We ventured east into the city’s warehouse district. The air was damp with canal mist, and the scent of oil and mildew clung to the brickwork. Near the water’s edge, Tristan and I scaled a rusted ladder bolted to the side of a rug factory. Its metal rungs groaned under our weight, echoing faintly across the still canal.

At the rooftop, the tarpaper crunched beneath our boots. A row of ventilation ducts hissed quietly, exhaling steam into the night. We slipped through a maintenance hatch and emerged onto a narrow catwalk suspended high above the factory floor. Below, rows of looms sat dormant, their threads slack like forgotten webs. Hanging lights swayed gently, some flickering with erratic pulses. Their glow was too weak to reveal us unless we chose to be seen.

“You’re pouting,” Tristan said, his voice low but edged.

“I’m upset,” I replied, not bothering to mask it.

He led us to a vantage point overlooking the ground floor. From there, we could see the warehouse’s far end—where movement stirred. Men, half-shadowed, drifted between crates and machinery. Their presence was deliberate and hurried. They weren’t common workers.

“I’m sorry, okay,” Tristan offered, his tone more measured now.

“Then you understand about the dragon?”

“I don’t care about the dragon,” he said, eyes scanning the floor below. “I’m sorry Earth hasn’t been easy. But it’s because you’re with me. You have no idea how tame I’ve been to ease your transition. But we were never going to agree on everything. Once you have a conduit, you can do things your way. Things will be more like they were before you fell, and these struggles you have will be small.”

The city outside slept, but inside that place, something stirred—intentional, quiet, dangerous. 

Anticipation, but of what?

“What matters to you more, Aaron?” Tristan asked. “That I tell you everything, or that I want the best for you?”

“I want both,” I said, though my attention was split. The men below weren’t loitering. Tristan had said we were meant to meet someone, but who?

“You can’t have everything,” he murmured. “You couldn’t in the overlands, I couldn’t in the underlands. Earth is no different.”

I sighed. “Then no more lies.”

“You lied to me too, didn’t you?” he said, not accusing—just stating. “Sometimes, the truth hurts more.”

“I apologize for my weakness,” I said. “But let me decide what I suffer. Isn’t that a part of the demon way?”

“We let others suffer,” Tristan said. “Friends, allies, enemies. But we’re more than that, aren’t we? You have no reason to suffer if we’re together.”

His words were layered, deliberate. My pain was his—if I allowed it. But I knew the cost. His pain would become mine as well. Even with truths laid bare, we remained cloaked in shadows of omission.

The men below, dressed in matching blue coveralls, moved crates in and out of the warehouse. Something about it felt wrong. They were thieves.

“Why are we here?” I asked bluntly, my curiosity curdling into concern.

“Lanor should be here shortly,” Tristan replied, his voice calm, almost bored.

“Yes, but why are we hiding?”

“Are we?”

“Who are those people, Tristan?”

“Watch,” he said. “You’ll understand in a moment.”

Seconds passed in taut silence. Then, chaos.

An orange forklift burst through a wall of sheet metal with a shriek of tearing steel. Sparks scattered like fireflies. Before the vehicle had fully stopped, a figure leapt from the driver’s seat—fluid, deliberate.

She landed in a crouch, glass-bladed sword already drawn. The weapon shimmered like frozen light, catching the glow of the hanging lamps. Without hesitation, she lunged at the nearest man. Her blade sliced through him in a clean arc, and blood sprayed across the concrete like spilled ink. He collapsed before he could scream.

“She’s wielding a wakizashi,” Tristan murmured, a grin tugging at his lips. “I thought it was a katana at first, but there’s a difference.”

I couldn’t speak. My breath caught in my throat as the woman—Lanor—moved like a storm through the warehouse. Her blade danced, each strike precise and final. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. Thanks to her weapon's short length, she had to get in close to achieve every  blow, but there wasn't an once of hesitation in her stride.

One man raised a crowbar in defense; she sidestepped and drove her sword through his chest with surgical grace.

“She’s killing them,” I whispered.

“Don’t feel sorry for those dirt bags,” Tristan said. “Lanor is doing a service.”

“Lanor?”

“The woman with the sword. Keep up.”

She was a blur of motion—cutting, pivoting, striking. Her footsteps were soft quick paters, her expression empty. The men shouted, cursed, fired weapons. None of it mattered. She moved like every motion was dance that had been rehearsed a thousand times over. Each death was a signature.

“She’s butchering those men.”

“They’re murderers, kidnappers, smugglers,” Tristan said. “I don’t know the specifics, but they aren’t good people, Aaron.”

“So she has the right to judge them? To kill them?”

The stench of blood reached us—thick, metallic, and familiar. It reminded me of Red Market. Though we remained above, untouched, we were complicit. We allowed the act of butchery to play on without interruption. Lanor wasn’t just executing criminals; she was performing a ritual. A purge.

“You could finish this fight in an instant,” I said.

“Not without wasting a marble,” Tristan replied. “Besides, she’s already done.”

I scanned the warehouse floor, searching for her. But she was gone. My stomach twisted when I realized where she’d gone—and what she’d found.

Lanor stood on the catwalk with us, her blade raised, the glass tip resting against my chin. Her eyes were unreadable, but her intent was clear.

“Aaron, this is Lanor, my friend,” Tristan said, stepping forward. “Lanor, this is Aaron, my mate.”

She didn’t lower the blade until Tristan placed himself between us. Her hostility lingered like static.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice clipped and cold.

“We were here on time. You should have told me where to find you,” Tristan replied.

“You should have asked,” Lanor said, sliding her blood-slick blade into its sheath with practiced ease.

She wasn’t like Tarlac’s other students. Lanor wasn’t a student at all. She had learned the art of crafting magical objects directly from Tristan. Their bond was likely forged in trade, not tutelage. She was someone my friend had chosen to help. Someone he cared for.

But why?

On the catwalk, Tristan placed his hand over Lanor’s glass blade, channeling magic into the weapon. Pale light shimmered along its edge, pulsing like a heartbeat. As the charge took hold, Lanor spoke—her voice steady, but worn thin by exhaustion.

“There’s an old tradition where I’m from,” she said quietly. “Most people don’t follow it anymore. Some don’t even remember it. But my husband did. His family kept the old ways alive, even when the world stopped listening.”

The blade hummed faintly beneath Tristan’s palm. Below us, the distant groan of the forklift echoed through the warehouse—metal grinding against metal, crates crushed under its weight. Lanor waited for the noise to pass before continuing.

“When a couple married, they were given two swords—a katana and a wakizashi. The man took the katana. The woman, the wakizashi. If the man died first, he was buried with his blade. And the woman had a choice: end her life, or seek vengeance for the love she’d lost. If she succeeded, she could remarry. If she failed—if she couldn’t die or couldn’t avenge him—her soul was condemned to wander hell forever.”

She glanced at the blade, watching its glow deepen.

“If the wife died first, the man buried his katana with her. Then he had a choice too—use her wakizashi to end his life, or avenge her and follow her to the grave. If he succeeded, he earned the right to take another lover in the afterlife.”

Lanor’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “But if either blade broke, the gods considered the marriage disavowed. That was the end of it.”

She paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

“Three years ago, my husband was murdered. I buried him with his katana. Since then, I’ve been hunting the ones responsible. But during the fight, my wakizashi was stolen. And by the old ways, my marriage isn’t over until that blade breaks.”

Her tone softened, almost wistful. “I loved my husband more than pineapple cake. So I made a new blade—one that matched the one I lost. I broke several trying to get it right. And I nearly died more times than I can count when I decided to use them. This city’s full of monsters dressed like men. I didn’t stand a chance alone.”

She turned to Tristan. “Then he found me. I was bleeding out on a rooftop, cold and fading. He taught me how to craft a blade that wouldn’t break. One that heals. All he asked in return was help finding something he’d lost.”

“You killed those men,” I said quietly. “You cut them down like paper. I understand grief— that is to say no one truly does—but how can you be so blunt, so hard-hearted to your own kind?”

Tristan returned the blade to her. It pulsed once, then dimmed.

The craftsmanship must have been extraordinary. Charging it had taken longer than the explosion that shattered Hamilton’s stone watch. Had Tristan delayed a moment longer, Lanor might have collapsed.

At first glance, she seemed unharmed. But her clothes told a different story—white cigarette pants riddled with bullet holes, a yellow long-sleeved top soaked in blood. She should have been dead.

Then she grasped the blade.

Smoke curled from her skin, erasing wounds as if they’d never existed. The blood vanished. The holes sealed. She stood whole again, as if reborn.

We left the rug factory once she could move without strain. Lanor led the way, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with impossible speed. She moved like a whisper— cutting through the air, no hesitation. Tristan carried me by the hands, his wings slicing through the air. My limbs ached from the strain, but I held on. Even at his fastest, we could barely keep pace with Lanor.

My wings remained dormant. All I could do was trust his grip and endure. The city blurred beneath us, a web of lights and shadows. Thankfully, the view was awe-inspiring enough to distract me from the thought of falling. But I knew—if I slipped, I’d drop like a discarded fruit.

We didn’t know where we were headed. Only that we needed distance from the carnage.

When we finally landed on a rooftop, Lanor spoke again.

“I won’t quit until I find whoever murdered my husband and retrieve my lost wakizashi.”

Snow fell endlessly in that city, but on that night, it was gentle. Looking up, one could mistake ice for stars—until one or the other touched. The cold bit at my skin, but I’d grown used to it. Still, I shivered.

“Then we should help you,” I offered.

Lanor shook her head. “No.”

“We can find them. This endless slaughter—it’s aimless. Tristan and—” I argued shortly.

“No,” Tristan cut in, turning me away. “We’re not going on another scavenger hunt, Aaron.”

“We helped Hamilton. Let’s help Lanor.”

“Lanor doesn’t want our help. And we never found Hamilton’s sister. All we know is she’s back on Earth.”

“She needs us. Or do you want her to face more nights like these?”

Tristan kicked snow off the edge of the roof and rolled his eyes.

“She’s not like Hamilton. Even if we find who she’s looking for, she won’t stop. She needs the pain.”

“You believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lanor said, stepping between us. Her gaze was distant, but resolute. “This is my war.”

"Then why tell me, why tell us your story?" I questioned. 

"So you know not to interfere. So you know why," she answered before turning to Tristan. "I will find what you have asked for. Our arrangement is still good, Yes?"

He nodded and told her, "Aaron won't stop you, but I thought the two of you might like one another. You're both all about goodness and justice." 

Lanor glanced at me again. Her eyes were colder than the wind before she left us. In the blur of falling snow, she vanished—leaving Tristan and me to argue beneath a sky that couldn’t decide if it was shedding stars or sorrow.