Closing the Tooth took on a ritual shape: lamps turned low, chairs flipped onto tables, the floor swept until the wood showed its old scars. Elara walked the ward-circuit last, fingers brushing lintel, bar-edge, doorframe. Knots drew tight under her touch; the hum settled low and even.

Malachi stood with her in the quiet, sleeves rolled, a study in contained heat. No grin. No taunting quip to set her teeth on edge. Just presence—near enough to feel, far enough to deny.

She set the last key into the bolt. "You don't have to—"

"I know." His voice was soft, no velvet on it. "I'm walking you."

Elara paused, hand tight on the iron latch. The wards quivered faintly, unsettled by his choice. "It costs you," she said, barely more than a whisper.

Amber eyes caught the lantern glow. "Less when you're beside me."

He touched the frame, and the Tooth sighed around them, a ripple of wards loosening enough to let him pass. Elara felt the strain in him anyway, the weight pressing hard against the tether he refused to name. He hid it well, but she knew.

"Malachi—"

"Later," he said, with that soft, final tone that allowed no more argument. "Come on, love. Fog's waiting."

She pulled the door open. Cold damp rolled in at once, curling around their ankles. Together they stepped out, the Tooth locking behind them with a hum like a closed throat.

The streets were quiet, lamps haloed in mist. Elara kept her hands in her pockets, shoulders squared. Malachi matched her stride, a fraction closer than usual, his heat brushing like a second pulse. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

By the time they reached Lantern Walk, the glow ahead had already begun—jars of flame threading light into the fog, girls gathering with shawls wrapped close. The air smelled of wax and salt, grief dressed as ritual.

Malachi slowed at the street's mouth. "This is yours," he said, low, as though reminding her. "I'll be where you can see me."

She glanced at him, amber catching in the fog, and nodded. Then she stepped forward alone, into the circle of light.

Lantern Walk glowed like a wound dressed in light.

Glass jars lined the cobblestones, each with a stub of candle guttering inside. The girls stood in a loose circle, shawls pulled close, damp hair clinging to their cheeks. Their voices were hushed, not because anyone had asked for quiet, but because grief had settled over the street like a veil.

Elara slipped into the line without ceremony. A few of the girls glanced her way—measuring, weighing—but no one spoke. Not yet.

She felt Malachi at the edge of her awareness, his heat a steady ember in the shadows. He'd walked her here, paying the cost he rarely did, but once the circle of candles came into view he'd melted into the fog. A devil among lanterns would have drawn whispers, and tonight wasn't his to claim. Still, she knew he was there. Watching.

One of the older girls, Miren, stepped forward. She was thin as a reed, her candle cupped in both hands, her chin trembling but high.

"She laughed too loud," Miren began, her voice frayed but carrying. "She cursed worse than the dockhands. She told me once she wanted to leave the Walk and start over where the streets didn't smell like smoke and salt. We told her she wouldn't go—none of us ever go. But she swore she would."

A ripple of voices agreed, soft, almost fond.

"She was ours," Miren said, firmer now. "She should have had more nights."

The circle murmured Iris's name then—once, twice, over and over until it wove into something fragile but whole. Elara's throat closed around it. She had nothing prepared, no words that could matter, but when the flame was passed to her she cupped it anyway, touching her wick to the girl's. Her candle flared, and she whispered Iris's name into the fog. The wards inside her stirred, humming faint approval.

A younger girl reached out and squeezed Elara's free hand. Just once. Her eyes were too wide, too solemn, but steady. Elara didn't pull away.

The street filled with light as each jar caught, one flame feeding another until the circle gleamed like a constellation mapped on stone. The Watch lingered at the far end, their silhouettes stiff in the fog. The wolves lurked in doorways, eyes faint gold. Cabal shadows stood further back, silent as glass.

For a while, it was only the candles and the names.

Then the ripple came. A murmur that started at the edge, moved like a tremor through the girls, and reached Elara before she even turned to look. Two Watch officers had stepped into the circle of light, their faces careful, unreadable.

"Ludo De-Vey," one announced, voice clipped. "Has been cleared of suspicion, and he has been released."

The words struck harder than a shout. Murmurs broke the hush—shock, disbelief, anger. Some of the girls cried out; others swore under their breath. The wolves bristled in their shadows. Even the Cabal shifted, though whether in relief or calculation Elara couldn't tell.

Her stomach clenched. Ludo had been the easy answer—the violent man with a temper and a claim. If not him... then the killer was still out there. Still watching.

The wards prickled sharp against her skin, warning and restless.

Elara's candle guttered, flame bending sideways though the air was still. For a moment it stretched long and thin, as if disturbed by a breath she couldn't hear. Then it steadied, small and stubborn.

From the shadows across the street, Malachi's gaze caught hers—gold sparking faintly, unmasked in the dark. He didn't smile. He only inclined his head, as if to say: I told you. It isn't over.

Elara turned back to the circle, the flame trembling in her hand, and whispered Iris's name again. This time it came out like a vow.

The vigil wound down slowly. One by one the girls set their candles in a cluster at the street's center, light pooling against the fog. Elara placed hers among them last, fingers brushing glass slick with condensation.

When she straightened, Malachi was waiting where the lamplight broke against shadow. He stepped forward just enough for her to see him clearly, coat catching the glow. No one remarked, though a few eyes followed.

"You ready?" he asked, voice pitched for her alone.

Elara hesitated, then nodded.

They left the Walk together, side by side, fog curling around their boots. The glow of the vigil dimmed behind them, but the vow still burned hot in her chest.

The street narrowed on their way back, lanterns thinning until the dark pressed close again. Elara's shoulders sagged, every step heavier than the last. She didn't lean into him, but the tether thrummed sharp, as if her body had already betrayed what her pride refused.

She was too quiet. Too brittle. Every sound seemed to scrape her raw.

And then—

"Ward-born."

The voice cut from the mist ahead, clipped, carrying the weight of badge or blade. A figure stepped into view, coat gray, sigil stitched at the collar: Watch, though the way his hand lingered near his weapon spoke of the Inquisition's training.

Malachi felt Elara stiffen beside him. He smiled slow, sharp, and let his voice curl velvet-dark. "Evening."

The man's eyes flicked from Elara to him. "You're meant to stay within the Tooth. Everyone knows it."

"Mm," Malachi said, amber sparking faintly as the wards under his skin shifted restlessly. "And yet here I am."

Elara found her voice, low and tight. "He's walking me home."

The Watchman's mouth thinned. "That's not what I asked. You're out of bounds, devil."

Malachi's grin widened, teeth just visible in the fog. Inside, though, he felt the weight pressing harder with every step away from the Tooth—the city gnawing at him, testing how far he'd stretch the tether. He wasn't about to show that strain to this gray-cloaked cur.

"Careful," he murmured, voice all smoke. "Ashgrave has a long memory. And you wouldn't want it to think you were the one hunting witches in alleys, would you?"

The Watchman flinched—just slightly, but enough. His gaze darted back to Elara, weighing whether to press. She met it square, eyes hard despite the shadows under them.

"He's with me," she said, sharper now. "And unless you've come to drag me in too, you'll let us pass."

The man hesitated, fog coiling between them. Then he stepped aside, jaw tight.

Malachi inclined his head in a parody of civility, guiding Elara forward with a light touch at her elbow. His grin didn't fade until the man's footsteps vanished behind them.

He kept his hand at Elara's elbow until they were clear, then let it drop. She didn't look at him—her jaw was set, eyes fixed forward—but the tether thrummed, restless as if it felt the drag he carried in his bones.

He hid it well. Or tried. The weight of the city pressed harder with each step, chains tightening invisible and merciless. Every breath rasped, the fire of it eating low in his ribs. But devils didn't stumble. Devils smiled, and so he did—sharp and easy, like smoke curling through teeth.

"Nearly home, love." His grin curved slow again, but the words felt heavier than he meant.

Elara said nothing. Just walked faster, the hem of her coat brushing damp against her boots.

By the time they reached the Tooth, the wards were already stirring, humming faint like a heartbeat reaching for him. Malachi pressed his hand to the doorframe, and the bar welcomed him back with a rush like breath released. The chains loosened. The fire eased.

He exhaled slow, steady, pretending it was nothing.

But Elara was watching.

"You weren't lying," she said quietly, eyes on him instead of the door. "It costs you."

For a moment, Malachi considered the grin—the easy denial, the lazy taunt. But she looked too frayed, too raw, and some part of him that wasn't supposed to care snapped sharp at the thought of piling more weight onto her shoulders.

"It does," he admitted, voice low. "Ashgrave doesn't like me loose. Never has." His amber eyes caught hers, steady. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't pay it again."

Elara's lips parted, but no words came. Her hand hovered at the edge of the frame, just shy of his. The wards hummed like they were listening.

Malachi smiled then, softer than he meant to, sharp at the edges all the same. "Don't look at me like that, love. You'll ruin my reputation."

She turned away first, stepping inside. He followed, the bar closing around them with a hum that sounded too much like a sigh of relief.

The Tooth's wards settled low again, content, the bar wrapping around him like smoke reclaiming its vessel. Elara lingered just inside, hand still braced on the frame as if she hadn't decided whether to climb the stairs or collapse right there.

Malachi stepped closer. Not crowding, not this time—just enough that she lifted her gaze. Her eyes were rimmed in fatigue, grief threaded through them like ash.

He raised his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly across her cheek, a devil's parody of tenderness. Not quite a caress, not quite a test—just the faintest check that she was still warm, still whole.

"Goodnight, love," he murmured.

Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. "Goodnight, Malachi."

She slipped past him, shoulders brushing his as she climbed the stairs. The sound of her steps was soft but steady, then the quiet click of her door.

Silence claimed the bar.

Malachi poured himself a drink, amber liquid catching the lamplight. His grin sharpened as he lifted the glass, though it didn't reach his eyes.

He'd paid another price tonight. The chains, the fire—he could still feel them echoing in his ribs. And she'd seen. That was the part he hadn't meant to give away, but .

He swallowed the whiskey, heat burning down, and let the wards purr against his hand where it rested on the bar. Upstairs, Elara breathed even and low. Alive. Safe.

He tilted the empty glass against the lantern-glow, his grin curling sharp again.

"Worth it."

The Tooth hummed its approval, shadows thickening in the corners like they knew.