Alina sat at her small, cluttered desk, staring at the emerald ring as it gleamed dully under the weak, yellow glow of her bedside lamp. It was no longer an object of wonder, but one of torment. She had twisted it, pressed it, pleaded with it, begged for it to take her back—to the silver-leafed trees, to the rivers of liquid light, to the warm, pulsing ground of a world that felt truly alive. But nothing happened. The ring remained cold and silent, a beautiful, useless trinket. Emeraldia had shut her out.
With a sharp, guttural sound of frustration, she yanked the ring off her finger and tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a sharp, final-sounding clink. She exhaled a ragged breath, pressing the palms of her hands hard against her eyes, as if she could physically block out the vibrant, haunting memories. It was over. Whatever strange, cosmic magic had drawn her in had just as quickly decided she wasn't worthy of another visit. She had spent the entire day as a ghost, haunted by the afterimage of a kingdom she didn't belong to, and now she was left with the crushing silence of her own life.
And now, the only thing she had was this world.
Her unimpressive room. Her unimpressive job. Her unimpressive, lonely life.
A sudden, desperate need for air, for noise, for anything else, seized her.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her thin jacket from the back of a chair and stepped outside, letting the cold night air bite at her skin as she began to walk. The streets pulsed with the familiar, chaotic rhythm of the city—cars honking, laughter spilling from dimly lit alleyways, the scent of grilled street food mixing with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. It was a world of harsh edges and loud demands.
She walked aimlessly, with no destination in mind, her thoughts drowning in the echoes of Alfred's prim, intelligent voice, of the epic history of Emeraldia, of the strange, profound way the living sky had felt like it had whispered directly to her soul.
Then, out of nowhere, a riot of neon lights flashed across her peripheral vision, painting the grimy brick of an adjacent building in lurid strokes of pink and blue.
A club. The sign above the entrance, 'The Crimson Door,' glowed like a beacon in the dark.
She stopped short, staring at the entrance from across the street. A heavy, rhythmic bassline pulsed from within, a deep, primal heartbeat she could feel in the soles of her shoes.
She had never been to a club. Never danced under flashing lights, never let loose with strangers, never even imagined herself in a place like this. The old Alina would have hurried past, intimidated by the noise and the energy.
But she was twenty-five. And the old Alina was a person who had never tasted magic.
Maybe it was time she did something reckless.
The moment she stepped inside, the air shifted, thick and electric. The club was alive with a raw, human magic of its own—the heavy bass thrumming through the floorboards and up into her chest, voices overlapping in chaotic, joyous bursts, and bodies moving as one undulating wave under the flashing red, blue, and violet lights. The scent of spilled alcohol, sweat, and a dozen competing perfumes clung to the air, thick and strangely intoxicating.
Alina hesitated near the entrance, a solitary island in a sea of motion, taking it all in.
It was overwhelming.
But it was also beautiful, in a strange, jarring way. The chaotic blur of neon colours reminded her of Emeraldia—not in its purity, but in its vibrancy. This place shimmered with a loud, untamed, brittle energy, a pale but potent imitation of the deep, natural magic that had hummed beneath her feet in the kingdom.
She took a deep breath and wove her way toward the relative safety of the bar, slipping through clusters of laughing strangers, past people twirling with abandon under the shifting, coloured lights. She wasn't sure what she was doing here, what she was looking for.
Maybe she just wanted to forget.
Or maybe, after a day of feeling like a ghost, she just wanted something real—something loud and messy to remind her she was still alive, still tethered to this world.
She took a seat at the end of the bar, ordering the simplest cocktail she could think of—a vodka soda—and watched the spinning dance floor and the countless small, human dramas unfolding around her.
And for a moment, she let herself exist without expectation. She let herself just breathe.
It was nearly an hour into her silent observation, the sharp taste of the vodka beginning to dull the edges of her grief, when the trouble started.
A man staggered toward her, his steps uneven, his breath laced with the heavy, sweet scent of whiskey. His clothes were disheveled, his gaze hazy and unfocused but aimed directly at her. Alina stiffened immediately, her brief sense of peace evaporating.
"Didn't know angels came to places like this," he slurred, leaning an elbow on the bar, far too close for comfort, invading her personal space.
Alina shifted in her seat, trying to edge away, creating a sliver of distance. "I'm just here to relax."
The man chuckled, a slow, heavy sound. He licked his lips as he drummed his thick fingers against the sticky bar top. "Relax, huh? You came to the right place for that, sweetheart."
Alina glanced toward the bartender, a silent plea for help, but he was at the other end, preoccupied with a complicated order, his back to her. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She had never been good at confrontations. She wasn't the type to yell or push people away. But she knew, with a cold certainty, when something wasn't right—when danger lurked just beneath the surface of a seemingly casual interaction.
The man leaned closer, his shadow falling over her. She tensed, her muscles coiling.
"I'm fine," she said firmly, trying to keep her voice steady and even, hoping a tone of dismissal would work.
The man ignored her completely, reaching out to brush his fingers against the delicate skin of her wrist.
Her breath hitched, a jolt of panic shooting up her arm.
And then—
A firm hand wrapped around the drunk man's wrist, stopping his movement completely. The grip was sudden, silent, and absolute.
"She said she's fine," a voice cut in, smooth, confident, but threaded with something dangerously cold.
Alina turned sharply, her heart leaping into her throat.
And there he was.
Logan Hayes.
The drunk man blinked sluggishly, his hazy focus shifting to Logan, clearly unamused by the sudden intrusion.
Logan, however, wasn't smiling. His usual easy, friendly charm was completely absent. Instead, there was something sharp and unyielding in his expression, something dangerously steady in his dark eyes.
Alina had never seen him like this before. She had always known Logan as the quiet kind of attractive—the man who held an effortless, calm presence, who never seemed rattled or aggressive. But now, with his fingers wrapped with unshakable strength around the other man's wrist, his jaw tense, there was a hard, protective edge to him that she hadn't known existed. It was both terrifying and incredibly reassuring.
"Walk away," Logan warned, his voice low and even, not a request but a command.
The man grumbled something incoherent under his breath but, after a few unsteady beats of facing Logan's silent, unblinking stare, he ripped his arm away and stumbled backward, retreating into the anonymous depths of the club like a chastened dog.
Alina let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"You okay?" Logan turned to her, the hardness in his expression melting away instantly, replaced by a flicker of genuine concern in his deep brown eyes.
She could only nod, though her pulse was still racing a frantic rhythm against her skin. "Yeah. Thanks."
Logan exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders. He pulled out the stool beside her and sat down, creating a comfortable, protective barrier between her and the rest of the club.
"You here alone?" he asked, his voice returning to its normal, gentle tone.
She hesitated for a beat before nodding. "Needed a distraction."
Logan hummed in understanding, ordering a drink for himself before turning back to her. "Well, lucky me. Guess I get to keep you company."
She managed a weak smile, her fingers gripping her glass. The night wasn't ruined. Not yet.
Logan, it turned out, was surprisingly easy to talk to. They sat at the bar for another hour, and the conversation flowed without effort. They exchanged light, easy stories, laughing between sips of their drinks. He told her about a disastrous road trip he'd taken in college, and she found herself telling him about a book she'd recently read. Alina felt the tight knot of anxiety in her chest slowly, cautiously, begin to relax. Not entirely, but enough to know she had made the right choice by coming here.
Logan had always been kind at the office, but tonight, he felt real in a way she hadn't expected. Grounded. Present.
Eventually, as the club's energy began to wane and the crowd thinned out, Logan stood, stretching slightly.
"Come on," he said, his tone casual but firm. "I'll walk you home."
Alina hesitated, the old, cautious part of her flaring up, but after a brief moment of consideration, she nodded. She had no reason to say no. And a very large part of her didn't want to.
The walk home was quiet, the city humming its late-night lullaby around them as they moved side by side down the nearly empty streets. The air was cool and clean now, a welcome relief after the stuffiness of the club.
Logan didn't ask why a quiet girl like her had come to a loud club alone. He didn't press her for answers or try to pry into the sadness he must have seen in her eyes. Instead, he talked about simple things—work gossip, places in the city he wanted to visit, funny stories from his college days that made her smile.
Alina listened, half-lost in thought, half-lost in the comforting rhythm of his voice. Her mind still lingered on Emeraldia, on the ache of its absence. But for the first time all day, it didn't hurt quite as much. Logan's solid, real-world presence was an anchor, keeping her from drifting away completely.
By the time they reached the front steps of her building, Logan stuffed his hands into his pockets, offering her a small, genuine smile under the orange glow of the streetlamp.
"Get some rest, alright?"
Alina nodded, her lips curling into a small, tired smile of her own. "Thanks for tonight. Really."
Logan winked, a flash of his usual easy charm returning. "Anytime."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Alina standing at her door, the cold, useless ring waiting for her on the desk inside.
She swallowed, the familiar ache returning, but it was different now. It was muted, softened by an unexpected moment of human connection.
Tomorrow was another day.
And a strange, new thought flickered in her mind, small but persistent. Maybe Logan showing up wasn't a coincidence. Maybe, just maybe, Emeraldia hadn't abandoned her after all. Maybe it had just found a different way to send her a guide.