I grabbed my coat from the hook and left the house. I didn’t slam the door; the quiet click as it closed behind me felt louder than a scream.
I stepped out into the rain, the drizzle slapping my face instantly. I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking with adrenaline and rage, and dialled the one number that mattered right now.
He picked up on the second ring. “Lennox.”
“I need to talk,” I said, voice tight. “Meet me in thirty minutes.”
“See you there, Sel.”
The line went dead. He didn’t ask where. He just knew.
I pocketed the phone and headed for the main road to hail a cab, leaving the stillness of my father’s house behind me.
The rain fellin a relentless drumbeat against the taxi’s roof. I gave the driver the address for The Gloam Room, a late-night institution in Midtown Row. The Old Quarter slipped away, terraced house fronts blurring into the rain—worn and safe.
My father’s face flashed in my mind. The fear in hiseyes. The way he shut down, became that brick wall he hid behind whenever I pushed too close to the past.
Daniel Thorne. The name rattled around my skull. A dead partner. A warning.
The taxi bounced over the worn cobblestones, then smoothed out as we exited the Quarter and entered the Highspire District. The buildings here shot upwards, gleaming steel and glass piercing the dark sky. Pristine. Bright. It felt like a stage set, ready to be dismantled once the performance was over. Arcane Council, bureaucratic power, people like Darian Morrow playing their petty games of jurisdiction—they thrived here, their cold ambition reflected in every polished surface.
I watched the streaks of light from passing cars stretch and distort across the rain-slicked windows. This was where secrets festered, where power silenced truth.
“Bloody weather,” the driver muttered, pulling me back from the edge of my thoughts.
“Tell me about it.” I rubbed my aching joint. The throb, a steady drum against my skin, echoed the anger tightening in my gut. I tried to hold onto that fury, but the memory of his face weakened it. He buried the truth because it killed Daniel Thorne, and he was terrified it would kill me too.
Highspire soon gave way to the chaotic rush of Midtown Row. This was the city’s heart, loud and unapologetically human. Neon lights bled into the rain, painting the street in garish smears of red and blue. Shops, cinemas, restaurants—a frantic noise of urban life that never truly slept.
The taxi rolled to a stop at The Gloam Room. Matte-black façade with a glowing purple sigil-style logo above the door—no magic, just aesthetics, or so they claimed. Two Varkyn bouncers, slabs of muscle in dark suits, stood sentinel under the inadequate awning. I paid the driver, ignoring his offer of a receipt.
Inside, a wall of thumping bass crashed into me, the scent of spilled drinks, cheap perfume, and something metallic, like rain onhot asphalt. The collective emotional noise of a hundred people chasing a late-night high slammed into my worn shields, kicking the dull empathic ache behind my eyes up to a solid five. I pushed through the crowd, an organism of humans and Varkyn and whatever else had found its way here tonight, ignoring the main bar.
My usual spot waited.
The corridor to the back lounges was quieter, lit by soft indigo strips. Velvet booths, muted obsidian and deep plum, lined the walls where glass-topped tables glimmered faintly.
Dane sat there, a dark shadow against the dim light. His eyes, usually intense, softened slightly as I approached. He’d already ordered, of course. My Lumen Whisper, a soft glow in a tall glass, sat on the table pulsing gently. He knew. He always knew.
I slid into the booth opposite him, the plush velvet giving way beneath me.
“You look drained,” he observed, voice barely audible beneath the pounding bass of the club. He nudged the glass my way.
I wrapped my fingers around the cool glass, grounding myself.
“You would be as well,” I said, “if you had just discovered your father had been sitting on a cover-up for decades.”
FIVE
“He’s like a sealed vault, that one,” I continued, the bitterness sharp around the edges of my words.
I stared into the glowing liquid of my Lumen Whisper, watching the light refract through the glass.
“I told him I knew his name was wiped from the record.”
Dane studied me, his gaze narrowing. He picked up his glass, swirling the dark liquid. “And?”
“He shut down. Told me to drop it. But he looked… terrified.” I slid my glass across the table, the condensation leaving a wet streak on the black surface. “He gave me a name: Daniel Thorne. His partner. Thorne was the warning shot. He dug too deep twenty years ago, and he ended up dead. Eamon survived because he learned to keep his mouth shut.”
