The city felt wrong when Elara woke.

The wards in the Tooth hummed against her skin like a taut string, pulled tighter than she'd left them. Even the street noise drifting through the shutters seemed dulled, as though Ashgrave itself were holding its breath.

She pushed through her morning circuit anyway. Chalk along the threshold, herbs pinched into jars, kettle hissing on the stove. Malachi trailed behind her like a shadow with a grin, offering lazy commentary that never quite touched the edge in his eyes.

"Feels quiet," he murmured, leaning against the counter. "The kind of quiet that comes before the screaming."

Before Elara could snap back, a knock rattled the back door. Jonah stood there, crates stacked in his arms, red-faced and jittery. One slipped as she opened the door—glass clinking sharply before he caught it.

"The Watch are out in Lantern Walk," he blurted. "Whole street locked down. Folks whispering someone's gone. They—" He cut himself short, eyes darting past her shoulder. "Anyway. Thought you'd want to know."

Elara frowned, unease curling tighter, but took the crates and sent him on his way before Malachi could torment him further.

By the time she set the bottles down, the front door opened again—this time with authority.

Two figures crossed the threshold as if the wards themselves bent to let them in. The first was tall, severe, marble-pale. Casimir Duslen's coat was cut sharp enough to wound, gloves pristine, silver threaded through black hair. His eyes—dark, but rimmed faint with red in the lamplight—swept the room like an inventory.

The second followed with a quieter tread. Cassian Holt, lean and weather-worn, notebook already in hand. His gaze was sharper than his words, cataloguing everything from the scuff marks on the bar to the way Malachi lounged against it, smiling too much.

"Miss Keene," Casimir said smoothly, voice pitched like silk stretched too thin. "We're looking into a matter of some urgency. Iris Vey was last seen here."

The name landed harder than Elara expected. For a moment, she could still hear the laughter—pearls clinking, her glass lifted in a toast.

Her hand tightened on the counter. "What happened?"

Cassian's voice carried none of Casimir's velvet, only a plain steadiness. "She was found in Lantern Walk this morning. Not an accident." His eyes lingered, weighing her silence. "We're retracing her steps."

Malachi's grin curled darker, lazy as smoke. "Of course you are. And what do you think you'll find?"

Cassian's pen scratched against the page, ignoring him. Casimir, however, didn't look away from Elara. His smile was small, sharp, and cold.

"Answers," he said. "And perhaps a name."

Elara steadied her breath, though the wards still hummed uneasily under her skin.

Casimir removed his gloves with deliberate slowness, folding them once before setting them on the bar. "She came here often, didn't she?" His voice was silk laced with steel. "Your establishment is... neutral, if I recall. She would have felt safe here I'm sure."

"She did," Elara said carefully. "She drank, she laughed, she left. Same as anyone."

Cassian's pen scratched. "Last night?"

Elara's mouth tightened. She glanced at Malachi, who was leaning far too comfortably against the shelves, grin flashing like a knife.

"She was here," Elara admitted. "With friends at first. Later... alone."

"Alone," Casimir repeated, as if tasting the word. "Not entirely. We've had reports she was seen with her handler." His eyes flicked up, crimson glint faint in the lamplight. "And with others."

"She told me nothing," Elara said evenly. "If she had trouble, she didn't share it."

Malachi chuckled low. "I'm sure she shared some things with you."

Elara shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, but the damage was done.

Cassian's pen stilled.

Casimir's smile thinned. "Perhaps..." He slipped his gloves back on, slow and precise. "We'll need to speak again, Miss Keene. Until then... I suggest you keep your doors well warded."

Cassian closed his notebook with a snap, giving Elara a look that was less piercing and more steady. "If you remember anything—anything at all—it could matter."

The two men turned to leave, Casimir's cane clicking sharp against the floor. The Tooth seemed to breathe again as the door shut, though the air felt no lighter.

Malachi exhaled a laugh, low and amused. "Well," he drawled. "You do make friends easily."

Elara leaned against the counter, her knuckles white on the rag. She didn't answer.

The air outside the Tooth was sharper, the fog curling low along the cobbles. Casimir slid his gloves back on, smoothing each finger as though reassembling a mask.

"Well," he said softly, voice carrying like a blade sheathed in velvet. "She lies like someone out of practice. Not a professional, not careless. Something between."

Cassian flipped open his notebook, scanning what he'd scribbled. "She didn't lie about Iris being there. She lied about if Iris told her anything."

Casimir's smile thinned. "Mm. Dreams, ghosts, iron. And her charming bartender couldn't resist giving us more. Tell me, Cassian, what do you make of him?"

Cassian gave a low huff, not quite a laugh. "Dangerous. Knows it. Enjoys it. Not the kind we can touch without a reason." He tapped his notes. "But he knows more than he said too. And so does she."

Casimir's smile was faint, cold. "Mm, let's come back later. But for now, we'll need cooperation. Elias Maten has handled Docklands cases before—he'll come when called."

"And Calder?" Cassian asked, brow raised.

Casimir's eyes gleamed faint red in the mist. "Rafe Calder won't be able to resist. Iris Vey had many suitors, Cassian. We'll start with the Docklands. And we'll see how loudly they howl when her name is spoken."

They moved on, their steps echoing in rhythm, the city restless around them.

The Tooth was silent long after the door shut behind Casimir and Cassian. The wards thrummed faint in Elara's bones, unsettled, as if the bar itself had heard the name and grieved.

Elara set her rag down, fingers white-knuckled. She tried to busy herself—straightening a bottle, wiping a glass already clean—but her hands betrayed her. The glass slipped, caught just before it hit the floor.

Malachi was there, his hand closing over hers on the counter. Warmth radiated from his touch, steady and unyielding.

"She's gone," Elara whispered. The words broke like glass in her throat. "She was just here. Laughing. Drinking. She—" Her voice cracked, and she pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth.

Malachi's grin was gone. He didn't speak, only drew her into him, his arms folding around her with a care that surprised her. He smelled of smoke and citrus and something older, sharper, like iron and ash.

Elara didn't mean to lean into him, but she did. Her hands fisted in his shirt, shoulders shaking as the tears came hot and bitter. Malachi's palm smoothed over her hair once, then settled at her back, holding her steady as if she might break apart without him.

"She was a pearl," he murmured against her temple, voice low, almost reverent. "Bright. Fragile. The world loves to crush what shines too loudly."

Elara swallowed hard, breath shuddering. His words weren't comfort, not really, but the weight of his hand on her spine anchored her, and she let it. When she finally pulled back, Malachi didn't release her right away. His fingers lingered at her elbow, his gaze catching hers with something sharper than sympathy.

"You'll carry her laughter," he said softly. "That's how they don't win."

Elara blinked at him, then nodded once, unable to trust her voice.

The Tooth hummed with low, unsettled wards, like the bar itself had caught her grief. Elara pressed her palms flat against the polished counter, willing the tremor in her hands to still.

Malachi leaned against the bar across from her, arms folded, amber eyes catching what little light was left. He studied her too long, the grin gone, until finally he said, soft but firm, "Shut it down, love. Tonight the city can drink elsewhere."

Elara huffed, a sound halfway to a laugh if it hadn't broken in her throat. "And what then? Let them say the Tooth is weak? That Iris died here, so I closed my doors in shame?"

His mouth curved, not in humor but in something sharper. "You'd rather pour whiskey for men who'll whisper she was last seen under your roof? Let them have their say. You don't owe them your bones tonight."

Her spine stiffened. "This place doesn't close. Not for me. Not for Iris. Especially not for the likes of Casimir Duslen to say I cracked."

Malachi tilted his head, eyes glinting. "So stubborn it aches." He let it sit, then gentled the words. "Compromise, then. A few hours. Show your face, pour their drinks, remind them the Tooth still stands. Then lock the doors early and let the city wonder why."

Elara hesitated, breath shallow. Her pride warred with exhaustion, with the raw edge of grief still shivering under her skin. She wanted to spit back a retort—but instead she found herself nodding once, sharp. "Midnight. Then it's done."

His smile returned, slow and wicked. "Ah, progress."

She rolled her eyes, though it came with a weary exhale that might have been a laugh. Malachi reached past her to flip one lantern wick lower, his hand brushing hers in the motion. He didn't pull away right away, and neither did she.

The last of the patrons spilled into the fog, laughter thinning as the door shut on their heels. Silence rolled in behind them, broken only by the low groan of wood settling and the faint buzz of the wards.

Elara leaned on the bar, shoulders heavy, the rag limp in her hand. The Tooth was scrubbed clean—floors swept, tables cleared, glassware stacked in neat rows—but she felt no satisfaction in it tonight. Only hollowness, a gap where Iris's laughter should have been.

Malachi moved with unhurried grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled, vest unbuttoned, the night's sharp edges dulled into a quieter menace. He set a glass down in front of her, amber liquid catching the lantern glow.

"Drink," he said simply.

Elara gave him a look that might have been protest if not for the tremor still in her bones. She took the glass, the burn biting her tongue, then warming into her chest. For a moment she almost felt steady.

Malachi leaned against the counter opposite her, watching as though measuring every line of her face. "You held longer than I thought you would," he murmured.

She arched a brow. "You thought I'd collapse in front of them?"

His grin returned, slow and cutting, but softer around the edges. "No. I knew you'd bleed in private instead. You're predictable that way."

Elara set the glass down with a soft clink, eyes narrowing, though her voice lacked heat. "You're insufferable."

"Mm," Malachi drawled, reaching to refill her glass. His fingers brushed hers as he slid it across, lingering a beat too long. "And you're still standing. Which is what matters."

She didn't answer, only tipped the glass again, the warmth running deeper this time. The Tooth hummed steady around them, like the old wards had settled into sleep.

For the first time all night, Elara let her shoulders slump, letting herself be tired, if only for this moment.

Malachi poured another measure for himself this time, sliding onto the stool beside her instead of leaning distant across the bar. Their shoulders brushed—barely—but Elara felt it like a current under her skin.

"You should sleep," he said, voice low.

"You first," she muttered, nursing her glass.

He laughed, soft and unguarded. It was the sound she knew better as a weapon, curved and cutting; hearing it eased into something warmer unsettled her more than the sharpness ever did.

Elara glanced at him from the corner of her eye, ready with a barb, but the words caught. In the half-light, his smile was less devil's grin and more something raw, unmasked. For the first time she wondered if she had ever seen his real face, or only the mask he wore for everyone else.

"Stop staring, love," he teased, though it lacked its usual edge.

She blinked, looking away quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. "I wasn't."

His hand came down lightly over hers, stilling the nervous circle she'd been tracing on the rim of her glass. The touch lingered a heartbeat too long—warm, grounding, unmistakably deliberate.

Elara froze, breath shallow. Her first instinct was to pull back. She didn't.

"I said you'd carry her laughter," Malachi murmured again, echoing what he'd told her earlier. "But I didn't say you'd have to carry any of it alone."

Her throat worked around the knot rising there. She hated how badly she wanted to believe him.

Finally, she drew her hand back, slow, deliberate. She set the glass aside, stood, and forced her shoulders straight again.

"Goodnight, Malachi," she said softly, not looking at him.

He watched her retreat toward the stairs, a grin tugging at his mouth but never quite forming. When the door shut behind her, the bar felt emptier for it.