The Tooth was restless. The wards thrummed low beneath Elara's palms as she scrubbed the bar, as though the wood itself already knew who was coming. Fog pressed thick against the shutters, and every tick of the lantern felt like the calm before a storm.

Rafe sat at the bar, shoulders set, golden eyes sharper than usual. He hadn't touched his whiskey, only rolled it slow between scarred hands. "If they wanted this to hold, they'd send someone level-headed. The Cabal's got diplomats enough. Duslen himself isn't bad at it when he's leashed. But Demoor..." He shook his head. "That one's all teeth behind silk."

Elara's jaw tightened. She hated the sound of the names in her bar, like they dirtied the air. But she forced her voice steady. "And the Docklands?"

Rafe's mouth curved humorless. "If it's Varik—and it will be—he won't come to talk. My uncle only moves when there's an audience. He'll call it negotiation, but what he wants is to remind everyone he's still king of the Docks."

Malachi chuckled low, amused like a devil watching sinners circle their own nooses. He leaned against the counter, amber eyes gleaming. "Of course. Mortals don't crave peace. They crave spectacle. They send their loudest dogs and their most polished leeches because blood and silk make better theater than compromise."

Elara turned on him, rag clenched in her hand. "Neutral ground isn't theater."

"Mm," Malachi purred, grin curving sharper. "Tell that to the wolves who measure worth in scars, or the Cabal that counts every deal in blood-weight. You'll see, love. They'll spit slurs and sharpen claws until someone breaks the script."

The wards thrummed harder, her own magic pressing sharp into her skin. Elara forced herself to breathe, to focus, to stand steady. Neutral meant Neutral. No matter who stepped through the door.

Rafe's gaze flicked toward her, searching. "You can really hold them? My uncle. Demoor. Even both at once?"

Elara lifted her chin, voice iron over glass. "I can. The Tooth will."

Malachi's grin spread wide, bright as sin. "Now that," he said softly, "I'd pay to watch."

The latch rattled, and the wards surged like a second heartbeat.

The door swung open on a curl of fog. Casimir Duslen stepped through first, pale hair gleaming like silver wire in the lanternlight, his velvet composure unshaken by the restless wards. He removed his gloves finger by finger, smile sharp but polite, as though the bar belonged to him already.

Behind him came Dante Demoor. Taller, broader, dressed in a cut of black so precise it looked like it might draw blood if brushed too hard. His presence hit colder than Casimir's—commanding, practiced, the weight of someone who expected the room to bend before he asked it to. His smile wasn't velvet. It was steel wrapped in silk.

"Neutral ground," Casimir greeted smoothly, eyes flicking to Elara. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, though his smile stayed too long. "Your reputation grows, Miss Keene."

Elara met his gaze without flinching. "The Tooth doesn't trade in reputation."

Dante's smile curved, faint and assessing, like a blade testing its edge. His eyes swept over the bar, over Malachi's wicked grin and Rafe's rigid shoulders, before returning to her. "We'll see."

The wards hummed at her back, restless but obedient. Elara didn't move, didn't blink. Neutral meant Neutral. Even with the Cabal Vice standing in her bar like he owned the floorboards.

Malachi leaned against the counter, amber eyes alight with mischief. "Oh, I do love when the Cabal sends its best jewelry to the gutter."

Casimir's smile tightened. Dante's did not.

And before Elara could cut in, the latch rattled again. Heavy footsteps shook the fog from the threshold.

Varik Calder entered, furs draped over his broad frame, rings glinting on scarred fingers. His grin showed too many teeth, gold catching in the lanternlight. His presence hit like smoke and salt air, charisma and threat bound tight together. The room seemed smaller for him in it.

At his shoulder came Elias Maten. Coat plain, hands scarred, golden eyes steady. Where Varik filled the room like a storm, Elias was stone pilings meant to endure one. His gaze swept the bar once, lingering on Elara a beat longer in wordless recognition, before he took up quiet position just behind his alpha's chair.

Varik's golden eyes swept the bar once, catching on the untouched whiskey glass still under Rafe's hand. His grin curved, sharp and mocking.

"Well, now. Didn't think you knew this place existed, nephew. Neutral ground's not usually your crowd... So why's that, mmm, boy? Looking for a gentler leash?"

Rafe's jaw tightened, scarred knuckles whitening around the glass. He didn't rise to it, didn't even glance up. Silence held like a blade between them.

Elara caught the weight of the moment, her voice iron as she stepped in. "The Tooth doesn't care whose bloodline walks through its doors. Neutral means all stand the same here."

Varik's grin only widened, teeth glinting gold. "So you say."

Casimir's voice slid smooth through the tension. "Gentlemen, we didn't come for family squabbles." His pale eyes flicked from uncle to nephew before curving back toward Elara with a smile too polite to be harmless. "We came to speak of business. Best not to sour the air before we begin."

He adjusted his cuff with deliberate grace, then inclined his head toward her. "Miss Keene, if your bar is truly Neutral, perhaps it would oblige us with something stronger than these boys are used to. A meeting like this deserves no less."

Elara's fingers tightened on the rag she still held. She hated the way he said your bar—like the Tooth was his to name—but she slid the rag aside all the same. "Neutral ground serves all. You'll have your order."

Behind her, Malachi grinned wicked, already reaching for the top-shelf bottle with a flourish. "Ah, now we're drinking properly." His grin sharpened as he poured, amber liquid catching the lamplight. "Stronger than you'll find in any den or Cabal cellar. The Tooth takes pride in its vices after all." He slid a glass to each man with a little flourish, then leaned back, all lazy menace.

Dante Demoor took his without a word, the cut of his coat sharp as his smile. Casimir sipped, velvet composure never cracking. Varik accepted his with a chuckle, rings clinking against the glass. Elias stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes steady—watching everything, saying nothing.

Rafe hadn't moved from his stool at the bar. He lifted his own glass at last, golden eyes dark, and set it down untouched again.

The room settled into its shape: wolves to one side, Cabal to the other, with Neutral ground laid like a blade between them.

Then the glasses clinked low against the table, a mock toast none of them acknowledged.

Varik swirled his drink, fur collar spilling over the chair. "Word in the Walk says Cabal hands are mixing the Powder thin. Weak stuff in the Docks, and poison in the veins. Another wolf on Vial went mad this week. Tore through half a street before being dropped him. You'll forgive me if I ask who profits from selling rot."

Casimir's velvet smile didn't waver. "You flatter us, Calder. The Cabal doesn't water down its wares. What happens in the Dockside alleys is hardly the concern of a Council that trades in higher markets."

Dante Demoor's voice slid colder, steel behind silk. "If wolves choose to snort dirt and inject gutter poison, that is the wolves' shame, not ours. Vial is a luxury when done correctly. Leave it to Dockland brutes to use it like kennel meat."

Varik's laugh rumbled low, gold flashing in his teeth. "You call it luxury. I call it Cabal bloodletting. You polish your bottles pretty, then slip the dregs downriver to see how long the dogs last."

Casimir's smile curved sharper, velvet fraying at the edges. "Careful, wolf. Without the Cabal's trade, your docks would have nothing but fish guts and piss-water. Powder moves because we refine it. Without us, you'd still be sniffing ash out of backroom stoves."

Dante's voice sliced colder. "Perhaps the truth is simpler: wolves crave violence. Give them Powder, Vial, or plain air, and they'll still tear throats. We merely provide the leash. It's your kind who choose to choke themselves with it."

The wards thrummed hard enough to sting Elara's teeth.

Varik leaned forward, fur brushing against the table, grin spreading wide. "A leash, is it? My boys don't need leashes. They need respect. Something you leeches wouldn't know if it bit you."

Dante's eyes flared faint silver, his smile all contempt. "Respect? From beasts who shit in alleys and call it territory?"

The room froze. Even Casimir's polished mask slipped, just a fraction.

Malachi's chuckle slid through the hush like smoke, low and wicked. "Ah. There's the bite."

Varik's golden eyes burned hotter, his grin twisting. He lifted his glass, then set it down slow, deliberate. "Careful, bloodsucker. We bury our dead with more honor than you grant your playthings. Iris bled cleaner than any of your lot ever will. Maybe next time we'll feed the Walk your kind instead."

The words landed like a blade driven into the table.

The wards shrieked.

Blue fire spidered through the seams of the wood, every line of Neutral law igniting at once. Dante's fangs split wide, Varik's claws flashed gold—both frozen in the same instant, every muscle locked mid-lunge.

The air crackled with iron and salt, sharp enough to sear the lungs. Shadows buckled hard against the walls, lanterns stuttering under the weight of the wards.

At the bar, Malachi leaned back, his grin slow and wicked as sin. "Neutral ground," he drawled, voice cutting through the blue fire like a knife. "Means Neutral always wins."