"Mr. Leonhart!" The servant's voice carries a note of strained formality as he crosses the room, draping the blood-spattered coat over his arm. My breath catches in my throat as I try to signal him, a sharp whisper turning into a hissed command. "Hey! No! Wait!! I don't need a carriage!"
But my protest falls into the thick silence that follows. Leonhart, now freed of his dark cloak, glances back at me with a cold, assessing gaze before returning to his conversation with Isaiah. They speak in hushed tones, their voices a muted rumble beneath the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic patter of rain against the window. The old woman behind the counter pauses her knitting to grin, gums shiny and wet as her eyes dart to the oozing stump of a severed arm on the table.
I stare at the soup in front of me, forcing down a bite that turns sour in my mouth. I focus on the taste—herbs, salt, meat. It's chicken. It has to be chicken. But doubt coils in my gut, refusing to loosen.
Leonhart's voice cuts through the room, sharp and authoritative. "Alright, Isaiah, bring me your magic food. Something to wash the night out of my bones."
I swallow, each muscle in my throat straining as he moves into the dining area and settles at the table directly in front of me.
I'm Mel. I'm Iza. I'm the poor girl from the Highspire.
The demon with the pretty lips.
Well, not a bad start for that. But the worst one.
He drops into the chair with a sigh, the back of his wet hair sticking to his neck, ink-dark and glistening. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt as he tugs off his gloves, fingers flexing like he's testing their freedom. He mutters something about the storm and the trouble it's caused him, words dipped in exhaustion and amusement.
The urge to disappear into the shadows gnaws at me, but I force myself to stand, dragging my chair back with a screech that echoes louder than it should.
Leonhart's hand pauses mid-motion, and the air grows thick, expectant.
Isaiah's cheerful voice breaks the silence. "Oh, right! This miss was asking for a ride to Heavenspire."
The room stills, the only sounds the popping of the fire and the thud of my heart. I take a gulp of water, too fast, and choke, the liquid burning in my chest. Leonhart turns slowly, dark eyes finding mine with an expression that shifts from disinterest to keen curiosity.
"Is he the carriage driver?" I rasp, my voice rough and raw as the water claws at my throat. He's the one who tossed the bloody arm into the room minutes ago. A man who wields violence as easily as breathing.
Leonhart's eyes narrow, his lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach those cold, calculating eyes. "Yes, I am." He lifts his glass, swirling the contents before taking a sip, eyes still locked on mine. "And do tell me, little miss, what takes you to that forsaken hole?"
I clench my hands into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms to stop their shaking. "My uncle owns the bar there," I say, the lie forming effortlessly, my voice steady enough to mask the fear coiling in my stomach.
Leonhart's brow arches, interest sparking as he leans back in his chair. "Jerad Draven?" His gaze shifts to Isaiah, who confirms with a nod and a wary glance in my direction. Leonhart's smirk deepens. "Didn't he sell all of his girls off? He wept, as I recall. Like a child. I was barely a boy, but I remember the sound."
The room seems to close in around me, walls pressing tighter. "I'll find my own way," I say, making for the staircase.
But Isaiah moves quickly, intercepting me with a raised hand. "Wait, miss. You need to answer the questions first, or you won't be allowed past the checkpoint. It's not optional."
Leonhart chuckles, the sound as sharp and grating as shattered glass. "So you're the one who ran away," he says, snapping his fingers as if fitting together puzzle pieces. "Are you back for a reunion, or just courting trouble?" His eyes sparkle with wicked amusement, daring me to answer.
I look between him and Isaiah, the weight of the room pressing on my chest. "I'm here for my uncle," I repeat, a tightness in my throat that threatens to choke the words.
Leonhart studies me, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "You know how this works," he says, leaning forward. "No one moves from Crossreach to Solisra without facing the Midnight Syndicate's scrutiny. We don't just guard the border, we safeguard the secrets on either side of it. Now, cooperate."
Isaiah glances at me, guilt flitting across his face before he drops his eyes. "It's true, miss. Answering their questions is non-negotiable."
My mind races. I've known of the Syndicate, of course. To most, they're just a licensed trading company, moving textiles and exotic goods under the stamp of the palace. But whispers in the dark tell of other things—smuggling, assassinations, deals that keep the underbelly of Solisra alive while the Uppercity turns a blind eye. Sir Gillion taught me that much.
I swallow those thoughts, forcing them deep. "He's my uncle," I say again, sharper this time. "What else do you want to know?"
Leonhart's expression softens to something almost playful. "Your name?"
"Mel," I say.
"Age?"
"Twenty."
"Reason for visiting?"
I hesitate. "That depends," I say, my voice faltering just enough to catch his attention.
"... Is that your real hair?" he asks suddenly, gaze darting to the uneven, cropped mess that had once been my pride. I am guessing that he is asking about the color.
My jaw tenses, eyes flicking to the blood seeping along the wooden tabletop, a crimson river trickling toward the floor. "Is that a real hand?" I counter, pulse racing as I hold his stare.
Leonhart's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "And what will you do if it is?" His tone drips with mockery, but there's a thread of something else beneath it, a challenge.
I swallow. "What can I do?"
"Ah, a question for a question," he says, the mockery fading to something unreadable. He swirls his drink, gaze flicking between me and the dark liquid before him. "There's nothing you can do, Miss. absolutely nothing."
The silence that follows throbs like an open wound. He stands, stretching with a grunt, his shadow stretching across the floor like an omen. "Thank you for your cooperation. I'll report to the office. If you receive approval, I'll be here at eight sharp. Don't be late—or do. It makes no difference to me."
He walks to the door, pausing only long enough to snatch the severed arm as if it's an afterthought, then disappears into the rain-slicked night. The room seems to exhale, the scent of blood lingering like a bitter promise.
For a moment, only the soft patter of rain against the window fills the silence. Isaiah bows, the movement stiff and unnatural. "My apologies, miss. It's protocol."
"No tip for you," I say, voice breaking as I turn for the stairs. "And your food is terrible."
The climb back to my room feels endless, every creaking step echoing down the empty hall. I slip inside and lean against the door, breath hitching as my fingers twitch from the chill settling under my skin. Outside, the storm claws at the window, rattling the glass, as if the world itself wants in.
I rake my fingers through my hair, scoffing under my breath. A small, bitter laugh escapes me, half-buried beneath the thunder. Nerves, perhaps, from that awful drink—or maybe something else. A strange feeling stirs, like the familiar sting of salt in an old wound. It's almost like coming home after a long day, but the irony lingers, and yet... now is when I feel it.
Crossing the room, I pick up my favorite novel, but my gaze is drawn to the vial, its silvery liquid swirling and shifting from green to red, like blood caught in the moonlight. Normally, I choke it down with something strong or briny to kill the taste, yet tonight there's none of that.
And somehow, I can't shake the sense that I might not need it. Not for a while, at least.
Something inside me stirs, dark and elusive like a creature blinking awake beneath the surface. I close my eyes, letting the storm rage against the panes, the thrill of it unfurling in the quiet.
Someone is watching me.