Kai and Matt had two Omen Trading employees with them as extra hands, rough-looking men who knew how to keep their mouths shut. The four of them moved in practiced silence, shoulders straining as they wrestled the crates off the truck. The shipment was heavy — a mix of medical supplies, painkillers, and the kind of drugs clans didn't bother listing in any official manifest.
The Mist Clan headquarters loomed above us like any other skyscraper. Thirty-odd floors of glass and steel, its outline jagged against the smog-smeared sky. At street level, it looked average, anonymous even. No banners, no signs, no guards waving colors. But the longer you stared, the less ordinary it seemed. Windows seemed to darken when you looked too long, shapes moving behind them that disappeared when you blinked.
We passed through the security checkpoint with minimal trouble. The guards scanned the Omen manifest and gave us clearance, their eyes glazed with the half-alert boredom of people who'd seen too much to be impressed by smugglers and their crates. The loading dock beyond was a cavern of steel doors and humming freight lifts. Every sound echoed too loud, boots against the concrete ringing like a warning.
We'd barely started unloading before someone came down to meet us.
Grolo.
A high-ranking Mist Clan official, though the title didn't do him justice. He looked like a man carved out of shadow, his cloak trailing faintly as though it didn't belong to this world. Behind him shimmered his guardian — a formless cloak made of vapor and silk-thread shadows, constantly shifting as if caught in a breeze only it could feel. It wrapped around his shoulders one moment, pooled on the ground the next. Its edges bled away into nothingness, swallowing light, sound, even the weight of his footsteps.
I felt Velnix stir behind me, restless. I'd been training him to mimic a cloak — to take shape as an extension of me instead of hovering like a stormcloud. Seeing Grolo's guardian made it clear just how far I still had to go.
"You keep interesting company, Omen," Grolo said, voice deep and steady. His eyes moved over Matt briefly, but lingered on me. Not me, exactly — Velnix.
The wraith behind me twitched, its spiral body coiling in answer.
Grolo's lips pulled into a grin. "A fine guardian. Untamed, but elegant. I can see why Omen keeps you on. What's its name?"
"Velnix," I answered.
He gave a small nod. "A good one. Keep training it. The Mist Clan has a way of remembering promising shadows."
Compliments from Grolo weren't given lightly.
Behind him, more clan members began to appear, filtering into the dock as though they'd been watching all along. Each carried the same air — quiet, deliberate, dangerous. They weren't here to lift crates or help with paperwork. They were here to be seen.
One man had a guardian like a skeletal bird, its feathers plumes of black smoke, beak sharp enough to slice steel. It perched on his arm with eerie patience, never moving except for the slow turn of its head, eyes glowing like embers in a fog.
A woman followed, younger but no less intimidating. Her guardian stretched behind her like a swarm of butterflies — delicate, translucent wings flapping soundlessly, but each one left trails of mist that lingered in the air. Beautiful at a glance, but the feeling in my gut said each wing could cut flesh if commanded.
Another stood near the wall, saying nothing, but his guardian was impossible to miss. A tall, eyeless figure, draped in sheets of pale fog, hands too long and fingers sharpened to needle points. It leaned close to him like a confidant whispering secrets.
The Mist Clan's guardians weren't loud, weren't monstrous in size. They didn't need to be. Their very presence made the dock feel smaller, colder, as though the walls were closing in.
Grolo finally waved a hand toward the crates. "Payment will be delivered as agreed." He gestured, and two clan members carried the shipment toward the freight lift. They moved with unsettling efficiency, their guardians flickering close, curling around the cargo like smoke protecting flame.
"You'll find no shortage of work with us if Omen lets you," Grolo said, his eyes still on me. "Supplies like these keep clans alive. And so do men who can protect them."
Matt shifted beside me, shoulders tight. He didn't like the way Grolo looked at me — like I was already claimed.
We followed as the shipment was taken upstairs, Grolo leading the way. The freight lift groaned as it ascended, stopping on the storage floor. Rows of shelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with crates marked in faded chalk, supplies piled high in silent towers. The air smelled of dust and antiseptic, as if even decay bowed to the clan's control here.
Grolo oversaw the unloading personally. Each crate was checked, opened, logged with neat precision by a clerk who wrote in silence, his quill scratching across paper like a clock counting down. When the last crate was stacked neatly, Grolo turned back to us.
He reached into his cloak and produced a black pouch, the weight of coins and credits inside obvious. He tossed it to Matt, who caught it without flinching.
"A fair trade," Grolo said. "Mist pays its debts. Remember that."
The clan members lingered a moment longer, their guardians whispering in the corners, before slipping back into the shadows of the skyscraper like they'd never been there.
Grolo gave a final nod. "We'll be watching, Kai Apolix. Take care not to vanish too quickly."
That was it. No farewell, no wasted words. He turned, cloak shifting around him, and was gone.
We made our way back down through the dock in silence. The Omen employees said nothing, their eyes averted, as though speaking in the Mist Clan's walls was an invitation for something unseen to listen.
The air outside felt almost fresh by comparison.
By the time we reached the airfield again, the sky had shifted toward dusk. The hum of engines, the smell of fuel, even the open wind felt like relief after the suffocating weight of the Mist Clan's shadows.
Matt broke the silence first, shaking his head. "I don't like how they looked at you."
"They look at everyone that way," I said, though even I didn't believe it fully.
Velnix curled behind me, quiet now, but I felt the tremor in its form. Like me, it had seen something worth remembering.
The Mist Clan didn't forget. And they didn't forgive.
We left the skyscraper behind us, shadows still clinging to our thoughts as the plane waited with engines ready. Another job done. Another debt settled. But something told me this wasn't the last time the Mist Clan's eyes would follow us.