Ashgrave woke her before the sun.

The city never slept, not really, but mornings brought a different kind of noise—shrill, insistent, impossible to ignore. A delivery cart rattled over the cobblestones below her window, wooden wheels screaming against stone. Somewhere farther off, a street vendor bellowed about hot rolls and boiled eggs, his voice carrying over the roofs like a summons. And under it all, the low, metallic groan of the trains in the Docklands—the heartbeat of the city grinding awake.

Elara cracked one eye open, the light through her curtains a dull grey-yellow haze. The wards hummed faintly in her walls, reminding her that the Tooth stood solid, safe, still hers. She stretched once, then swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet hitting the creaking wood floor that smelled faintly of last night's smoke.

In the kitchen, someone was already moving. She could hear the faint clink of glass, the scrape of wood. Malachi. Of course. He never seemed to sleep the way people did—if he slept at all.

Elara splashed water on her face at the cracked sink, staring at her reflection in the warped mirror. Dark hair tangled from sleep, eyes sharp but shadowed, the look of a woman who'd clawed her place inch by inch and still didn't trust it to last. She traced the faint bruise-like smudges under her eyes, then dropped her hands, shaking her head.

Coffee first. Everything else after.

The kitchen was cramped, just enough space for the stove, a counter, and the battered table shoved against the wall. Malachi leaned there already, a glass in hand, though she knew damn well he didn't need coffee or food. His grin curved the moment she walked in, like he'd been waiting to deliver a line.

"Good morning, Mistress of the Tooth," he drawled.

She brushed past him, reaching for the kettle. "Don't start."

"I haven't slept, so technically I'm not starting anything. I'm continuing."

Elara set the kettle on the burner with more force than necessary, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. This was the problem with devils—you let them talk, and they'd find the cracks in your armor just to see what leaked through.

When the kettle finally whistled, Elara poured herself a mug and ignored Malachi's pointed look when she didn't offer him one. He didn't need it, but he'd drink it anyway just to needle her.

"Busy today?" he asked as she dug out her ledger and the brass key ring from the shelf by the door.

"Always," she muttered, flipping through last night's receipts. Numbers neat, margins tight. Neutral ground was profitable—but only if you kept ahead of the hands reaching for your pockets.

She set the mug down, grabbed her wards-book and chalk, and started the daily circuit. Malachi trailed behind her like a shadow with a smirk.

"You treat this place like it's alive," he said, watching her bend to re-etch the sigil carved into the stairwell beam. "Check its pulse, feed it, whisper to it. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were married to the bar."

"Better than being shackled to one," she shot back.

"Mm," he hummed, crouching to pick up a piece of her chalk and twirling it between his fingers. "I've heard worse shackles." His eyes gleamed amber for just a moment as he glanced at her. "Some of them come with sparks."

She snatched the chalk back. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened. "Flirt? Or tell you the truth you already feel?"

Elara ignored him and pushed open the back door. Morning light spilled in—thin, grimy, yellowed by smoke. The Veil District smelled different by day: hot tar, frying oil, and the metallic tang of industry from the Docklands. What the night hid, the morning flaunted.

A man was already shouting about newspapers for sell two streets over. A pair of children chalked a sigil into the cobbles, giggling until a Watchman cuffed them and scraped it away. Across the street, the glass towers of the vampires gleamed like knives in the haze.

"See," Malachi said as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, "daytime's worse. At night, at least everyone admits what they are. In the morning? They all play at being human."

She swept her eyes across the street, noting the open stalls, the pickpockets pretending to be newsboys, the pale figure in a black coat walking just a little too smoothly to be mortal. "That's why I check the wards. Pretending kills faster than teeth."

He followed her out to the alley wall, where the protective sigils were fading under soot. She pressed fresh chalk into the grooves while he leaned far too close. "You know," he murmured, "in the old days they'd call this domestic. Witch with her charms, devil at her heels."

She didn't look at him. "And what would they call it when she finally puts the devil on his back?"

Malachi's laugh rumbled low, dark amusement rolling through it. "Darling, that's just the part they never write down."

Elara finished the last mark, brushing soot from her fingers. The chalk stub was nearly gone; she slipped it into her pocket anyway. Waste nothing—that was the rule.

Behind her, Malachi leaned against the wall like the morning belonged to him, his shadow cutting sharp lines across the cobblestones. He didn't need to be here, not for the wards, not for the smoke curling against her skin, not for the fragile quiet that hung between them. But he was. Always. "Done?" he asked, head tilting.

"For now."

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside her as she turned back toward the bar's door. Their shoulders brushed once, too close in the narrow alley. Elara didn't look at him. He didn't step away.

Back inside, the wards hummed stronger. The Tooth would hold for another day. Elara set her chalk down, reached for her ledger again, and tried to ignore the way Malachi's eyes followed her—lazy, amused, but never careless.

"Domestic," he murmured again, like the word tasted different in the morning light.

Elara shut the ledger with a snap. "Don't get used to it." But the hum in her bones told her the city already had.