Ashgrave was a city of contradictions.

By day its skyscrapers gleamed like glass teeth, thrusting against a sky forever hazed with smoke. By night, the smoke thickened, sinking down into the cobblestones, curling around the ankles of whoever walked its streets. The city breathed in secrets and exhaled sins; everything it touched smelled faintly of iron and ash.

The Docklands roared at night—steel cranes creaking, gulls crying, wolves laughing too loud after cheap whiskey and blood. Across the river, the Glass District pulsed with light, vampires riding in sleek cars with windows black as obsidian. And in the Old Quarter, witches etched chalk sigils into worn brick walls, the symbols glowing faintly before the rain washed them away. Every district hummed with its own rhythm: hunger, glamour, rage.

But none of them truly slept. Ashgrave didn't allow it.

And in the Veil District—where cobblestones still remembered centuries of boots, where gas lamps bent under the weight of neon—the city's heart beat in amber. Not from the towers, not from the docks, not from the covens' guarded halls, but from one bar that glowed warmer than it had any right to.

They called it The Hound's Tooth.

It wasn't the biggest, nor the richest, nor the most dangerous haunt Ashgrave had to offer. But everyone knew it. Witches whispered about it, wolves drank in it, vampires circled around it like moths around flame. Even humans, though they didn't always realize why, stumbled toward its doors on nights they shouldn't have been anywhere near the Veil District.

The Hound's Tooth drew its clientele like moths to lanterns that very night.

A pack wolf stumbled down Ash Street first, boots scuffing the cobbles, his laughter slurred and too sharp at the edges. The door swung open, and amber light spilled across his scarred face. He stopped laughing the moment he stepped inside. Everyone knew the Tooth wasn't Docklands; you checked your teeth at the door.

Behind him drifted a vampire in tailored charcoal, a coat too fine for the Veil District's grime. He didn't so much walk as glide, pale hands tucked behind his back, smile too polished for the hour. His eyes never left the wolf, and the wolf never looked back. That was the Tooth's trick—putting enemies in the same room and daring them to blink.

Two witches came next, their charms dangling from wrists like cheap jewelry. Not coven witches—too ragged, too hungry—but hedge types who bartered hexes for coin. Their whispers curled like smoke as they slipped inside, one pausing just long enough to trace a protective sign on the doorframe before Elara's wards snapped it out. The Tooth didn't tolerate competition.

And finally, laughter.

A woman in silk the color of old wine swayed into the amber glow, heels clicking, lipstick shining like fresh blood. Lantern Walk's lights still clung to her skin, softening the bruises beneath her powder. Iris Vey—or "V" to anyone who knew her name too well. She blew a kiss at no one in particular and sauntered toward the bar like it belonged to her.

The door swung shut behind her, and Ash Street was left in smoke again.

Inside, the air shifted. Amber light pressed against old wood, glass caught every reflection, and beneath it all was the hum of something older, something that thrummed through the floorboards like a heartbeat. The Hound's Tooth wasn't safe. It wasn't meant to be.

But it was neutral ground, and in Ashgrave, that was worth more than safety.

And it was there—behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smile curving like a blade—that Malachi Ward polished a glass, ready for the night.

Keeping the peace as much as pouring the drinks, was a demon.

Not that most would know it.

To the casual eye, Malachi was just a bartender—smiling too easily, eyes catching too much. He poured sin into crystal glasses with the grace of a man born to ruin and made you feel like confessing something you hadn't meant to say. To most, that was explanation enough.

But it wasn't Malachi who kept the Hound's Tooth alive.

It was her.

Elara Keene. Self-taught witch, bar-owner, survivor. The only person in Ashgrave who could command a devil and make it look like business.

As she wiped a damp ring from the counter with the heel of her hand, the rag slung over her shoulder doing little more than smearing the stain. No matter—this bar had been born with scars. The trick wasn't polishing them away; it was pretending you'd meant to collect them.

Her eyes tracked the newcomers the way a hunter watched movement in the underbrush. The wolf slouched onto a stool, trying to look harmless. She counted his breaths, the twitch of his jaw, the way his knuckles tapped the wood—Docklands tells, all of them. He wouldn't start trouble, not here, not with Malachi's shadow falling across him like it always did. But still, Elara watched.

The vampire she watched harder. Expensive coat, colder smile, the kind of aristocrat who thought the Veil District was a zoo and he was the collector. His kind always acted as though the Tooth was beneath them, and yet somehow, they never stopped coming back. Curiosity, arrogance, hunger—it was hard to tell the difference, and Elara kept her distance most days.

The hedge-witches she barely glanced at. They knew their place. In Ashgrave, you survived by walking under the feet of bigger predators and hoping no one noticed the scurrying. She didn't despise them for it—she only hated how much of herself she still saw in them.

And then there was V.

Elara almost smiled despite herself as Iris leaned over the bar, perfume drowning out smoke, lips already curving around some joke Elara wouldn't care to hear. V's laugh carried too far, but it was better than the silence she sometimes wore when she stumbled in bruised and tired. Tonight she looked whole, or as close as Lantern Walk ever allowed.

Elara gave her the faintest nod—a greeting, a permission, a warning not to push it too far.

Across the counter, Malachi caught her eye and raised one brow. He was already pouring V's usual, his long fingers loose and elegant on the bottle neck. The demon always made it look like art, like the drink was something worth selling your soul for. Patrons swore that was just his way, but Elara knew better.

And she hated that she liked watching it anyway.

"Black Velvet," Malachi said smoothly, sliding a glass across the counter before Iris could even open her mouth. "Extra bitters. Unless tonight you're feeling sweet?"

V laughed, the sound bright and sharp as broken glass. "Sweet doesn't suit me, Devil. You know that." She curled her fingers around the stem, tipped the drink to her lips, and licked the foam from her mouth in a way that made the wolf at the end of the bar nearly choke on his whiskey.

Malachi's smile curved. He didn't look away from her, but his voice carried toward Elara. "Your regular's predictable as ever."

Elara snorted, folding her rag and tucking it into the belt at her hip. "Predictable keeps the glasses intact. You'd know, if you ever tried it."

V tapped her nail against the rim of her glass. "Oh, don't scowl, Mama Keene. If you keep glaring at everyone like that, the wrinkles'll settle permanently."

Elara gave her a flat look, the kind she usually reserved for hedge-witches who thought they were clever. "You'll be lucky if I let you settle anywhere near my couch again after that."

That drew another peel of laughter from V, her shoulders shaking. She leaned across the bar, conspiratorial. "She pretends not to love me, Devil, but don't believe her. I'm her favorite charity case."

Malachi polished a glass like it was the most entertaining part of the conversation. "I'll believe it when she makes you tea again."

Elara's face warmed despite herself. "That was once. And it was cold."

"Mm." Malachi's grin showed just a hint of teeth. "Still counts."

V looked between them with a cat's curiosity, then downed half her drink in one swallow. "One day," she said, voice low and lazy, "I'm going to rent this whole bar. Fill it with nothing but lanterns and liars."

Elara arched a brow. "And how would that be different from tonight?"

V raised her glass in salute, amber catching the light. "Fair point. But I'd charge more."

Elara set down V's empty plate with a clink and scooped up another tray, the weight balanced on her hip as she moved through the bar. Two hedge-witches waved her over for another round of gin; the wolf at the end of the counter was still nursing his whiskey, but his eyes tracked her with a wary sort of respect. She delivered, collected, nodded, all without breaking stride.

Behind her, V's voice lifted in a half-laugh. "So tell me, Devil, do you believe in soul-bonds?"

Elara paused mid-step, her shoulders tightening. She didn't turn—just adjusted the tray and kept walking.

Malachi's chuckle drifted after her, smooth as smoke. "That depends. Are we talking fairy tales or funerals?"

V swirled the foam in her glass, eyes glittering. "Both, maybe. You know the story—two people locked together by fate, hearts stitched up in the same skin. Some say the desire is beautiful." She sipped, leaned closer across the bar. "Some say it's why half this city kills each other."

Elara dropped off a gin at the witches' table, letting their cackles cover the prickle at her neck. She told herself it was just talk. V loved spinning rumors, and Malachi loved encouraging her. Nothing more.

From the bar, Malachi's voice dropped lower, meant only for V. "Ashgrave loves its myths. Soul-bonds are just excuses. People don't need magic to ruin each other."

V laughed again, but softer this time, like she was keeping a secret. "Maybe. Or maybe some things just... pull, whether you want them to or not."

Elara returned to the bar, tray empty, and caught Malachi watching her from the corner of his eye. His smile was unreadable, the kind that suggested he'd already heard her answer without her ever speaking.

The wolf at the far end of the bar let out a sharp snort, heavy with whiskey. His voice carried in a gravelly drawl meant for everyone to hear.

"Desired, she says. In the packs, a soul-bond's worth more than silver. Worth more than blood." He tipped his glass, liquid sloshing dangerously. "Means you're chosen. Means you're worth keeping."

V arched a brow, swirling her own drink lazily. "And here I thought wolves only wanted meat and moonlight."

The wolf's grin showed teeth, the kind that wasn't entirely human. "Both taste better when they're tethered."

A murmur spread across the room—uneasy, amused, wary. Elara set down the tray she'd been loading and gave the wolf a look sharp enough to cut through smoke.

"Finish your drink," she said, voice even but laced with steel. "And keep your philosophy to your own den."

The wolf held her gaze for a long, tense beat. Then, with a bark of laughter, he downed the rest of his whiskey and slammed the empty glass onto the counter.

Malachi was already there, clearing it away with smooth efficiency, his smile dangerous in its calm. "Neutral ground, friend," he murmured, low enough that only the wolf could hear. "Don't make her remind you twice."

The wolf muttered something into his sleeve, but he didn't ask for another round.

V raised her glass toward Elara, eyes glinting in the amber light. "See? Even the dogs can't stop howling about it. Maybe there's something to the myths after all."

Elara didn't answer. She moved down the bar, but the word tethered clung to her like smoke.

Last call came quiet that night.

The wolf had slunk off before his temper soured, the vampire vanished into the neon mist, and the hedge-witches staggered out humming spells that wouldn't last till morning. Even V left with a wink and a kiss tossed over her shoulder, her heels clicking into the dark like she owned it.

Elara watched the door close behind her, the glow of the lanterns outside fading until only the amber of her own bar remained. Silence pressed in, thick as the smoke curling against the rafters. She set her rag down, swept one last glance across the room, and with a flick of her fingers, sealed the wards for the night. The Tooth exhaled like an old dog settling down to sleep.

"Another evening survived," Malachi said, leaning his hip against the counter. His sleeves were still rolled, his smile lazy, like the hours hadn't worn him at all. "And not a single broken glass. Miracles abound."

Elara arched a brow, scooping up the last tray. "Keep talking. I'll find one to throw."

His chuckle followed her to the back door, low and velvet.

They climbed the narrow stairwell together, the air growing cooler as the bar's warmth fell away. Elara's hand skimmed the rail, fingertips brushing over the sigils she'd carved there years ago—wards to keep intruders out, charms to keep the walls standing when fists or claws or worse slammed against them. Every step was hers, built on sweat and stubbornness. And still, the man at her back felt too present, too close.

At the landing, the flat unfolded in dim light. A cramped kitchen, one tired couch, the two doors down the hall. It wasn't much. But it was hers.

Malachi slipped past her, plucking a bottle from the counter and pouring himself a measure without asking. He swirled it once, watching the amber catch the lamplight. "Your friend," he said lightly, "does have a point."

Elara stilled, one hand on her doorframe. "About what?"

His smile curved, sharp and amused. "Soul-bonds." He sipped, eyes never leaving hers. "Dangerous things. Desire dressed up as destiny."

She snorted, pushing her door open. "Sounds like bar gossip to me."

"Mm." Malachi's voice followed her, smooth as smoke, clinging like it meant to linger in her sheets. "Or maybe gossip is just truth with better lighting."

Elara shut her door harder than she needed to.

But in the silence of her room, as she pulled the quilt around her shoulders, the word still whispered through her head like an echo caught in the wood.

Tethered.

And down the hall, the sound of Malachi's door closing was too soft, too close.