Location: SHELTER Tavern – Verge Sector, Kaelthorn | Two Days Later
Two days.
That's how long it had been since the alley.
Since the rooftop.
Since her body moved before her thoughts did, and her mouth smiled like it wasn't her own.
She'd come back here both nights. Same stool. Same drink. Same silence.
The tavern still didn't have a name. Not anymore.
Just the rusted sign outside with half its letters burned away.
SHELTER, once.
Now it just said SHE—and that felt about right.
Ember sat in the center seat of the bar.
Not near the edge. Not in the shadows.
Right in the middle, where no one in Kaelthorn was dumb enough to sit next to her.
The other patrons knew better. They kept to the corners, muttered behind flickering blue lights, and made sure not to look her way too long.
She didn't mind.
The silence was real. She preferred it.
The barkeep placed her glass without asking. She didn't thank him. Just drank.
It burned all the way down.
She liked that.
That smile…
It didn't belong to her. Not really.
She'd replayed the moment over and over—the rooftop, the standoff, the tension strung tight like a fuse.
And then… her mouth had curled.
Like she'd been waiting for that fight.
Like she wanted it.
Why?
She still didn't know.
The Pyra Sigil hadn't flared since. But she could feel it—low in her chest. Not hot. Not loud.
Just there.
Like something watching from under the skin.
So she came here.
Drank.
And tried to listen past the noise in her own head.
Someone sat beside her.
Not across. Not near the door.
Right beside her.
No one did that.
Ember didn't turn right away.
Her fingers curled a little tighter around the glass.
The woman didn't speak. Didn't order.
Just sat—like she'd planned this.
When Ember glanced sideways, she saw strength.
Solid build. Broad shoulders under a dark, scarred coat.
Short white hair. One steel-gray eye. An eyepatch.
No twitch. No nerves.
She didn't carry herself like a threat.
She carried herself like a fact.
"You the ghost?" the woman asked, voice low.
Ember stared forward.
"You got the wrong person."
The woman didn't flinch.
"I don't think I do."
Now Ember turned—slowly.
"You always sit next to strangers and talk like you know 'em?"
The woman finally looked at her drink. Didn't sip.
"Only the ones who leave a trail of broken pavement and silence."
Ember's voice came quieter now. Tighter.
"You want something?"
"Just looking."
"Well, look somewhere else."
The woman didn't.
"Name's Vale."
Ember didn't give hers.
Ember leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You got a habit of breathing down strangers' necks, or is today just special?"
Vale didn't rise to it.
She stayed still—elbow on the counter, hand resting by her drink like she hadn't come here to rattle anyone.
But that calmness only made it worse.
"You don't look like a stranger," Vale said.
Ember scoffed, dry.
"You don't look like someone who minds their business."
Vale shrugged once, slow.
"Not when the quiet ones start leaving scars behind."
That did it.
Ember turned her full body now—one boot twisting slightly on the floor, her shoulder angling toward Vale.
"What do you want?"
Vale met her eyes without hesitation.
"To know if you're going to be a problem."
The words weren't cruel. Just honest.
And that made them land harder.
The tavern felt colder now.
Or maybe quieter.
It wasn't empty, but the space around them had hollowed out—like the rest of the world had taken a step back without realizing it.
A table creaked in the back. Someone muttered into a comm shard.
The barkeep watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to.
The lights above flickered once, casting both women in the same blue glow—one with a fire she didn't understand, the other with eyes that had seen too much to flinch.
Ember didn't answer right away.
She stared at her drink, then tipped it back—finished it, slow.
The glass hit the counter with a soft clink.
"You think you've got me figured out?"
"No," Vale said, calm. "Not yet."
Ember turned her head, eyes narrowed.
"Then do yourself a favor. Don't try."
Vale's eye flicked toward her—steadier now.
"That a warning?" Vale said
"It's a kindness," Ember said.
The words hung between them, sharp and final.
Vale didn't respond. She didn't need to.
She just looked at Ember like she understood too much—and maybe, just maybe, respected her for it.
But then…
The tavern fell silent.
Not the usual quiet.
This was instinctual—the kind of silence that crawled into your spine.
Kaen Voss stepped through the doorway.
Boots caked in dust.
Coat half-unzipped.
Smirk carved like he'd stolen it from a better man and broke it on the way out.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
A patron coughed, caught himself, and looked down.
Another quietly slid out the side exit.
Vale shifted. Not out of fear—but out of calculation. Her eye narrowed.
Ember didn't turn—until Kaen got close.
Too close.
He leaned slightly toward her.
"That fire still burning in you, ghost?"
Ember's jaw tensed.
Her fingers curled near her coat hem.
Kaen smirked wider.
"You got something that don't belong to you. And I don't like thieves."
Then a shadow moved between them.
Vale.
She stepped in calmly, like a blade sliding into place.
Her hand hovered just above the hilt on her back—not drawn.
Not yet.
"Back off," she said.
Kaen's smirk didn't fade. But his eyes darkened.
"You always did like playing knight," he said.
He looked at Ember, then back to Vale.
"Cute."
Then—slowly—he reached to the side.
Grabbed the nearest patron by the head.
Not fast. Not flashy.
Just inevitable.
The man whimpered. Didn't scream.
Kaen squeezed.
"You want me to back off?" he said, eyes fixed on Vale.
"Then make me."
Vale didn't flinch.
But her hand tightened around the hilt.
A whisper passed through the tavern.
Someone backed away. Another ducked behind the counter.
The lights above flickered—once.
If that skull cracked, if Vale's sword cleared its sheath, Kaelthorn would burn tonight.
And then—
"Kaen."
The voice came from the doorway.
Korr Drel stood there.
Shadowed. Calm. Watchful.
"The boss is calling."
Kaen didn't look at him right away.
Another heartbeat passed.
Then he let go of the patron—shoved him aside like trash.
He gave Vale one last stare. A little longer than needed.
Then turned.
Walked out without a word.
Korr lingered for a moment.
His eyes met Ember's—quiet, sharp.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something colder.
Then he was gone.
Ember exhaled, slow.
Vale didn't look at her.
Didn't need to.
"That was Kaen Voss," she said flatly.
"If you didn't know… now you do."
Ember stayed quiet.
"Sixth Fang," she muttered.
Vale nodded.
"Taz Moreno's right hand.
He doesn't send Kaen unless he wants someone broken before dead."
Another pause.
"You want to tell me why they're hunting you?"
Ember didn't answer at first.
She just sat back down, her expression unreadable, the empty glass still warm in her fingers.
For a long moment, the tavern filled the silence between them—low hums of old lights, a hiss of steam from the back, someone dropping a glass too hard at the far end of the bar.
Vale didn't press.
She waited.
And maybe that's why Ember finally said:
"They're hunting something they don't understand."
Her voice was quiet. Rough around the edges.
"Problem is… I don't either."
She didn't look at Vale when she said it. She just stared at the wall behind the bar like it might give her answers.
"It burned through everything," she added, softer.
"And now it's sitting in my chest like it's waiting."
Vale turned slightly, watching her—not judging. Not nodding. Just… seeing.
"What's it waiting for?" she asked.
Ember looked down at her glove, flexed her fingers once.
"Maybe me."