Ashfall's dawn broke on a city that pretended not to see its own wounds. Dockside cranes swung overhead like gallows arms, steel cables creaking in the wind. A mile inland, police tape fluttered across rusted shipping containers — Navarro leaned over the railing, squinting down at the dark smears that marked the dock's edge.
"Blood's fresh," he muttered. "But no bodies."
Iris Calder stood beside him, arms folded, her badge hanging loose around her neck. Her eyes flicked from the dried blood to the black scuff marks where a fight had carved the concrete.
"Whoever bled here didn't stay down," she said. Her voice was tired. She'd barely slept — Liam's eyes haunted her, his sketch hidden under her pillow like a confession she couldn't make.
Navarro crouched to tug a latex glove tighter. "You really think she's real? The Raven?"
Iris didn't answer immediately. She thought about the old warmth, Selene's hands once at her ribs. She thought about how Selene never quite looked her in the eye anymore — how she never lied, but never told the truth either.
She said, finally, "Doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is someone's spilling blood Umbra wants hidden."
Navarro snorted. "So we clean up after a ghost."
Captain Voss's voice boomed behind them — all gravel and cigarettes. "You clean up. You don't talk to reporters. You don't chase fairy tales. You do your job and pray your kids never see what you've seen."
Iris flinched at kids. Liam's face flashed in her mind, peeking through the hallway shadows last night. Maya Cadee's tiny voice humming to herself as she drew superheroes at the kitchen table.
She swallowed it down, turning her back on the dock as the sun clawed higher over broken cranes.
---
At the Calder house, Nathan Calder scrolled through secure messages on an encrypted laptop. His brow furrowed at words stamped in code he knew too well — a threat, wrapped in polite language:
"Contain your wife. The Raven cannot remain free. Or your ghosts come calling."
He closed the lid with a soft click. He could hear Liam's tablet hum through the thin wall — his son, quiet as secrets. Nathan rubbed his eyes. Once, he'd believed in the badge. Now, it was just another chain he wore while Umbra pulled the leash tight around his throat.
---
Half a city away, Micah Torres perched on a stool in a hidden basement where flickering monitors bathed his gaunt face in shifting blues and greens. Lines of code danced on the screen, a pulse only he could hear. His mother's photo sat taped above the keyboard — worn corners, cracked smile.
He muttered to himself, eyes flicking to another window on the screen — Umbra chatter scraping through stolen feeds.
"Faceless Kane," he said under his breath. "They unleashed a ghost to hunt a ghost. Cute."
His fingers blurred across the keys — each click a bullet, each password cracked another vein in Umbra's iron heart. He'd found a whisper buried deep — Umbra's next shipment wasn't guns or bodies. It was a name. A list of people Umbra wanted gone — judges, reporters, fixers who'd outlived their usefulness.
And somewhere in that file, the name Rowan Pierce flickered like a dying star.
Micah leaned back. "Damn, Red. You're swimming in shark water and you don't even know it."
---
Rowan Pierce didn't feel hunted — not yet. She felt angry. The kind of angry that made her stride into the Molted Wing at noon, ignoring the stale whiskey breath of old drunks and Reggie Slate's raised eyebrow as she ordered black coffee instead of gin.
Reggie slid the chipped mug across the bar. "Rough day, Reporter Girl?"
Rowan glared at him. "Reggie, if I asked for a clean glass, you'd think I'd gone soft."
Reggie barked a laugh — that rolling chuckle like gravel down a tin roof. He leaned in, voice low. "Word is Dockside got messy last night. Cops tripping over blood they can't find. The Bird strike again?"
Rowan blew steam from the mug, eyes narrowed. "If she did, I'll find out. Somebody's spinning lies. I can smell Umbra's fingerprints all over the city."
Reggie leaned closer, conspiratorial. "You keep poking that nest, you'll wind up under my floorboards."
Rowan's smile was sharp. "If I do, pour me a last shot first."
He tapped the counter. "On the house."
---
That night, the city's cold breath fogged the streets as Selene Kain limped down a side alley off Dockside, stitches tugging under her ribs where Faceless Kane's blade had found flesh. The wound felt deeper than steel — like Umbra's teeth had finally nicked her heart.
She ducked into the shadowed back door of the Molted Wing, ignoring the side-eye from Reggie as she slipped past. In the dim corner, Rowan sat alone with her second coffee gone cold. She looked up — startled at first, then that guarded curiosity that always tugged at her mouth.
"You look like hell," Rowan said.
Selene dropped into the opposite chair. "Seen worse."
"You should be in a hospital."
Selene's laugh was too tired to be sharp. "They'd ask questions I can't answer."
Rowan studied her — this strange morgue attendant who sometimes looked at her like she saw the bone under the skin. They hadn't planned to meet again — not after that night three months ago, the bar's backroom, two shots of cheap bourbon and all the loneliness poured into one stolen hour.
Rowan cleared her throat. "You still run from what you want?"
Selene's eyes lifted. They didn't lie, but they didn't give everything either. "Not always."
Rowan's pulse flickered under her skin. She hated this woman for how she made her want answers — and for how she always left her with more questions. She leaned forward, close enough to smell the copper tang of blood hidden under soap and antiseptic.
"Tell me what happened last night," Rowan said. "Off the record."
Selene's mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "You don't want my truth."
Rowan's fingers drummed the table. "Try me."
For a heartbeat, Selene wanted to. The weight of Dockside, Silas slipping away, Faceless Kane's mocking giggle. Moloch Horn's rampage brewing like a thunderhead. The city's spine rotting from the top down. Her father's blood, her mother's grave. The cage Umbra was building around every living thing that dared to breathe free air.
She almost said it. I am the Black Raven.
Instead she said, "Stay out of Dockside this week."
Rowan's smile went cold. "Or what?"
"Or you'll write your own obituary."
---
In the hush between them, Reggie Slate leaned behind the bar, polishing a shotgun shell on a rag that used to be a dish towel. He watched them like a man who knew exactly how much of the world's secrets were worth spilling.
---
Across the city, King Crow stood on the roof of an abandoned luxury hotel, the wind tearing at his coat. Beneath him, the Flock scurried like rats — his rats — moving crates of guns, drugs, flesh. But even rats knew when poison touched the cheese.
His phone buzzed — The Herald again. Orders wrapped in threats. Umbra's chain jerked tight, pulling at his crown of shadows.
King Crow's fingers drummed on the parapet. He hated being a puppet. He hated Umbra's false civility, their silk masks over rotten teeth.
He watched the city spread below him — his kingdom of filth and ruin.
"Let the Raven bleed the streets red," he murmured to the wind. "If she cuts my leash, maybe I crown myself."
---
Back at the Calder house, Liam lay under blankets, eyes wide, the tablet's glow reflecting off half-finished sketches. His mother's footsteps padded down the hallway — she paused at his door. He froze, pretending to sleep.
Iris peered in, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She watched him for a moment — her baby boy, too sharp for his own good.
She closed the door softly, the secrets between them pressing like ghosts against the walls.
---
And somewhere, buried in the cracks of Ashfall's poisoned heart, Faceless Kane pulled a new face over his raw skull. He hummed as he stitched it on — neat work, pretty seams. The Herald's voice hissed through the burner phone on the table.
"Next time, Kane. Bring me her eyes."
Kane giggled, teeth white behind stolen lips. "Next time, I wear her bones."
---
Selene Kain stepped back into the night, leaving Rowan at the table with questions spinning like knives. The wind tore at her coat — feathers ghosted in the streetlight's yellow glow.
She whispered to the dark: "You want my face? Come and take it."
Somewhere behind her, the city's rot grinned. And the Raven's wings unfurled, hungry for the storm.
---
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY