So he does.
2
Ash leaves after coffee.
Not because I asked him to, though I would have eventually, but because he knows me well enough to understand I need to process this alone. He kisses my forehead on his way out, lingers just a moment too long, and I pretend not to notice the way his hand tightens on my shoulder before he leaves.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says at the door.
“I will,” I lie.
The lock clicks behind him. The sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, as final as a period at the end of a sentence I don’t want to finish. I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of solitude settle over me like a familiar coat. Heavy. Threadbare in places. But mine.
The apartment feels bigger when he’s gone. Emptier. The morning light coming through the windows is thin and gray, making everything look washed out, two-dimensional. Dust motes drift in the air, lazy and aimless. The traffic outside is picking up, morning rush hour, people heading to normal jobs where the biggest danger is terrible coffee and tedious meetings.
I envy them all just for a moment. Just enough to taste it, bitter on the back of my tongue.
Then I turn back to the kitchen table, to the seven letters spread out like evidence at a crime scene, and the envy evaporates. Replaced by something colder. Sharper.
Fear, maybe. Or fury. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
I make more coffee, my third cup, and it’s not even eight AM, using the ritual of it to keep my hands busy. Measure the grounds. Fill the reservoir. Listen to the machine hiss and gurgle. The smell fills the small kitchen, dark and bitter and grounding. Real. Coffee is real. Coffee is normal.
Nothing about my life has been normal since I turned eighteen and Gramms sat me down in her pristine kitchen and explained exactly what our bloodline could do.
“You can break contracts that bind souls,”she’d said, her pale gray eyes watching me with the intensity of a scientist observing a specimen.“It’s in your blood. Angel blood, diluted over four generations, but still potent enough to matter. Most humans with angel ancestry can do parlor tricks, light candles, see auras, parlor nonsense. But our line? We can reach into the divine contracts themselves and sever them. It’s a gift.”
I’d stared at her, furious at being pulled out of school for this conversation, and said,“It sounds more like a curse.”
She’d smiled then. Thin and cold as a knife blade.“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
I pour the coffee into a mug, chipped ceramic, white with a faded logo from some conference I never attended, and carry it back to the table. The steam rises in lazy spirals, and I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. Warmth. Solid. Real.
The letters are still here, of course. They didn’t disappear while I was making coffee and thinking of Gramms. A girl can dream.
I’ve been staring at them for an hour, and they still make little sense. Or maybe they make too much sense, and I just don’t want to accept it.
Seven years.
Seven years of my life, signed away by a woman who’s been dead for six months.
I pick up the first letter again, the one from Croesus, Lord of the House of Gold, and read it for the fourth time. The words haven’t changed. The elegant script, the gold ink, the casual arrogance of every word.
I set the letter down, reaching for the second one. Break the seal, broken chains, House of Ruin, and unfold the parchment.
The paper is heavier than it should be. Not regular paper, nor parchment either. Something else. Something that feels organic under my fingers, like skin or silk or something I don’t want to think about too hard. It’s black, pure black, and the silver ink seems to float on top of it rather than soak in.
Raven Vesper,
Your grandmother’s debt to the House of Ruin remains unpaid. One year of service is owed. You will report to my House after your time with Gold is complete.
Do not make me come find you.
Seraph
First of Hubris
Lord of the House of Ruin
