Rain again. Duskmere never offered mercy.
The slums pulsed with quiet violence—drunken footsteps, creaking shutters, whispers behind ragged curtains. Iris had just finished boiling feverleaf for a client when the knock came.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
He froze.
No one knocked like that here.
He opened the door a crack—and there he was.
Almond Drevar stood with one gloved hand resting on the iron gate, as if he had all the time in the world to linger in filth.
"You followed me," Iris said, jaw tightening.
Almond tilted his head. "You think you're hard to find?"
His coat was damp, but his presence seemed untouched. Clean. Cold. Out of place.
"You shouldn't be here," Iris muttered.
"And yet," Almond said, stepping forward, "here I am."
He didn't wait to be invited. Just brushed past, eyes sweeping the cramped room lined with jars, herbs, and tools.
"You live here?" Almond asked, tone unreadable.
"No. I haunt it," Iris snapped.
Almond looked at him then—really looked. "You like pretending you're dangerous, don't you?"
Iris met his gaze. "No. I just am."
Silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.
Then Almond stepped closer. "Why do you hate me, Iris?"
"Because you haven't earned anything you have," Iris said, voice low. "And yet you look at me like you own me."
Almond's jaw clenched. "You think money makes me powerful?"
"I think people like you never have to learn how to bleed for what you want."
A long pause.
Almond reached into his coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He placed it on the table gently.
"What's that?"
"A gift."
Iris didn't move.
"You think I came to play games. But I don't play," Almond said, his voice colder now. "I take what I want, and I wanted to see you again. So I did."
Iris's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Why me?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Almond stepped close again—too close. "Because you talk back. Because you don't beg. Because you look like sin and spit like fire."
The silence that followed was a slow fall into something neither of them understood.
Then Almond leaned in, lips near his ear.
"I'll be back. When I want to."
And then he was gone.
Leaving only the wrapped cloth on the table… and a storm inside Iris that wouldn't settle.
The door clicked shut behind Almond, but his presence lingered like perfume and poison. Iris stood there for a long time, staring at the cloth-wrapped package on the rickety table. His fingers itched to unwrap it, but something in him resisted. He wasn't the kind of boy rich men gave gifts to. He was the kind they used. The kind they forgot. Yet Almond Drevar hadn't forgotten him. He'd come back. In person. Again. And he'd left this… thing. Iris scowled and unwrapped it roughly. Inside lay a black velvet box, the kind he'd only ever seen in shop windows where he couldn't afford to breathe. He opened it, expecting something absurd—maybe a ring, maybe nothing at all. But what he saw made his breath catch. A dagger. Not decorative. Not ceremonial. Real. Slim and elegant, with a curved silver blade and a hilt inlaid with obsidian stones that shimmered like stars. A crest was engraved at the base—faint, but familiar. House Drevar. A noble family weapon. Illegal for anyone not of the Houses to own. And yet it sat in his home, in his hands. It was beautiful. Deadly. Just like the man who gave it to him. "Iris!" He flinched and turned to see Cera push open the door, her curls wild from the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She stopped short at the sight of the dagger. "What the hell is that?" He slammed the box shut. "Nothing." "'Nothing' has Drevar steel on it." "How do you even know that?" "I'm not blind—and you're not dumb, Iris. Where did you get it?" He didn't answer. Couldn't. Cera crossed her arms. "Don't tell me he came back." Iris stared at the dagger, jaw clenched. "Oh no," she breathed. "He did, didn't he? That twisted noble creep. Iris, what does he want from you?" "I don't know." "You need to get rid of that. Right now." Iris looked up, something wild and reckless in his eyes. "He came back, Cera. He came back. And he didn't try to hurt me. He gave me this." "So? You think this is kindness?" Her voice cracked. "That dagger means he thinks you belong to him. People like him don't give. They mark." He hated how right she sounded. Cera moved closer, softer now. "Iris… don't let him sink hooks into you. I know what it's like to feel wanted by someone powerful, but it always comes with a price." He didn't speak. Didn't know how to explain what it felt like to be seen by someone like Almond. Not pitied. Not ignored. Seen. He didn't want to let go of that feeling, even if it cut him open. "I'm not going to be some noble's toy," Iris muttered. "Then act like it," Cera snapped. They stared at each other, both hurting in their own way. Then she sighed and walked over, brushing her hand over his arm. "Just… be careful." He nodded, even if he didn't mean it. --- Late That Night Iris sat by the window, the dagger across his knees, moonlight dancing on its blade. He should get rid of it. But his fingers traced the crest again and again. And when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of silver eyes and silk gloves, of voices that said his name like a vow.
Rain had come again—Duskmere's constant hymn—and it clung to Iris like a second skin as he stood in front of the iron gates of House Drevar. The manor loomed beyond, cloaked in fog, rising like a beast from the city's bones. This wasn't a visit. This was a confrontation. Iris wasn't summoned. He came with a dagger wrapped in linen and questions wrapped in fire. Cera had begged him not to. "You're not thinking straight. What if he doesn't even let you in? What if he—" "Then I'll know what kind of man he really is," Iris had cut in. "He gave me this dagger. I'm giving it back. And I want to see what he says when I do." Now, staring at the ornate Drevar crest carved into the gates—two coiled serpents surrounding a withering tree—he swallowed his pride and reached for the iron bell pull. One clang. Then silence. He half-expected armed guards, or worse—silence. But the gate creaked open. A servant stood in the threshold, looking baffled but not entirely surprised. "You are expected," she said. "Expected?" Iris frowned. The servant only turned, leading him through the stone courtyard, past torch-lit arches and garden statues with hollow eyes. Every inch of the estate whispered wealth, tradition, and secrets. Iris felt dirt beneath his fingernails, a sharp contrast to the polished floors he now walked on. He was led to a sitting room with velvet curtains and a fireplace already burning. Almond stood by the window, back turned. "You came," Almond said, not turning around. "I'm not here for tea," Iris replied. Almond turned. His black coat was exchanged for something more casual, but no less expensive—fine wool, crisp collar, dark slacks. The air between them stretched. Iris reached into his coat and unwrapped the dagger. He placed it on the nearby table. "You left this. Next time, leave a note." Almond didn't glance at the dagger. His eyes stayed fixed on Iris. "Why return it? Didn't it make you feel safe?" "It made me feel watched." Almond stepped closer, and Iris held his ground. "You are watched, Iris. Every step you take in Duskmere is measured by someone richer, crueler, or bored enough to be dangerous. I just chose to make myself visible." "So what is this then? A game? Do you get off on pulling strings in the slums?" Almond's jaw twitched. "I don't play games with things I want." Silence. "And what exactly do you want?" "You." The word landed between them, too heavy to move past. "You don't even know me," Iris said, voice quieter now, caught between offense and confusion. "I know enough. You're clever. You're angry. You're proud. You survive like it's an art form." "That's not love. That's obsession." Almond nodded. "Exactly." Iris's fingers curled into fists. He turned to leave. "Wait," Almond said. "Let me show you something." Iris didn't move. "You came all this way, didn't you?" Reluctantly, he followed Almond down a corridor and through a narrow door that led into what looked like a private study. Almond opened a drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. He handed it to Iris. It was a sketch—rough, charcoal-drawn, but unmistakably Iris. Seated on a barrel in the alley, dagger in hand, eyes fierce and exhausted. It was dated weeks before they even spoke. Iris looked up. "You were watching me even then." "Not watching," Almond said. "Admiring." The line between caution and curiosity thinned. Iris folded the drawing. "I don't know what game this is. But I'm not a piece on your board, Almond." Almond tilted his head. "Then be the player." Iris stepped back. "Goodnight." "Come again," Almond said
, not as a command—but an invitation. And strangely, Iris didn't say no.