Nocturne Spire rose like a lie wrapped in glass, all slick edges and neon wrapped tight like chains around a dream that never quite came true. The whole tower stretched way too high, as if it thought reaching the sky would wash off the grime below. Rain dripped down the steel ribs of the place, but it wasn't water—it was synthetic, poison pretending to be life. The air up here tasted rich and sharp, like champagne gone bad with hidden shards of broken glass. Down in the streets, the city was choking on smog and busted promises, but Nocturne Spire? It stood smug. Untouchable. Like it bought itself a get-out-of-jail card for whatever mess waited down below.
Lucien Blackmoore stepped out of the lift with his crimson coat flaring behind him, a sharp slash of color against the cold luxury. The guards gave him the once-over, quick and hard, but looked away before the tension could turn into trouble. He caught the twitch in their shoulders, the way fingers hovered near triggers like the guns might decide on their own. Lucien didn't bother pretending he wasn't a threat. He flashed them a grin, just enough to say this coat wasn't about staying warm. It was a warning. They parted, and he walked in.
The Ledger pulsed cold beneath his ribs—"Crimson Market contracts tally: 43 active, 7 pending. Souls collected: 118. Boon progress: 64%. Your empire burns souls." The glyphs flickered faintly on his skin, reading the room's pulse alongside his own.
The lounge at the top was a slow pulse of synth, the kind of beat that felt bored with itself, like it knew something better was coming. Gold veins ran through black marble counters, shiny and cold, like the night sky had been hollowed out and filled with poison. Glass walls wrapped around the whole room, showing Valthara's bleeding skyline stretching under a dark bruise of clouds. The air smelled like old money and ghostwater perfume—something rich, but fading fast.
And there, like a blade carved from midnight, was Rhea Solis. She was draped across a crescent sofa, cool and sharp, all angles that looked like they could draw blood if you weren't careful. Her dress caught the light, oil-slick blue, slipping and shifting like water over broken glass. The slit was high, flashing steel beneath. One gloved hand toyed with a crystal flute, twisting it like a weapon. The other hand held nothing, but Lucien had learned long ago not to trust empty hands.
"Rhea, lovely," Lucien said, sliding closer, his voice roughened smooth by too many nights and bad deals. "Nocturne's a glitter-trap, but I'm the ace. Slip me that intel, and I owe you a dance."
She didn't meet his eyes right away. Instead, she studied her reflection in the curve of the flute, like watching a ghost she didn't want to remember. "Lucien Blackmoore," she said, her voice soft but sharp, like silk cutting through skin. "You're either brave or stupid, showing your face here. Know how many syndicate eyes are on this floor tonight?"
Lucien shrugged, dropping down beside her without asking. The couch creaked low like it didn't approve. The Ledger glowed a faint pulse, sending him a cold note: "Syndicate presence high. Cassian proxies active: 6 confirmed, 4 unknown. Cipher network integrity: degrading."
"Enough to make it interesting," he said, voice casual but with a knife's edge. "Not enough to keep me out."
"Bold," she said, finally turning toward him, her eyes rimmed silver, cold and calculating. "Or suicidal."
"Some might call it charming," Lucien said, fishing a small obsidian chip from his coat and setting it on the table with a clink that felt like a gunshot in the quiet. "Courier's mark from the lower stacks. Voiceprint encoded, blood-locked. Worth a listen."
Rhea arched one brow and tapped the chip. A flicker of projection flared to life—voice distorted, but the shapes were clear. Numbers, coordinates, schedules moving through the haze.
Syndicate supply lines.
When it ended, she didn't say a word. Just stared at the empty space where the projection had died.
Lucien leaned in, voice dropping low enough to thread through the music like smoke. "Your people have rats in the pantry. You're about to lose two carriages full of hexsteel and bonded ether. This leak didn't come cheap."
Her jaw clenched tight. Not enough to crack her calm mask, but enough to tell him he'd hit where it hurt. "And you just... brought this? Out of the goodness of your heart?"
Lucien grinned, teeth sharp and a little crooked. "I'm a broker, not a priest. But I'm choosy. You've got better taste than most syndicate royalty."
She gave a short, cold laugh, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're trying to get in my good graces. What's the angle?"
"I'm already there, Rhea. I just want to stay a while."
Her silence stretched thin, then she slid a small drive across the table. Her fingernail caught on the edge like a hook. The Ledger buzzed a warning pulse, "Drive contains high-risk data. Cipher network exposed. Cassian hunting. Immediate counter-strategy recommended."
"This is what I know about Cassian's new proxies," she said low. "Names scrubbed clean. But the city's ghost channels are picking up their trail. Someone's trying to bait you."
Lucien's fingers closed around the drive like a prize. "Someone always is."
The Ledger twitched, its glyphs crawling with data only he could parse: "Proxy movements clustered in Ash Lanes and Iron Depths. Communication lines compromised. Recommend disruption through layered counter-ciphers."
Something shifted in the air. Not sound or breath, but a pressure deep in his ribs where the Ledger thudded beneath the coat. It twitched, warning of something foul crawling close. He didn't turn. He just lifted his glass and caught the reflection of two armored figures stepping onto the mezzanine behind him. Polished masks lit up with combat runes. Their steps were careful, too quiet for a routine patrol.
"Looks like the fun's started," he said, voice smooth, sipping something sharp and peachy. "You wouldn't happen to have a back door, would you?"
Rhea's smile was tight, dangerous. "Lucien, dear. I don't run. I make other people disappear."
"Romantic," he said, standing up.
He moved with purpose, cutting a lazy arc through the room, making the guards second-guess their angles. When they got to the table, he was gone. Just Rhea, bored and beautiful and deadly, left behind.
The first Iron Crow lunged just as Lucien slipped past a stunned server, sending trays clattering in a mess of glass and citrus. He dodged a swipe, flicked a curse-token into the nearest boot. A sharp hiss of cursed heat flared up the leg joint.
"Bit slow for enforcers," he called over his shoulder. "You boys skipping drills?"
They didn't answer. One fired a stun bolt. It grazed his coat, static biting through the fabric, twitching his left arm, but he was already sliding under a console table, flipping the linen off like a pro. A drink cart exploded behind him when another bolt hit its spine.
He ducked behind a pillar, sucking air. That sigil was crawling in the back of his mind, like a cockroach wearing a face. Not his. Cassian's.
The Ledger pulsed warnings in time with his ragged breath: "Cipher pattern detected. Proxy node closing. Risk of capture elevated. Plan countermeasures."
Tapping his watch, blue flickers mapped out exits in his vision. One corner blinked red. Another sigil. Fresh, sloppy.
Lucien ground his teeth. "No flair at all," he muttered. "Just piss and smudge."
He charged down the staff hallway, pushing past a startled bartender who dropped a crate of glasses.
"Watch it!" the man shouted.
Lucien tossed back a grin. "I'm allergic to detention!"
The hallway ended at a half-lit maintenance stairwell where two more Crows waited, arms crossed, eyes cold. Lucien didn't slow. He pulled an etched bone shard from his sleeve and snapped it. The ward flared like a beast, shaking the stairwell hard. One Crow hit his knees, stunned. The other tried to aim, but Lucien was past him, heel catching the edge of the rail.
He vaulted through a broken window, glass scraping his cheek.
Five floors down he landed hard on an awning, rolling over its torn fabric. Pain bit sharp up his leg. Not broken, but bruised enough to remind him this was real.
Lucien limped into the alley behind the Spire, chest heaving.
Above, the city moaned—a ragged wind clawing through neon like searching fingers. Cassian's sigil flickered faint on the rooftop behind him, drawn in clumsy hex-chalk that bled into stone like a bad tattoo.
The Ledger pulsed again, heavy with something almost like regret: "Proxy network active. Threat escalating. Your counter-strategy must be precise."
Lucien clenched his jaw.
"This again," he whispered. "Always the flairless ones."
His earpiece crackled. Zara's voice.
"Bazaar's clear. Something's stirring in the Ash Lanes. You good?"
"Define good," Lucien said, wiping blood from his cheek.
"I'll take that as yes. Got eyes on Cassian's glyphwork—he's not hiding anymore."
"He wants a reaction," Lucien said. "Wants the city foaming at the mouth."
"Then give him one."
Lucien smiled, cracked lips bleeding faint. "Oh, I will. But slow. Like a debt that festers."
He clicked off, slipped down the alley, letting the coat fall heavy around him.
The Ledger pulsed one last time, a slow, sure beat: "You're bound to me. This game's breaking you. Plan sting. Outmaneuver. Survive."
Tonight, he'd walked into a glitter-trap and danced out before the jaws snapped shut. Rhea had slipped him more than just intel—she'd marked him. Given him visibility, weight.
Cassian's sigils might keep popping up, loud, crooked, wrong. But so would Lucien. Louder. Sharper. Smiling.
And one day soon, someone would stop mistaking that grin for mercy.