Rian's hand closed around the hilt of his sword.
Chipped, worn, the edge long since blunted—none of it mattered. The blade had traveled with him for millennia, and he knew the metal better than he knew his own reflection. Thunder cracked over the city. Rain sheeted down the windows of his loft as he peered into the alley below.
No one. At least, no one he could see.
But he could feel them… another Fallen.
Behind him, Icarus let out a soft trill, feathers lifting with the tension in the room. Rian answered with a quiet note of his own and tipped his chin toward the bed. The silver savannah darted beneath it, golden eyes glowing from the darkness.
Rian crossed the hardwood floor with a nervous, measured pace and slipped down the back stairwell. He kept the blade angled before him—old habit, older instinct.
The bookstore below was still. Only the hum of the rain and the scent of paper lived in the air. His eyes swept the aisles, shadows stacking between the shelves like waiting figures.
No one.
Good.
Anyone who belonged in his life would have called. No friend of his arrived without warning—not anymore, and never with good intentions.
Rian slipped along the front windows, keeping low, and peered out into the storm. Only a nearly empty street stared back at him—the slow crawl of headlights, the occasional hiss of a passing car. Nothing unusual.
Nothing comforting.
He checked the clock on the wall.
5:48.
Dark already.
Daylight savings time. He'd never forgiven humanity for that one.
He unlocked the door and slipped outside. The rain hit him in a cold sheet.
He paused only long enough to turn the key again—to make sure Icarus stayed safe, whatever the night brought.
His black sweater drenched almost instantly. The fabric clung to him, heavy and unpleasant, and he gave a quick, irritated shrug to settle it against his skin.
He lowered the sword along his thigh and moved toward the alley. Wet gravel crunched under his shoes. Once he slipped out of view of the streetlamps, he brought the blade up again, both hands closing around the hilt as he scanned the narrow space ahead.
The tight walls pressed in on him, stirring a familiar claustrophobia. He imagined flashes of earlier centuries, simpler times when people carved alleyways from rough stone and polished marble. But the danger hadn't changed. Predators had always waited in alleys, where they ensnared the unwary.
Rain dripped from his black curls as he spotted a figure waiting at the mouth of the alley.
"About time," the man called. "I thought you'd be too craven to show."
Rian studied him—broad shoulders, raven-dark hair and beard. There was familiarity in the man's stance, something old and half-remembered, but the memory sat behind a wall of fog.
His gaze dropped to the spear planted beside him. Greek make. Greek leather. An unmistakable style.
Someone from his own pantheon.
He closed his eyes, reaching backward through centuries, trying to match the face with a name… but nothing surfaced.
"I want no quarrel with you," Rian said quietly. "I don't hunt our kind. I wish only to live in this time, in this place, and keep my business my own."
The man laughed—low, humorless.
"Not a hunter? You could have fooled me."
He stepped forward, spear scraping softly against the gravel.
"As for not hunting our own kind… I, unfortunately, do not share that sentiment."
A raven settled on the black metal staircase bolted to the wall above them. Both men looked up. It gave a single, sharp caw—nothing more—then watched in still, patient silence.
The man stepped forward, lifting his spear from the gravel with the simple grace of someone who had killed in more centuries than most had lived. Rian barely got his sword up before the first strike came—a sudden blur of bronze and motion.
Steel met bronze.
The shock of it rattled up Rian's arm.
Another blow followed. Then another. The man pressed him hard—cut, thrust, cut—each movement smooth, practiced, unhurried. Rian parried on instinct, not certainty, his feet slipping on the wet gravel as the storm poured down his face.
"Not bad," the man said quietly, circling. "For someone who's forgotten himself."
Rian drew in a steady breath and adjusted his stance. He waited for the next opening, caught it, and countered—driving his blade forward with a clean, tight strike aimed for the man's shoulder.
The man caught the blade.
With his bare hand.
The force shuddered through Rian as the man twisted, knocking the sword aside as if brushing away a branch. The spear spun in a sharp arc and cracked against Rian's ribs, sending pain lancing through him. He staggered, teeth clenched, but kept his balance.
They clashed again—steel ringing through the alley, rain hitting the ground like thrown gravel. Rian ducked low, swung upward, and forced the man to pivot back a half step.
For a moment—one fleeting heartbeat—Rian thought he'd found an opening.
He hadn't.
Forward, the man surged. The spear slammed against Rian's sword with such force that it tore the weapon from his grip. The blade skittered across the ground, vanishing beneath a rush of rainwater.
Rian reached for it—too slow.
The man drove a knee into his gut, folding him. Rian hit the gravel on one knee, breath ripped out of him, rain streaming down his hair and face. He pressed a hand to the ground to keep from collapsing.
The spear lowered toward his throat.
"Pathetic," the man said, voice calm, almost bored. "The hunter who denies the hunt."
Rian lifted his head, jaw tight, eyes raw with frustration and something deeper—something he couldn't quite reach through the fog.
The man angled the spear for the finishing thrust.
"You fought well," he said, rain sliding down his beard. "Tell me—have you ever even ascended? Do you not feel the control, the grace, you should have had by now?"
A small, wintry smile.
"Pity your life ends here. Do you even remember your real name?"
Rian stayed silent.
The spearhead pressed harder. A warm trickle slid down his throat, lost in the icy rain.
"I said I will have an answer."
Rian's voice broke through the storm—barely a breath, barely a memory.
"Orion…"
The raven cawed—one sharp note—and the air shifted as if something older than the storm had stepped into the alley.
A heavy presence settled over the alley—cold, ancient, vast.
Enough to still the rain for a breath.
The man froze.
Rian felt it too.
Both looked up.
The raven watched from the black metal staircase—silent now.
Waiting.
A new presence pressed into the alley, cold enough that the rain felt thinner for a moment. The raven burst into flight as footsteps broke the hush of wet pavement.
A lean figure stepped into view, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to win a fight. His suit was immaculate—modern, tailored to precise lines that spoke of obscene expense rather than vanity. Dark fabric, clean silhouette, not a thread out of place.
Rain slid off the black umbrella he carried with effortless poise, as if the storm had parted for him out of habit.
"You've chosen your prey poorly tonight," the newcomer said. His voice was calm, almost courteous. "This young one is my friend."
The spear-man scoffed. "Like I care, old god."
The newcomer's expression barely shifted. "At least you have the intelligence to recognize whom you address."
He tilted his head toward Rian. "Stand. Come here."
Rian tried. His muscles pulled tight, but the spear angled harder against his throat.
"The hell he will," the man growled, pressing the point deeper.
A soft sigh slipped from the newcomer—disappointment, not fear.
"Oh? Then you truly are foolish, godling."
He stepped forward, the umbrella tilting just enough to cast his eyes in shadow.
"I was ancient before your people even breathed life. Do you genuinely believe you'll survive the ascension after you claim him?"
His voice dropped, cold as deep water.
"I've avoided conflict for millennia," the newcomer said softly, "but I can make an exception."
The spear-man hesitated. His grin twisted into something darker as he stepped back, rain carving lines through his beard.
"You won't always be here to protect him, old one."
The man beneath the umbrella smiled—thin, wry, unimpressed.
"Underestimating me has been the downfall of better men than you."
A sharp huff echoed through the enclosed space, and the bearded man bounded up the wet metal staircase—boots striking iron, then swallowed by the storm.
Rian pushed himself to his feet, ribs aching, and staggered toward the man with the umbrella. He snatched up his sword on the way, more reflex than need.
"Bjorn…" His breath shuddered. "I've never been so glad to see you."
"Easy." Bjorn angled the umbrella, pulling Rian into its shelter. The sudden lack of rain felt like an embrace. "Have your wounds knitted yet?"
Rian's fingers brushed the torn sweater, the sting along his throat. "Yeah. I'm… I'm okay."
"Good."
"Why are you here?" he asked, voice still unsteady.
The older man glanced back at him, then turned toward the mouth of the alley. Rian moved beside him without thinking.
"I heard whispers of a hunter in the city," the man said, tone even. "I came to warn you… and to invite you to dinner."
He angled the umbrella slightly, sheltering Rian as they walked.
"Will you join me?"
Bjorn and dinner. Lovely.
Could this night get any better?