The city was louder in the daylight.

Elara woke to the sound of cart wheels over cobblestones, hawkers shouting in the square, the whistle of a dock crane carrying across the fog. Ashgrave always felt sharper in the mornings, stripped of the glamours that softened its nights. The Tooth's wards hummed faint and steady under her palms as she sat up and pushed the blankets aside.

She stepped out into the Veil District just long enough to feel the city's mood—two witches at the corner apothecary leaned close, heads bowed over a bundle of herbs. A lantern girl in bright paint and yesterday's glitter boots muttered to her pimp as he shoved her along. Even the fishmongers at the Docklands stall spoke softer than usual, glancing at her like she'd brought the fog with her.

Iris Vey was dead. Iris was last seen at the Tooth.

The words hung unsaid, but Elara could hear them anyway. The petty rhythm of the market felt edged now, everyone a little quieter, every look a question.

She came back inside and found the bar still dim—lanterns unlit, the counters cool to the touch. She lit one wick, letting the gold bleed over the long counter, then began her circuit. Palms flat against wood and stone, she felt the wards stir—sleepy, restless, holding steady under her touch.

The wards had always been temperamental things, patchwork stitched by her own trial and error. She coaxed them now with murmured charms, nudging one back into place along the south wall, reinforcing another at the cellar door. They hummed like bees around her, faint threads of magic weaving tighter where she pressed.

"You're fussing again."

Malachi's voice drifted from the stairwell. She didn't turn, just tugged at the nearest sigil until it thrummed clean.

"They were thin," she muttered.

"They were steady," he countered, stepping into the lamplight. He wore only shirtsleeves, hair mussed from sleep, the devil's grin softer but no less dangerous. "You only ever fuss when you don't want to think."

She shot him a look over her shoulder. "And you only ever talk when you want to be irritating."

He spread his hands in mock surrender, though the amber in his eyes flared. "Then I'm consistent."

Elara knelt by the cellar hatch, brushing chalk over the seam until the sigil flared faint blue. Malachi crouched beside her without being asked, holding out the chalk when it snapped in her hand.

"Don't," she said flatly.

"Didn't say a word." His grin tugged wider.

But he stayed close, trailing her through the circuit as if her wards were suddenly his concern too. His presence prickled at her edges—unwanted, grounding, impossible to ignore.

By the time they circled back to the front door, the wards hummed cleaner, a little steadier. Elara pressed her palm against the iron latch, whispered the last seal, and let out a slow breath.

Malachi leaned in the doorway, watching her. "There. Now you can't blame the wards for keeping you awake."

She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders sagged a fraction. "One day, I'm going to salt your tongue."

"Promises, promises," he drawled.

The wards had settled, their hum fading to the background, when the front latch rattled. Elara straightened instinctively, pulse twitching in her throat, but it was only Jonah, shoulders hunched under a crate of bottles.

"Morning, Miss Keene," he puffed, nudging the door closed with his boot. His hair stuck up in half a dozen places, cheeks pink from the chill, his grin just a little too eager.

"You're early," Elara said, brushing chalk from her hands.

"Thought you could use the stock topped up after last night." He set the crate on the counter with a grunt and leaned on it like he'd carried the weight of the docks instead of a few bottles. "Everyone's been talking about it since sunrise."

Elara's stomach turned, though she kept her expression even. "Talking about what?"

Jonah glanced between her and Malachi, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "The murder. Girl from Lantern Walk. Iris Vey." His brows knit. "Didn't she—wasn't she here a lot?"

Malachi's amber eyes cut sharp in the dim light. "She had good taste," he said smoothly, leaning across the bar. "Unlike some."

Jonah flushed, fumbling with the crate. "I just meant—the Watch was down by the warehouses this morning. Asking after her. Who saw her last, where she was headed. Made everyone nervous. Can't really blame them though."

Elara pressed her palm flat to the wood, willing her face blank. "What did you tell them?"

Jonah shrugged. "That I hadn't seen her. Which is true. But..." His voice dropped. "They said she was last seen at the Tooth. Is that—"

"That'll be all, Jonah," Malachi cut in, grin widening as the boy stammered. "Run along before your tongue gets you bitten."

Jonah blinked, flustered, gathering his empty sack. "Right, of course. Just thought—you know. Be careful, Miss Keene." He lingered a beat too long at the door before slipping out into the fog.

Silence swelled. Malachi poured himself a drink though it was hardly past breakfast, lifting the glass in Elara's direction. "Sweet boy," he drawled. "He'd melt if you so much as smiled at him."

Elara sank onto the nearest stool, rubbing at her temple. The words clung, no matter how she tried to shake them off. She was last seen at the Tooth.

Malachi tossed back the rest of his drink, then refilled it with lazy precision, the amber catching fire in the light. He sauntered around the counter, glass in hand, and leaned against the stool beside her.

"You're letting that boy's tongue tangle you up," he murmured.

Elara's jaw tightened. "He was only repeating what he heard."

"And you're repeating it in your head again." Malachi's grin was slow, sharp as always, but his gaze cut softer when it settled on her. He tapped his glass against the bar, low and deliberate. "Think, Elara. If she was last seen here, then clearly she wasn't last seen here. Someone had to have her after. Someone had to put her in the ground."

Elara stared at him, fingers curling against the polished wood. "That doesn't clear me."

"It does," he said simply, leaning closer. The faint flare of his eyes caught the lantern glow. "Because I don't leave this bar. And I knew exactly where you were, every hour she was missing. You, love, are the one thing I never lose track of."

Her throat went dry. It was truth, but the way he said it—the way he claimed it—unsettled her more than the whispers. Elara looked away, forcing her shoulders straight. "That doesn't make it better."

Malachi clinked his glass lightly against hers, a mock toast. "It makes it true. Better is a matter of taste."

The Tooth had thinned to its bones by the time the knock came. Elara was wiping down the last table, lanternlight painting the walls in long amber strokes, when Malachi froze mid-polish behind the bar. His head tilted, like a hound catching a scent through the fog.

"They're back," he said, voice almost amused.

The knock came again, patient, deliberate.

Elara's pulse jumped. She set the cloth aside, smoothed her apron, and opened the door.

Casimir stood in the threshold, all pale elegance against the midnight mist. His dark coat gleamed faintly with damp, rings catching the lanternlight as he tugged off one glove. Behind him, Cassian lingered with his notebook in hand, expression careful, watchful.

"Forgive the hour," Casimir said smoothly, inclining his head. His voice carried the weight of velvet over steel. "But certain matters refuse to wait until dawn."

Elara's shoulders tensed, but she stepped back to let them in. Malachi muttered something under his breath, too low to catch, though the curl of his grin left no doubt it wasn't polite.

Casimir's gaze flicked toward him—one devil sizing another—before returning to Elara. "We've spoken with several witnesses today. A picture begins to form. But as is often the case, the picture is... incomplete."

Cassian cleared his throat, flipping open his notes. "We're trying to confirm Iris's movements after she left the Tooth. Several accounts place her here late, but the hours after remain unclear. And in cases like these—"

"—it is always the final hours that matter most," Casimir finished, voice soft as a blade.

Malachi slid a glass across the bar toward Elara, unasked, and leaned his weight on the counter. "You'll forgive us if we don't care to entertain midnight interrogations," he drawled. "It's been a long day."

Casimir's smile sharpened, thin as glass. "And yet she stands. Remarkable resilience." His eyes lingered on Elara, too intent, too knowing. "I would very much like to understand it."

Elara sank onto a stool, the glass Malachi had slid toward her cool in her hand. She tipped it back with a sigh, the burn steadying her nerves more than she'd admit.

Casimir's gaze followed the gesture, sharp interest flickering beneath his polished smile. "Long day too?" he asked softly.

"She runs a bar," Malachi said before Elara could answer, bar rag still in hand. "Every day is long."

Cassian cleared his throat, flipping a page. "We'll be brief. Several accounts place Iris Vey here late the night she died. Did she speak with you, Miss Keene?"

Elara's mouth pressed into a line. She hesitated a beat too long.

Malachi leaned forward, grin widening like he'd scented blood. "She speaks with everyone," he said smoothly, "but rarely of substance. You know how the Lantern Walk girls are—half secrets, half dreams, and the other half meant to cost you."

Cassian's pen scratched against the page. Casimir, however, kept his gaze on Elara. "And yet—your face says otherwise. What did she tell you?"

Elara's hand tightened on the glass. She swallowed.

"Careful," Malachi purred, amusement curling his voice as he studied her profile. "That look means she's about to lie, and she's not very good at it."

Elara shot him a glare, color rising in her cheeks. "I wasn't—"

"Not yet," Malachi cut in, raising his glass to her. "But you were thinking about it."

Casimir's smile thinned. "Fascinating." He inclined his head slightly, eyes never leaving Elara. "You needn't answer now. But do know, every hesitation tells its own story."

Malachi clinked his glass against Elara's, a little too hard. "Or it tells that she's tired of being asked questions that circle the same grave."

Cassian's eyes flicked between them, the pen pausing. Casimir only folded his gloves neatly, laying them on the bar. "Perhaps. But sometimes, it's the tired truths that crack first."

Elara took another drink, wishing the floor would swallow her. Malachi grinned at her over the rim of his glass, his defense and mockery twisted into one: daring her to steady herself, daring the investigators to push harder.

She then drained the last of her glass, the warmth in her chest doing nothing to blunt the weight in the room.

Casimir slipped his gloves back on with careful precision, smoothing each finger as though resealing himself. "You've been most... resilient, Miss Keene. I admire that. But resilience has a way of cracking under repetition."

Malachi's grin sharpened, though his voice was velvet. "And repetition has a way of dulling the blade. Perhaps you'll find better sport elsewhere."

Cassian closed his notebook, tucking the pencil behind his ear. "We'll be back," he said simply.

Casimir inclined his head, eyes catching on Elara a beat too long. "Of course we will. Ashgrave is a small city, after all. And the truth... smaller still."

They left without another word, their footsteps echoing down the fog-slick street until the door's wards sealed shut again.

The latch clicked shut behind Casimir and Cassian, and the silence that followed seemed heavier than before. Elara gathered the last glasses from the counter, stacking them with more force than needed, the clink too sharp in the quiet.

Malachi watched her, lounging against the bar, swirling the last of his drink. "You're rattled," he said lightly, though there was no mockery in it this time.

"I'm tired."

"Mm." He pushed off the counter and crossed the room in three slow strides. Before she could step aside, his hand came down over hers on the stack of glasses. Not rough—just firm, grounding. Possessive in the way a chain can feel like an anchor.

Elara's breath caught. His warmth bled through her skin, thrumming in time with the wards, with the bond she refused to name.

"You let him look at you too long," Malachi murmured, eyes catching the lantern glow. "The diplomat... He'll want more. They always do."

She swallowed, forcing her hand free, setting the glasses aside with care. "And what makes you different?"

His grin curved slow, sharp. "Nothing. Except I already know you're mine."

The words hit like a brand, heat crawling her spine. Elara turned away, grabbing the rag, pretending the counter needed one more pass. "Go to bed, Malachi," she said, voice steadier than she felt.

He lingered a heartbeat longer, close enough that the air between them burned. Then he stepped back, finishing his drink in one swallow. "Sleep well, love. I'll keep watch."

The wards thrummed at the door as he passed, like even the Tooth itself knew he meant it.