Sotera raised her hands, her movements fluid, precise. With a deft flick of her wrists, the enchantment unraveled, dissolving in a whisper of fading light. The shelf was now open.

Dione stood beside her, hovering over Sotera’s shoulder, eyes wide with something dangerously close to reverence. The soft red glow reflected in her gaze, turning green to ember. Francesca clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain still when every instinct screamed to pull her daughter away.

Dione had been trained for this. The Mourn Watch had ensured she knew how to handle ancient tomes, how to ward against malign spirits. Francesca knew this—had seen her daughter’s discipline firsthand—but the knowledge did little to ease the anxiety curling in her gut.

Her own gaze flicked over the books, wary and searching. Experience from the Mourn Watch had taught her that power left traces, that books, like people, could exude malice. And the one at the center—the one with the sinister red gem embedded in its cover—felt like a warning.

There were worse things hidden in this collection. She was sure of it.

“Dione,” Sotera said, turning to face her with a grave expression. “Before you begin studying these tomes, we need to establish a few ground rules.”

Francesca felt the slightest relief at that—at least Sotera recognized the danger these books posed.

“These texts will never leave this house,” Sotera continued, her voice firm. “They are too dangerous to be released into the world, and I am solely responsible for their whereabouts. You will only read them under my supervision, and you must take them one at a time to the desk below.” She paused, her gaze steady. “And finally, if any of them speak to you—you tell me immediately.”

Both Francesca and Dione stiffened.

Tomes in the Necropolis were sometimes haunted, lingering with the echoes of spirits or wisps, but there was something far more insidious in Sotera’s warning. The implication that one of these particular books might possess an actual voice, a will of its own, sent an icy prickle down Francesca’s spine.

“Do you understand?”

Dione’s hands folded neatly in front of her. “Yes,” she answered, her voice calm.

Sotera nodded, satisfied. “Good.” Then, after a brief glance at Francesca, she stepped aside and began listing the contents of her collection—ancient Tevinter rituals, Venatori doctrines, the principles of blood magic and its various applications. The titles blurred together, each more unnerving than the last.

Francesca tried to focus, but the edges of her vision wavered, her mind dragging her elsewhere—back to a place of cold stone and whispered incantations, where her body had been reduced to something unholy, a vessel stripped of will, a subject to be used and discarded.

She blinked, forcing herself back to the present.

Dione and Sotera were deep in discussion now, debating which text would serve as the best foundation for her research. And suddenly, Francesca felt a different kind of unease creeping in—one she hadn’t prepared for.

Her daughter had found herself in a world Francesca had no desire to follow, yet here she was, trailing behind out of duty, out of love, out of fear. Sotera appeared to show concern for Dione’s safety, but her deliberate words, her double-edged philosophy, made her toe the line of being entirely trustworthy. The rules were a comfort, but something about them felt like a warning rather than a safeguard.

A line had been drawn somewhere in this room, and Francesca wasn’t sure which side she stood on.

The afternoon passed in quiet diligence, with Francesca lingering in the periphery as Dione and Sotera pored over the tomes. Despite her reservations, she found herself reassured by Sotera’s vigilance, enough so that she finally allowed herself to explore the stacks. In doing so, she came to an unsettling realization—this wasn’t just about trusting Sotera. It was about trusting Dione. Trusting her training, her education, her instincts. Logically, she knew her daughter was capable. She’d been reminded of that countless times. But was her unease a mother’s natural instinct in unfamiliar territory, or was it something deeper—an unwillingness to relinquish control?

She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, pausing when she recognized one on Sotera’s favored school of thought. Pulling it from the shelf, she absently skimmed the pages, her thoughts drifting to Dione’s thesis—psychology and the effects of blood magic on the mind of the user. There was no shortage of documentation on its victims, but the practitioners themselves were a different matter. Many never lived long enough to be studied.

Then, inevitably, her mind turned to the murders.

Power—that was the usual motivation for blood mages. Strength, control, defying limitation. Their killer was certainly demonstrating power. The last crime scene had made that painfully clear. A vision of mercy. Or was it? Perhaps it wasn’t mercy at all, but a perversion of it.

Her breath caught.

Hessarian

. It was Hessarian that put Andraste to the torch to begin with, and his mercy was lauded, not condemned.

Her eyes widened.

“I have to go.”

Dione and Sotera both looked up from the book, Dione’s brow furrowed in confusion while Sotera regarded her with quiet expectation. It took Francesca a moment to register the weight of her own words. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she slid the borrowed book back onto the shelf before striding toward the desk.

“I need to speak with Neve about the case. I just had a thought—something that might help us catch the killer,” she explained, glancing between them.

Sotera hummed in acknowledgment, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Ah, yes. Dorian has kept me somewhat informed on the investigation, for Mae’s sake.”

“But we just got here,” Dione protested, gesturing to the growing list of notes already scrawled in her notebook.

Francesca hesitated, her gaze flickering between Dione and Sotera before settling on the latter. A silent calculation ran through her mind. Sotera had been trusted to watch over Dione once before—staying behind at Dorian’s apartment to ensure she wasn’t left alone. Now, standing in the dim light of the study, Francesca made a choice.

“You don’t need to come with me,” she told Dione.

Surprise flashed across her daughter’s face, quickly replaced by something brighter. Excitement. Independence.

For the first time since arriving, Francesca felt the weight of her own caution shift—just slightly

“I’ll happily drive Dione home when she’s finished, if you’d like,” Sotera offered smoothly.

Francesca met her gaze, then gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

She turned to Dione, who was already rising from her seat, a warm smile on her face as she stepped around the desk. Francesca embraced her tightly. “Be safe, my dove,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek as they pulled away.

Dione chuckled. “Feels like I should be telling you that, Mum.”

“I’ll have a car take you back to the city,” Sotera added before slipping out of the room to make the arrangements.

The moment they were alone, Francesca’s expression turned serious. She reached for Dione’s hand, her grip firm. “Listen to me,” she said in a low voice. “The moment you feel unsafe, you need to tell me. Those books are dangerous, and so—”

“Mum.” Dione’s voice sharpened with quiet frustration as she shook her head. “Sotera is right. You are going to bury me in your fear.”

Francesca’s breath caught. Her eyes widened, and Dione’s expression instantly softened with regret. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean that. I just… I can handle myself. Please, trust that.”

Francesca exhaled slowly, then gave her daughter’s hand a squeeze before letting go. “You’re right. I’m…” She took a steadying breath. “I’m going to work on it.”

Dione studied her for a moment before nodding. “I think you should talk to her,” she said. “She was a doctor, like you said. And the reason I went to her? It wasn’t just about blood magic. It was her book on psychoanalysis. She understands this stuff.”

Francesca absorbed the information, filing it away with everything else she had learned about Sotera. Another piece to a puzzle she still couldn’t quite see in full—so many facets, none of them fitting neatly together. But she gave Dione a small nod of approval just as Sotera sauntered back into the room.

“The car will be here in a few minutes,” Sotera informed them.

They exchanged their goodbyes, and Francesca retrieved her coat from the rack before heading toward the foyer. She had nearly made it out the door when the sharp clack of heels echoed behind her.

“Professor.”

Francesca paused, glancing back to see Sotera standing in the dimly lit foyer, watching her with an expression that was difficult to read—something contemplative, assessing, as if weighing a thought she chose not to voice.

“I truly enjoyed our conversation,” Sotera said at last, her tone smooth yet measured. “I hope to have you back soon.”

Francesca offered a polite, unreadable smile. “Of course, Doctor.”

Sotera’s lips curved into a satisfied grin before she gave a small nod and turned back toward the study. Francesca hesitated only a second longer before stepping out into the rain, pulling her coat tight around her as she hurried toward the waiting car.

The drive back was spent unraveling the killer’s need to tell a story. Every murder had been staged—deliberate, meticulous. She needed to go through the case files again, search for threads that might have gone unnoticed. Were all the symbols Chantry-related? Was the killer claiming betrayal, likening themselves to Andraste?

She paused, her mind shifting. No, that wasn’t it. The killer wasn’t aligning with Andraste. They were condemning Hessarian. The so-called mercy he bestowed was no mercy at all—only an admission of guilt after the flames had already consumed her. He was the one who set her alight, the architect of her suffering, then tried to absolve himself in the eyes of history.

But Andraste’s greatest betrayal hadn’t come from Hessarian. It had come from Maferath—her husband.

Francesca’s breath stilled as the thought took root.

Betrayal

. That was the thread. If her theory held, the victims weren’t random. They had been chosen for a reason, their lives echoing some fractured narrative the killer was trying to tell.

By the time the car pulled up outside Dorian’s apartment, the sun had nearly set, casting the city in a dusky half-light. Clouds doused the city, leaving a spectacular sunset as the rain soaked through her coat and she hurried toward the lobby, curls unraveling in the damp air. She needed to grab a few things, relay her thoughts to Dorian before he left to—

She stopped mid-stride.

She didn’t notice the luggage at first—the neatly stacked trunks on the cart, the traveling coat draped over the top—but the skeleton standing beside it caught her eye. It was dressed like a gentleman, its polished boots planted firmly, gloved hand resting on the cart. The twin gemstones in its sockets gleamed as it watched her, unblinking.

But it wasn’t the skeleton that stole the breath from her lungs.

It was him.

He sat by the window, bathed in the last golden slant of sunlight, the edges of his figure softened by the fading light. His hair, once dark, had turned silver with time, but the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw remained unchanged. His mustache still clung stubbornly to his upper lip, a relic of the past, as if time had tried to smooth him out but left that one thing untouched.

He was absorbed in a book, glasses perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose, his fingers idly tapping the spine as he read. He hadn’t seen her yet.

She felt frozen.

The air in her lungs grew heavy, her pulse thrumming in her ears. For years, she had imagined this moment—

if

it would happen,

how

it would happen—but now that it was real, now that he was here, she didn’t know what to do with the weight of it.

The skeleton hissed.

His head lifted. His lips parted, something unspoken caught in his throat.

Then his green eyes met hers.

Recognition struck like a thunderclap—first in his gaze, then in the slow, almost imperceptible way his expression fell open in realization.

“…Ches?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He remembered waking to the sight of her dark raven hair spilled across the silk pillow beside his, strands catching the dim candlelight like threads of ink. The warmth of her body lingered in the air between them, carrying the familiar scent of bergamot and vetiver—unmistakably her. He breathed her in, savoring it as if it were the first time, as if by some magic he could keep her there forever.

His fingers traced a slow, reverent path from the curve of her neck to the dip of her hip, stirring a ripple of goosebumps along her skin. She shifted in response, sighing softly as she blinked awake, amethyst eyes glinting in the low light. A sleepy, knowing smile curved her lips as her delicate hand slid up his chest, curling around his neck to pull him closer. He let himself be drawn in, drinking in the warmth, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

There had been many mornings like this. But this one… this one was the last.

Maybe it hadn’t been as perfect as he remembered. Maybe time had softened its edges, polished over the imperfections, turned heartache into nostalgia. But in his mind, it remained untouched—the morning before everything changed.

The day had begun as they all did. Her coffee, his tea. A light breakfast before parting ways—him to his lectures, her to her shift with the Mourn Watch. She had already graduated, was already carving her own path toward teaching, balancing studies with duty. Their love was no longer hidden, no longer a whispered thing confined to stolen moments. They belonged to each other openly, effortlessly.

She loved dancing, loved to take him into the heart of Nevarra City where the lights glittered and the streets pulsed with life. He loved being with her, loved

her

—her laughter, her joy, the way she pulled him into the rhythm of things he never would have sought out on his own. Their anniversary was approaching, and he had planned to propose.

He wished he had done it sooner.

She was due to attend his last class of the day, assisting in a demonstration of corpse whispering—though, if he was honest, he didn’t truly need her there. Their routine had been perfected long ago, back when she was his teaching assistant. Now, it was habit. Comfort. A lingering piece of the life they had built together. And if it gave her more experience in teaching, all the better. Having her near him was reason enough.

She always handled the bones, ensuring they were meticulously arranged on the stone slab, cushioned by velvet to prevent damage. He could still see her fingers, careful and precise, adjusting a wayward phalange, straightening a brittle spine. Around them, students formed a loose circle, watching intently as he swept his hands over the remains, murmuring the incantation that would give the dead a voice once more. The skeleton would stir, brittle joints creaking, breathless whispers hissing from empty jaws. And when the ritual was complete, she was always there—waiting with cloth in hand, catching each delicate piece as though the dead themselves trusted her to lay them to rest again. It was after this class that everything unraveled.

It had begun so casually. A lingering conversation as they cleared the slab, as she folded the velvet sheet smoothly. Then he said it—the words that changed everything.

He was going to pursue lichdom.

The silence that followed was deafening. His stomach twisted as he looked up to find her frozen, the cloth still half-folded in her hands. The pause was long enough for dread to settle, for a terrible weight to press down on his ribs like a stone. They had discussed the idea before, in theory, in passing debates. But this was different. He had made his choice.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful. A thread of something fragile beneath it.

"I don’t think that’s a path I can follow you in."

His hands stilled on the cold surface of the table. He turned to her, searching her face, willing her to say something different.

"What do you mean?"

She wasn’t saying what he thought she was saying. She couldn’t be.

But in her violet eyes, he saw it—the widening distance, the line drawn between them. The bridge he had just crossed, and the place where she remained.

She approached him cautiously, rolling up the velvet sheet with careful hands before placing it on the stone between them. A barrier.

"Emmrich,"

she began, her voice steady, though he could see the hesitation in the way she drew a deep breath before speaking again.

"You know this isn’t something I agree with. I know your fear, but I can’t sit by and watch you swallow yourself in it."

He blinked. They had discussed this before, hadn’t they? She had always been uncertain, hesitant, but never this—never absolute.

"It’s a new life,"

he said, willing her to see it the way he did.

"It’s immortality."

She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the folded cloth in front of her as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

"You become immortal, and then what? What happens if I…"

She trailed off, shaking her head, exhaling a breath that trembled at the edges.

"You could become a lich too,"

he offered, desperation creeping into his tone.

"We could work towards—"

"I don’t want to live forever, Emmrich."

The words were quiet, firm, final. They landed like a blow, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Oh.

"Well,"

he tried, reaching for any possible foothold,

"Lichdom takes years to accomplish. We could still—"

"And what happens when I die?"

she cut in, sharp and unwavering, her gaze finally meeting his. He froze beneath the weight of it.

"What happens if we were to have children? You’d want to outlive them too?"

The thought shot through him like ice in his veins.

She had been thinking about this—about

them

, about a future he had never allowed himself to envision beyond the shadow of his own mortality. And now, she was forcing him to see what his choice meant. The ring he kept in his bedroom drawer suddenly felt as if it were screaming at him to say something, to fix this before it was too late.

"That’s not what this is about,"

he argued, but his voice lacked conviction.

He saw the shift in her before she even spoke. Her expression hardened, her shoulders straightened. The slow, quiet burn of hurt transformed into something colder—resignation.

"Emm, I love you, but I can’t,"

she said, shaking her head as she stepped back, away from the table, away from him.

"I don’t know what will change your mind away from this, but it certainly isn’t me. I’ve tried."

And just like that, he felt it—the moment she let go. It wasn’t the last time he saw her, certainly. He’d kept tabs on her over the years, bumped into her a few times especially after her run in with the Venatori, but they had never been

them

again.

"Ches?"

The familiar name left his lips as the past crashed into the present.

Francesca stood frozen in the entryway, rain slipping from her coat in slow, deliberate drops onto the marble floor. The soft glow of the lobby lights cast a sheen over her damp skin, accentuating the sharpness of her features—the same features he had traced in another lifetime. But they had changed.

The years had refined her, carved her like a statue left out in the elements—weathered but unbroken. There were new lines at the corners of her eyes, the faintest crease between her brows, as if her face had settled permanently into an expression of careful calculation. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, coarser, and pinned back in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, with stray curls escaping as if defying order—an echo of the woman she used to be. And her eyes—Maker, her eyes—were still that same haunting violet, but the light in them had dimmed, tempered into something harder, something shielded.

He had only moments to take her in, to reconcile the woman before him with the memory he had carried for years, before the realization fully struck her features. Before the weight of recognition settled between them like a stone.

She had seen him first. And in that instant, he knew—she had taken him in the same way, measured the ways he had changed, noted the places where time had softened or sharpened him. He wondered if she had found him wanting.

"Emmrich."

His name on her lips sent a jolt through him—recognition wrapped in velvet, smooth yet cautious. It had been years, and yet the sound of her voice still settled into the marrow of his bones like an old spell. But it was different now—lower, steadier, absent of the warmth he once took for granted.

"You’re early."

Emmrich barely registered the words. He was still reeling, still grappling with the impossible reality of her standing there, rain-damp and real. His mind, moments ago adrift in memory, struggled to reconcile that the woman before him was not the one he had spent years chasing in his thoughts. She was older. Sharper. The softness of youth had given way to something tempered and distant.

He forced himself to move, rising from his chair with deliberate slowness. His fingers twitched as he pulled his glasses from his nose, if only to buy himself a second to gather his thoughts. "I am," he answered carefully. He kept his distance—not out of fear, but out of uncertainty. He had no idea where they stood after all this time, no idea if her heart was hammering as wildly as his.

Her gaze flickered over him, assessing, searching. A practiced look—one she likely didn’t even realize she was giving. She had always been like this, always cataloging the people around her, measuring them against something unseen. But there was something else in her eyes now. Hesitation, perhaps? Or was it something closer to disbelief?

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Her lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by the question. But then, composing herself, she tilted her chin ever so slightly—a common habit, one he had memorized long ago.

"I live here."

That knocked the breath from his lungs. He blinked, barely able to process it. "In Minrathous?" The words felt foolish the second they left his mouth. Of course, they were in Minrathous. Of course, she had just said she lived here. And yet, it didn’t make sense. She had loathed this city. She had sworn never to return.

A small, knowing smile touched the corner of her lips, fleeting yet infuriatingly familiar. "Yes, in Minrathous," she confirmed. And for the briefest moment, something in her guard wavered. "With Dorian. I assume he isn’t in, if you’re down here?"

Emmrich exhaled a breath, lips curving into a faint, wry smile. "No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been waiting in the lounge."

She made a small noise of acknowledgment, but it wasn’t quite a response. Instead, she hesitated, confusion flickering across her face. He knew her well enough to recognize when she was battling conflicting thoughts.

Then, the sharp, rattling hiss of bone cut through the air.

Manfred.

Emmrich turned just as the skeleton hobbled toward them, his joints clicking and clattering with every step. He was prepared for Francesca’s wariness, for a flash of disdain or a sharp remark.

But instead, she smiled.

Not the polite, distant kind she had offered before. No—this was something warmer, something real. The kind of smile he hadn’t seen from her in years.

"And who’s this?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, her expression caught between amusement and curiosity.

Emmrich let out a quiet breath through his nose, something easing in his chest despite himself. "This is Manfred."

Manfred let out another rattling hiss and lifted a gloved hand in greeting.

And then—

she laughed

.
Soft, almost under her breath, but unmistakably genuine.

Emmrich found himself staring, caught off guard by the sight of it. For all the weight between them, for all the years apart, for all the things they had never said—in that moment, she was still Francesca.

And for the first time since seeing her again, he wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“Is your assistant wearing old Watcher livery?” Francesca asked, her tone light but curious, her eyes flicking over Manfred’s attire with an assessing glance.

Manfred hissed in approval, as if to acknowledge the compliment.

“Manfred sewed it himself. Eventually,” Emmrich explained with a half-smile, watching as the skeleton nodded, his glove brushing against the fabric of his tunic.

“How lovely,” Francesca responded, a small smile curving her lips. But her gaze lingered on Emmrich then, her expression softening ever so slightly. She sighed, her posture shifting as if bracing herself for what was to come. “You can follow me,” she said, her voice gentler now, but tinged with something else. “I’ll show you up.”

With a nod, Emmrich moved to help Manfred push the luggage cart toward the elevator. The wheels clattered softly on the floor, the sound mingling with the faint hum of the building’s quiet. Francesca gestured for the elevator attendant to take them up, and when asked for the number, Emmrich was unsurprised when she responded with the top floor.

Of course.

As long as he’d known Dorian, he’d always had a taste for luxury. It was no surprise to find him residing in the highest reaches of the building, a floor that would offer sweeping views of Minrathous’ sprawling cityscape.

When the door to Dorian’s apartment finally swung open, Emmrich was met with an immediate, overwhelming sense of

opulence.

The polished marble floors gleamed beneath the soft, golden glow of pendant lights, their art deco designs casting intricate shadows on the foyer. Rich, dark wood paneling adorned the walls, complementing the metallic brass accents. A statement console table sat just inside the door, its glossy surface reflecting the light from the fixtures above.

“Dorian set you up in your own space on the far side of the apartment,” Francesca said as they stepped inside, her voice smooth and composed. “You’ll have your own room and a study, and hopefully enough space for your books.”

At that, Emmrich glanced up, momentarily surprised. A small, fleeting smile played on her lips as she busied herself with removing her coat, but he caught it—an unmistakable glimmer of familiarity in her expression. She remembered. Of course she did. His love for books had practically been a defining trait, woven into the fabric of who he was.

Still, the fact that she acknowledged it now, in this quiet, effortless way, sent an unexpected warmth through him. It wasn’t grand, it wasn’t sentimental—it was just a knowing look, a simple statement, but it eased something in his chest.

“I’m sure it will be more than enough,” he replied, his voice softer than he intended, almost reverent in the way he spoke.

She didn’t respond right away, only nodded as she folded her coat over her arm and gestured him forward. And as he followed her through the foyer, past the glint of polished fixtures and the faint scent of aged wood and incense and into the living area, he allowed himself a moment to indulge in the comfort of being remembered.

The apartment was vast, filled with towering bookshelves crammed with every kind of tome imaginable. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, mingling with the vague, familiar aroma of aged paper and the lingering scent of a fireplace. Golden sconces cast a warm glow over the plush furniture, luxurious in deep jewel tones and carefully chosen silks, a color palette both bold and undeniably Dorian. Decanters of fine wine and spirits sat atop an ornate sideboard, their glass surfaces gleaming in the low light.

A set of grand windows, draped in heavy curtains, framed a breathtaking view of Minrathous’ skyline, its spires rising against the twilight.

It was, in every way, exactly what he would have expected from Dorian. Extravagant yet refined. The apartment felt alive, a space designed to impress and inspire—but also to envelop those within it, cocooned in wealth and comfort.

He followed her through the room and into a long, quiet hallway until they reached its far end on the northwest side of the apartment. With a gentle turn of the door, Francesca opened the room to Emmrich, stepping into a charming corner suite. The space was lined with polished, empty bookshelves and centered around a tastefully arranged lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a small balcony where the evening rain bristled the lush foliage and vibrant potted plants. A narrow staircase led up to a loft area, where a large bed loomed, its draperies echoing the suite’s refined decor. The scent of something spiced—cinnamon, maybe clove—lingered in the air. It was dressed just as finely as the other rooms in the apartment, and Emmrich was no less impressed.

“Should be plenty of room for your books,” Francesca said, gesturing toward the shelves, her voice light but careful, as if she were testing the air between them.

Emmrich followed her gaze, taking in the empty spaces that would soon be filled with his belongings. He forced a small smile. “Yes. Dorian certainly has a refined taste.”

Francesca’s lips quirked, but the amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nothing like home,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

“Well, perhaps it's a bit more expensive in taste, but certainly no less—” He faltered as he caught the distant look in her eyes, as if she were seeing something long past. A pang of regret tightened in his chest. For a brief, foolish moment, he wondered if he had brought anything that might remind her of home, of something familiar. The thought was ridiculous—why would she even want that from him? He was getting ahead of himself. This was business, nothing more. And yet, despite his best efforts, the hope still lingered, unshakable and persistent.

Francesca exhaled softly, breaking the spell. “I’ll leave you to get comfortable,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “I’ve got to meet Neve about the case.”

His mind wavered. He should let her go. Give her the space she clearly needed. Unpack, settle in, focus on why he was here. That would be the proper thing to do. But the pull of her presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore. He wanted to hold onto this moment a little longer, to keep her voice directed at him, to exist in this rare sliver of time where they weren’t yet strangers again.

She had already made it halfway down the dim hallway when she slowed, hesitation in the subtle tilt of her shoulders. Then, almost reluctantly, she turned back, her expression unreadable. “Unless you’d like to come along,” she muttered, her voice softer now, almost unsure.

His heart stuttered.

The tension in his body eased all at once, relief washing over him like a tide. His shoulders dropped and his breath slipped past his lips. “Let me just show Manfred the room, and I’ll happily join you.”

A flicker of something—relief, maybe even warmth—crossed her face.

It was reckless, the hope that bloomed in his chest at that single expression, but he clung to it anyway. He turned quickly, lest she see too much of it in his face, and busied himself with showing Manfred the suite while she left to phone Neve’s office.

Perhaps this was nothing. Perhaps it was everything.

Once Manfred rolled the cart of luggage into the room and Emmrich showed him the shelves, he left in search of Francesca. She emerged from the opposite hallway, her appearance subtly altered—her hair, once wild from the rain, was now brushed away from her face, its damp tendrils tamed. A touch of powder softened the dewy sheen on her skin, making her seem more composed, more distant. Something about the rain’s disarray had made her achingly familiar, almost idyllic in its imperfection. He realized, with a pang, that he already missed it. That moment—their first in years, raw and unguarded—was slipping into the past too quickly. He wanted to live in it a little longer.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice even.

“Of course.”

Without another word, they left the apartment, descending the elevator in silence. The lobby doors opened to the slick, glistening streets, where a waiting car idled against the curb. As soon as they slipped inside and the doors shut, the air between them thickened, the enclosed space pressing in the words left unsaid. Francesca gave the driver the address, her tone brisk, professional. Then nothing.

The silence stretched between them, weighty and unrelenting. Emmrich felt the ghost of twenty years settle over him, heavy on his chest. He forced his hands to stay in his lap, gripping them together lest they betray him and reach toward her, breach the fragile barrier she had placed between them. How had she not changed at all? And yet, how had she changed so much?

He was going to lose his mind if he didn’t speak.

“Has Dorian explained what we’re dealing with?” Francesca asked suddenly, cutting through the silence like a blade. Her voice was smooth but unsteady at the edge.

He turned his head slightly, watching her in the dim light as passing streetlamps illuminated her face in fleeting glimpses. The sharp cut of her cheekbones, the way her mouth pressed in thought—it was intoxicating, maddening.

“Not entirely,” he admitted, forcing himself to focus. “Just that the investigation called for the immediate and hasty presence of a corpse whisperer.” He kept his voice level, though his pulse hammered beneath his skin. He had questions of his own—about why she was here, why she hadn’t reached out to him, why she looked at him now with careful distance instead of outright rejection. But instead, he played his part, waiting for her to give him something more. Something that would tell him if he was still just a tool for the job—or if there was something else lingering beneath her guarded expression.

“You were

certainly

hasty,” Francesca remarked, amusement threading through her voice. But as quickly as it surfaced, her gaze dropped, her expression shifting into something more subdued. “Dorian will be kicking himself for missing your arrival,” she added, lips curving in a way that made Emmrich wonder if she was secretly pleased about it—whether for Dorian’s sake or her own, he couldn’t tell.

“I took an earlier train through the Crossroads,” he explained, though he knew she likely didn’t care about the logistics. She had always known him to be punctual, and after all this time, it was hardly surprising. “But knowing Dorian, he planned it this way on purpose.”

Her eyes flicked to his, and for a quiet moment, they held each other’s gaze—careful, as if neither of them wanted to be the first to look away. Then, she shifted, subtly retreating into her own corner of the car, putting distance between them. “He told me you wouldn’t be in until later this evening,” she murmured.

Emmrich inclined his head slightly. “I did say I would arrive by evening, though ‘late’ might have been a bit of an exaggeration.”

At that, she exhaled sharply, as if only just realizing the trick Dorian had played. She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, Maker,” she muttered under her breath.

Emmrich let out a quiet chuckle, watching her with a knowing glint in his eye. “He tried to be subtle, I’ll allow him that,” he said, his voice rich with amusement.

Peeking out from behind her hand, she gave him a look—a mix of resignation and reluctant mirth. “Dorian is about as subtle as a jackhammer,” she admitted, her laugh soft but genuine. But even as she chuckled, she struggled to hold his gaze, her fingers twitching slightly in her lap.

Emmrich’s smile lingered as he studied her. “Though a valiant effort,” he mused, “I think it might take longer than a car ride to catch up after twenty years.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he saw it—the way her body tensed ever so slightly, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her coat. Her amusement faded, replaced by something heavier, something unknown to him. She turned her face slightly away, looking out the window. He could see the way her jaw tightened, how her breath came just a fraction slower.

His own chest tightened in response. Had he said something wrong? Was it the mention of time—of everything they’d lost? His mind raced, trying to read her, to understand. It had been so long since he had needed to decipher Francesca’s silences, but the familiarity of it hit him like a wave.

Some things, it seemed, never changed.

And yet, after twenty years, there was too much distance, too many unspoken words, for him to guess what was on her mind.

“But we can talk about the case in the meantime,” he tried, grasping for anything that might keep her engaged, anything that might bring her voice back to him. The silence between them felt unbearable, a chasm he wasn’t sure he could cross, and yet he had no choice but to try. Twenty years he had spent pretending she didn’t exist just to get through his days, but now that he was back in her orbit, the pull of her gravity was relentless. He was being drawn in, whether he wanted it or not.

And if—when—the case was solved, if they parted ways again without resolving anything, without breaking past this coldness… He felt the thought settle like a heavy, frozen stone in his gut, dragging him down. It made him nauseous.

Francesca leaned her elbow on the car door, tilting her head slightly as she glanced at him. “It’s… hard to explain, really,” she admitted.

Her voice was measured, thoughtful, but he caught the faintest flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She bit her bottom lip in thought, an old habit he never realized he had missed until now. The sight of it twisted something deep in his gut, stirring memories he had spent years burying. He wondered if she even knew what it did to him—if she had any idea how easily she unraveled him even now.

“I’ve got a thread I’m following,” she continued, eyes narrowing slightly as she worked through her thoughts. “It could be something, but I need to look over the other victims to be sure.”

Emmrich seized the moment, eager for something—anything—to keep her talking. He offered her a small, encouraging smile. “I’d love to hear your theory.”

For a breath, she hesitated, then gave him a shy, almost reluctant smile in return before launching into her explanation.

By the time the car rolled to a stop in a damp alleyway, bathed in flickering neon and the dim haze of streetlamps, Emmrich felt more grounded. The conversation had drawn them in, the case acting as a bridge between them—familiar, necessary. It wasn’t the resolution he craved, but it was something. For now, he would take what he could get.

Outside, the alley felt like a forgotten sliver of the city, wedged between the crumbling facades of old warehouses and low-rent offices that had seen better decades. The air hung thick with the mingling scents of brine, engine oil, and the faint metallic tang of rust from fire escapes clinging precariously to brick walls. Puddles left from the earlier rain shimmered with distorted reflections of the half-burnt-out neon signs—advertisements for bars and pawn shops casting their feeble glow onto the slick pavement. The whole scene exuded the weary patience of a place long resigned to being overlooked.

He followed Francesca to a five-and-coin at the end of the rain-slicked street, its modest red-and-white awning drooping slightly with age. A hand-painted sign above the door read "Lorelei’s Sundries", the lettering slightly faded but still legible under the dim glow of the streetlamp. Through the broad display window, the shop appeared unremarkable—rows of neatly arranged tin toys, stacks of cheap Antivan plates, and a modest selection of dry goods. The bell above the shop’s door jingled harmlessly as he and Francesca entered, the scent of tobacco and copper candy wrapping around them like a false sense of normalcy.

Inside, the shop was cramped but orderly. The wooden floors, softened by years of wear, creaked underfoot as they perused past the shelves of copper-priced goods—combs, pocket mirrors, sewing kits, and snacks. A small radio hummed in the background, jazz crackling through the static.

At first glance, it was just a store—nothing more. But Francesca moved with too much familiarity, her stride purposeful as she made her way to the back, barely sparing a glance at the sleepy-eyed clerk behind the counter. Emmrich followed, his fingers grazing the edge of a display shelf as his eyes swept over the space with growing intrigue.

When Francesca pressed her hand against a seemingly haphazard stack of crates, the air shifted. A section of the wall gave way with a near-silent pivot, revealing the descent into something much deeper.

The staircase was long and narrow, lit by dim, flickering bulbs that barely kept the underground gloom at bay. As they descended, the scent of dust and aged wood was slowly overtaken by something more alive—tobacco smoke, ink-stained parchment, the acrid tang of metal. When they finally reached the bottom, the space opened up, and Emmrich was met with a sight that rooted him in place.

The Shadow Dragons’ hideout stretched beneath the city like a forgotten nerve center. Maps, ledgers, and coded messages covered long wooden tables where men and women hunched over their work, sleeves rolled up, murmuring in low voices. Smugglers unloaded crates from shadowed tunnels, the contents carefully tucked away—medical supplies, forged documents, goods that meant survival for those without legal names or papers.

Instead of the grime and chaos he had imagined, there was a strange elegance to it—an order within the secrecy, a purpose behind every action. His gaze traced the methodical movements of the people around him, the efficiency of it all piquing his curiosity rather than setting him on edge.

He turned to Francesca, voice thoughtful. “This is…” He trailed off, searching for the right word, but he wasn’t sure there was one.

She studied him for a moment, something flickering in her expression—something almost like relief. “Not what you were expecting?”

“No,” he admitted, glancing back at the movement of bodies, at the quiet precision in which they operated. “Not at all.”

A heavy ledger slammed shut somewhere in the room, followed by the sharp clack of a heel and the faint clank of metal on stone.

“There you are,” a smooth voice rang out from around the corner.

A dark-haired woman in a sharp suit strode toward them, her movements fluid and deliberate. A crooked smile tugged at her lips as she exhaled a thin plume of smoke from the cigarette perched between her fingers.

Francesca stepped slightly aside, tilting her head toward him. “Emmrich, this is Neve Gallus.”

At the name, Neve’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Ah, Professor,” she greeted, extending a hand toward him. Her grip was firm, her gaze assessing.

Emmrich returned the handshake readily.

“Just the person we needed,” Neve murmured before turning on her heel. “Follow me to the morgue,” she instructed without further introduction, waving them forward with not a second glance.

Emmrich hesitated mid-step, his brows lifting. “A morgue? Here?” He glanced at Francesca in disbelief. “I thought we’d be examining the bodies at a police station.”

Neve scoffed, flicking ash from her cigarette. “Oh, we

are

the police,” she said with a smirk, as though the thought of explaining further amused her too much to bother.

Emmrich let the words settle, the implications sinking in as they wound through the underground corridors. The Shadow Dragons weren’t just an operation working in the margins—they had their hands in everything. And they had far more influence than he had initially understood.

“Have you seen Dorian?” Francesca asked as they turned a corner, her tone clipped with barely restrained patience.

At that, Neve chuckled—a knowing, almost mischievous sound. Emmrich felt Francesca tense beside him, irritation radiating off her in waves. He didn’t need to ask to know Dorian had likely pushed his luck with her again, but as he recalled, that was very much the nature of their relationship.

Neve finally relented. “He’s down here,” she said, tapping a finger against the cold metal door they’d arrived at. “And he’s

giddy

about something.”

Emmrich barely had time to process before Neve pushed the door open. A rush of cold air spilled out, stark and sterile, carrying the scent of antiseptic and something hollow beneath it—something wrong. Inside, three bodies lay on steel slabs, still and waiting.

All three were men, their skin unnaturally pale, drained of blood until not a trace remained in or on them. Their veins, stark against the translucence of their flesh, painted a haunting picture of emptiness. And yet, despite the deep lacerations carved into their bodies, there was no blood spatter, no staining of the surrounding flesh. Not even the one whose head was detached. Post-mortem wounds. Someone had taken care to make it look brutal—perhaps to mislead, perhaps for something far worse.

Emmrich exhaled slowly, his breath fogging slightly in the morgue’s chill. From Francesca’s debrief in the car, they had already suspected the victims were pieces of the same story—separate lives tied together by one unseen hand.

From beyond the room, a familiar head popped into view, grey-eyed and grinning.

“Ah! Professor,” Dorian exclaimed, his face lighting up as though he had been expecting a much grander entrance. He strode forward eagerly, clad in a mortician’s garb, gloves and all. “I’d offer a handshake, but I

just

finished pulling out the bodies.”

Emmrich smiled, unfazed. “Good to see you, Dorian.” His gaze flicked toward the bodies, assessing the scene as Francesca crossed her arms, pinning Dorian with a glare.

“Convenient timing, don’t you think?” she muttered, stepping toward him with slow, deliberate menace.

If Dorian noticed—or rather,

cared

—he didn’t show it. Years of enduring Francesca’s ire had clearly made him immune. His grin remained perfectly intact.

“I thought so,” he quipped breezily before turning back to Emmrich, ever the picture of nonchalance. “Now, Professor.” He gestured toward the slabs, leading them to the first body. “This was our first victim, and I’ve arranged the others in order from there. Not sure it

matters

, but in case it does…” He trailed off with a shrug, feigning casual indifference.

Emmrich arched a brow. Dorian’s rambling was a clear attempt to steamroll past whatever grievance Francesca held against him. Beside him, she fumed with barely restrained frustration, her gaze drilling into Dorian’s skull like a dagger.

Emmrich decided on another approach.

“Ah, I see,

Master Pavus

—still handling the dead with all the grace of an acolyte,” he mused, strolling forward with a dignified poise.

He was rewarded with a quiet snicker from behind him.

Dorian, meanwhile, looked positively scandalized.

Emmrich allowed himself a smirk. “Nevertheless, I do appreciate the convenience in which you’ve arranged them.”

Francesca sidled up beside Dorian, the tension in her shoulders easing, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “We’ll take it from here, Dorian,” she said, effectively dismissing him as she stepped across from Emmrich.

For a moment, time collapsed. It was twenty years ago, and a younger Francesca stood across from him just before she walked out of his life. The memory struck like a phantom blow—brief, sharp, and unwelcome. He blinked it away, forcing himself to focus. Pale and rigid in death, something about this body sent a chill up his spine.

Across the slab, Francesca fidgeted with the cloth beneath the corpse, her fingers grasping the edges out of habit. There were no bones to catch, no delicate work to be done, but the gesture was familiar—too familiar. It sent him reeling. He forced himself to steady his breath.

Focus.

Dorian and Neve lingered at the far end of the table as Emmrich raised his hands, slipping into the well-practiced cadence of the chant.

“

Let flame rekindle your sight. Let breath and light rise again.

”

A green glow unfurled from his fingertips, drifting toward the body, weaving the spirit back into cold flesh, coaxing life into stillness. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the body’s eyes snapped open, blank and unseeing.

Emmrich’s voice was calm, commanding. “Who did this to you?”

The corpse exhaled, a sound that started as a whisper—a hiss curling past rigid lips. It grew, shifting, rising, until it became a scream.

Something was wrong.

The body twitched violently, jerking against the slab in unnatural movements, the noise swelling into something inhuman. Francesca stiffened, her hands curling into fists, but she didn’t look away. Dorian had gone rigid, a rare unease crossing his face, while Neve stood stone-still, watching.

Emmrich’s voice sharpened. “Who did this to you?”

The shrieking twisted, warping into something desperate. The corpse’s mouth formed words between the wailing, shaping something just beyond understanding. Emmrich’s stomach turned—there was something else at work here. A curse. He could feel the spirit energy fraying, unraveling as the force resisting him fought back.

He pushed harder. “

Give me a name!

”

The sound changed. The wailing took shape, syllables breaking through the madness.

Daaaannnnteeee.

Emmrich’s breath caught. His pulse roared in his ears as the name solidified, clear as day.

He severed the connection immediately, cutting the energy flow in an instant. The body collapsed with a lifeless thud against the slab.

Silence.

Emmrich barely registered the room around him—the way Dorian slowly lowered his hand from his mouth, his usual ease replaced with something stark and unfamiliar, or the sharp glance Neve shot between them, waiting for confirmation.

All he saw was Francesca.

She had gone pale, her face drawn tight in an expression he had never wanted to see again. Step by step, she backed away until her shoulders hit the cold wall behind her. Her breath came too fast, too shallow, her chest rising and falling like she was trying to control it, failing. But it was her eyes that struck him hardest—locked on the corpse, wide and unblinking, like if she looked away, it might rise and drag her back into a nightmare she had long since buried.

Neve’s voice cut through the heavy air. “Did he just say

Dante

?”

No one answered.

Emmrich barely heard her. His world had narrowed to the way Francesca had folded in on herself, the way her hands trembled even as she clenched them into fists, as if sheer will alone could keep the fear at bay. He had seen her stand unflinching before men with blood on their hands. He had seen her weather betrayal, pain, and loss with nothing more than a tight jaw and a steady glare.

A cold weight settled in his chest, something possessive, protective. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back from wherever her mind had taken her, but something told him she wouldn’t accept it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“He’s dead,” she whispered, her voice thin, raw.

She was speaking to herself more than anyone, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

Her eyes never left the corpse.

Emmrich swallowed hard, the name echoing between them like a ghost refusing to rest.

Dante.

Her ex-husband.

The name neither of them had spoken in years. The name neither of them had ever truly escaped.