The room stank of damp stone and cheap tobacco.

Cassian sat with his notebook open, pencil balanced across his knuckles. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, its wick turned low, throwing more shadow than light across the walls. The air held the bite of mildew, and every sound—the scratch of graphite, the drip in the far corner—echoed harder than it should have.

Ludo De-Vey slouched in the chair opposite. His wrists were cuffed to the iron ring bolted into the table, though the restraints were more theater than necessity. He hadn't fought when they dragged him in; he hadn't had the strength. His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy, the scar across his cheek white in the lamplight. He reeked of sweat, smoke, and the sour-sweet tang of opium.

"You've been named," Cassian said evenly, pencil poised. "More than once. Girls in the Walk claim Iris feared you."

Ludo's laugh was hoarse, rasping from a throat rubbed raw. "Course she feared me. Everyone fears me." He spat to the side, a streak of phlegm catching the stone floor. "But I didn't kill her."

Cassian didn't move, pencil hovering. "Where were you, the night she died?"

".... Underash." The word dropped like a stone.

Cassian's pencil tapped against the page. Convenient.

From the corner, another voice slipped into the room, smooth as velvet.

"Convenient, yes," Casimir said, arms folded across his chest. He'd refused a chair, preferring to stand, pale hair immaculate, his presence as deliberate as the Cabal crest at his collar. His gaze lingered on Ludo with an unreadable calm. "But not impossible. The Walk is not so far. You could have left her, bled her, and returned to your den before dawn."

Ludo sneered at him. "Think I'd risk my investment like that? I may be stupid, but I'm not suicidal. Business is business after all."

Casimir's smile sharpened, but his tone stayed silken. "And yet—she had a coin. A Cabal coin. Found among her things. Someone wanted her to at least look claimed."

Ludo blinked, then spat to the side. "She was clever, that one. Took tokens from marks, flashed them like they meant something. But she wasn't Cabal. She wasn't yours."

Cassian's brow furrowed, his pencil scratching fast. The contradiction burned sharp: the Cabal coin, but no Cabal protection. A trick? A lie? Or something deeper?

"We'll confirm that." Cassian said tightly. "But if you were in Underash all night, we'll also confirm it."

"You will." Ludo leaned forward, cuffs rattling, breath sour with smoke. "Ask anyone. Keeper saw me. Half the den too. They'll all swear it. I didn't touch her."

Cassian snapped the notebook shut. The case was unraveling, thread by thread. The neat answer slipping away.

Casimir tilted his head, voice soft but cutting as he looked over at his partner. "Then someone else killed her. Someone who wanted us to think otherwise."

Ludo's grin was bitter, sharp across his scar. "Then you'd best keep looking. 'Cause it wasn't me."

The lantern swayed, shadows cutting hard across the table. Cassian felt the pressure coil tight in his chest—the Council would want it wrapped clean, written down and forgotten. Just a Lantern girl. Replaceable.

But he knew better. And he knew this wasn't over.

The scrape of iron broke the silence.

A guard stepped forward, keys jangling, and undid the cuffs at Ludo De-Vey's wrists. The man flexed his scarred hands, knuckles popping, as though the chains had been more insult than restraint. He stood slow, shoulders rolling, scar catching the lantern light like a blade's edge.

"Get him out of here," Cassian said, voice clipped. The notebook was shut tight in his fist.

Ludo smirked, bruised lips curling. "Told you. Waste of a night." He leaned across the table just far enough for Cassian to smell the sour bite of smoke on his breath. "You want a killer, look elsewhere. I kept her breathing, it was just business."

The guard shoved him back, snapping the door open with a grunt. Ludo staggered into the corridor, coat hanging loose, the stink of Underash still clinging to him. His laughter trailed behind him, raw and bitter, until the fog swallowed it.

Cassian rubbed his brow, pencil digging into his palm. The lantern swung overhead, throwing shadows long against the wall. Neat cases unraveled fast in Ashgrave—but this one had slipped through his fingers like smoke.

He shut his eyes and exhaled, heavy. She deserved better than this. And someone out there still has blood on their hands.

Only a handful of patrons lingered—dock clerks hunched over mugs, a pair of dice-players muttering in the corner. Elara wiped the same stretch of counter twice, not because it needed it but because her hands wouldn't still. The wards hummed low, subdued, as if they felt the hollow in her chest and echoed it back.

The door latch rattled.

She tensed before she even turned. The wards quivered, uncertain, not hostile but not welcoming either. Then the figure pushed inside—broad-shouldered, scar gleaming in the lantern light. Ludo De-Vey.

The smell of smoke and Underash clung to him like a second coat. He crossed the room without asking leave, without waiting for her nod. When he dropped onto a stool at the bar, the wood groaned under his weight.

Elara's jaw tightened. "You're bold, showing your face here tonight."

His grin was sharp, bitter. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." He dug into his coat pocket and drew out a small bundle wrapped in cloth, setting it on the counter between them. His scar twitched as his expression flickered. "She said it was for you."

Elara stared at it, throat tightening.

"Before," he added, voice low now. Rough. "Made me swear I'd bring it, if—" He cut himself off with a shake of his head. "Don't know why she wanted you to have it. But I keep my word."

For a moment neither of them moved. The bundle sat between them like a weight.

Finally Elara reached out and drew it toward her. The cloth fell open to reveal a locket, cheap silver, scuffed but still catching light. Inside, a faded scrap of ribbon, blue once, now worn near white. Iris's charm, plain as her laughter.

Elara's chest ached. She closed her hand around it, not trusting her voice.

Ludo watched her, sneer gone, something hollower in its place.

"Drink," Elara said finally. She poured a measure of whiskey and set it in front of him. "On the house."

His brows rose. "Didn't think we'd ever see eye to eye."

"We don't," she said, steady now. "But you kept her word. That counts."

He lifted the glass, drank deep, and set it down with a thud. No toast, no thanks. Only silence. After a moment, he pushed back from the bar and left the way he came, the door sighing shut behind him.

Elara stood with the locket in her fist long after the door shut. Cheap silver, scuffed and worn, still warm from Ludo's hand. It weighed more than it should have, as though Iris herself had pressed it into her palm.

The wards hummed low, almost gentle, as if they approved of the exchange.

She drew a breath, sharp and shaking, and slipped the locket into her pocket. Later, she'd take it upstairs. Later, she'd let Malachi see it, and maybe speak the truth of how much Iris had mattered.

For now, she stood in the quiet bar, lanternlight catching on half-polished glass, and listened to the silence stretch.

 Late that night, Elara shut the bar down with the same motions as always—lamps dimmed, bolts drawn, wards humming low. But the locket in her pocket pulled heavier than the keys at her belt. She could feel it with every step up the narrow stair, pressing cold against her thigh, as though Iris herself whispered don't forget me.

The apartment was dim, only one lamp lit. Malachi leaned there already, draped against the frame of the kitchen door, as if he'd been waiting all along. His eyes flicked to her hand when she drew the cloth bundle free and unwrapped it.

Silver gleamed dully in her palm. A cheap locket, scuffed from years of wear, its hinge loose. She opened it once more, though she already knew what lay inside: the thin scrap of ribbon, once blue, now faded to a pale ghost of color. "She wanted me to have this," she murmured. "But I don't understand why. It doesn't... feel like her."

Malachi leaned against the edge of her table, amber eyes tracking the trinket. "Because it wasn't hers."

She frowned, looking up.

He tilted his head, grin curling slow. "I've seen Iris with charms and trinkets she flaunted to look richer than she was. But this?" He tapped the locket with a knuckle, the sound sharp. "This she didn't buy. She was given it."

Her stomach knotted. "Given by who?"

Malachi's grin curved, slow and sharp, though his eyes burned with something harder. "She told me once—offhand, laughing—that she'd started to feel it. The tug. Said it was like fate was dragging her sideways."

Elara's breath caught. She remembered the words too, now. Iris half-drunk, leaning over the counter, saying she felt different lately. Like someone was watching her with more than hunger.

"the bond... right," Elara whispered.

Malachi inclined his head, amber glinting. "Or the start of one at least. Soul-bonded. She was sniffing at it. Maybe even falling toward it."

The locket seemed to burn in her hand. "You think this came from them."

"Romantics always leave tokens," he said, voice velvet-dark. "A ribbon. A lock of hair. A scrap to mark what's theirs. And if she truly brushed against fate, maybe she lit up too bright for her own good."

Elara closed the locket with a snap. "You think they killed her."

Malachi only shrugged, smile wicked, teeth white in the low lamplight. "I think bonds make men do worse than murder. And if she wasn't his yet... well... It's that motive enough?"

The wards shivered faintly, unsettled, their hum catching in Elara's chest. She clutched the locket tight, the metal biting her palm. Malachi leaned closer, voice soft as smoke. "Careful, love. Fate's a noose as much as it's a thread."

Elara turned away, slipping the locket into her pocket. But the weight didn't lessen.