Dancing shadows trailed through the candlelight across the still chamber. The scent of wax on old wood mingled into something new. Aethyrael saw the shock in her deep dark eyes. And he savoured the sight. There was nothing more beautiful than speechless witches. He sat down without ceremony, crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her — with the gaze of a child who spoke of many things, but not of sorrow.

  "Guilty of sin. And I regret nothing."

  A pause. Brief. Calculated.

  "You look bored as always." He studied her with a sharp eye. "But even boredom has its price."

  Silence.

  She stared at him, bewildered. As though she were counting something he couldn't see. Then — a statement. Not a question. No warmth. Certainty.

  "A death wish."

  He heard it, but punished her with silence. He sat there defiantly, wearing the same grin he had carried through the portal. Ceryne fixed him with a gleam in her eyes. The twitch of her lips — a hairline fracture in her otherwise flawless facade. This was not the face of someone impressed. She leaned back lazily and took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink. The deep red of the liquid lay heavy in the glass like blood. Silence settled over the stifling chamber as though wrapped in thick fog.

  "Your mother will be thrilled," she finally broke the silence, smiling with dangerous ease.

  "Long time no see, Shadow of Order," he deflected with finality.

  "That had better be a joke," she scoffed, rising decisively from her chair. "Where you go, Ananke follows."

  A fleeting gesture — and the door lock clicked shut. With a confidence that would have given the Creator herself cause for envy, the slight woman positioned herself before him. Both hands on her hips. Flaring nostrils. Even the worry line on her brow had surrendered to the rising fury.

  Let sleeping dogs lie, thought Aethyrael in quiet amusement, studying her from head to foot.

  But before he could respond, a torrent of words came crashing down upon him. Cold. Clear. Stripped of every last shred of mercy. A natural reaction. Predictable. With an impassive expression he let her have her way. In this, all witches were alike — a raw nerve laid bare, something slipping from the grip of their order. A fragile order, when it concerned the Creator's star. Exhausted by her outburst, Ceryne sank back into her chair a moment later. Her small trembling hands gripped the glass as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. A touching attempt to conceal the fear of the Creator's wrath. For a moment she said nothing, her gaze lost in the flickering candlelight.

  "You have always been trouble on two legs," she murmured without looking up. "What were you thinking?"

  He opened his mouth —

  "Don't." A curt wave of the hand. Dismissed. Final. "The little star has gone astray and now I'm supposed to play nursemaid." She pressed on, her words rolling over him like thunder.

  Someone knocked.

  Ceryne fell silent. Her gaze slid to the door. Narrow. Cold. The gleam in her eyes an expression of disapproval and fury.

  "Come in."

  The sound of her voice — once again alluring. Inviting. Warm. As though nothing had happened. Aethyrael looked at her in surprise, brow furrowed, but she brushed him aside without a second thought. Ceryne murmured something and the shadows of the chamber came alive. Like living weeds, they grew from the floorboards, the walls, the carved ceiling. Then a thud.

  "Sit there and be quiet," she said, gesturing vaguely toward another armchair that had appeared from nowhere. Old. Dark blue on black and worn.

  The door opened slowly. What entered lingered in the memory — not because it was beautiful. But because it was the opposite. A man. Broad. Heavy. His face a map of scars, as though life itself had tried more than once to erase it. Without success. One ran from the left eye to the jaw — pale, old, deep. The eyes beneath: restless. Hollowed by dark circles. The hands: trembling. He stepped into the room. Stopped. His gaze moved from Ceryne to Aethyrael — and back. In his hand he held a rusted chain. And attached to its end — something living.

  A girl. Aethyrael's age. Perhaps younger. Hard to say — she hung more than she stood, her knees barely capable of bearing her weight. Hair plastered to her face. Feet: bare. Eyes: half-closed. Empty of every last hope.

  The old man cleared his throat. "I've heard there's interest. In the gifted." He pushed the girl forward a little. "She's worth it."

  Ceryne regarded him with contempt. Then the girl. For the span of a heartbeat — no longer.

  "The wretch has no magical ability," she said. Offhandedly. As though commenting on the weather. "Worthless. A waste of time."

  The man didn't understand. Or didn't want to. He strode further into the chamber, dragging the girl behind him. "Look at her." His voice grew louder. More urgent. "You can see it. Clear as day."

  Ceryne raised her gaze. Slowly. With the patience of a hunter who has just caught the scent of prey.

  "I see," she said quietly, "nothing but a half-dead young thing."

  Silence.

  The man opened his mouth. Closed it again. Aethyrael reclined in the worn dark blue of the armchair and watched. The girl on the chain had opened her eyes. Only a sliver. But enough. She looked at him and smiled. He looked back — and could not return it. Something between heart and soul would not allow it. It felt wrong, and yet he could not put into words why. Moonshire had promised him distance from lesser mortals and their suffering. But Helios was close. Too close.

  "Bah," the man grunted. "Then I'll sell the wretch somewhere else. You're not the only witch in the city tonight."

  He turned and drove a brutal kick into the slave girl. She struck the door with a dull crack and collapsed against it, whimpering. Dark mortal blood stained the floorboards a deep red. Aethyrael hadn't noticed himself rising. Only that he was standing, fixing the old man with a cold stare. But Ceryne had already vanished. The shadow that had been seated beside Aethyrael a moment ago surfaced before the old man. Soundless. Without transition. As though the chamber itself had decided the time for payment had come. One fluid movement. No hesitation. No anger. Only metal through flesh and bone.

  The knife flashed. The hand fell. Blood mingled with dust and wood. A graceless thing.

  The man screamed — a raw, disbelieving sound — Ceryne's boot struck him in the chest before the scream had finished. He stumbled backward. Hit the floor. Stayed down. Lying in his own blood. Bent double with pain. One hand lighter. One lesson heavier. Panic flooding his eyes as he scrambled to stem the bleeding. Ceryne looked down at him. The smile was back. The false one. The old one.

  "Since you have nothing to offer," she said pleasantly, "I'll take your hand." A brief pause. "For now."

  Then she turned her gaze to the girl. Briefly. Without warmth.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Now take your pet — and get out."

  Aethyrael still stood. The impulse was still there — hot, unfinished, in full bloom. A debt owed for a mortal. And he wanted payment immediately. But Ceryne had given him no time. He looked at the man on the floor. Then at her. More bewilderment than trouble on two legs.

  "Sit down. You're unsettling the shadows," said Ceryne with a nod toward the armchair. Then an honest smile: "And me as well."

  Aethyrael dropped back into the chair. The sight of pain-ravaged faces and blood-red with the metallic taste on his tongue was truly nothing new to him. Many might have taken him for a child by his appearance. But he had never felt like one. Children had to learn what he already knew. Feel what he already understood. The curse of witch-children, he called it. And so it was. He wanted to be a child. His mind would not allow it. To show mercy — his thoughts contradicted him. It was easier to surrender to the current than to fight against it. To regard mortals as livestock rather than as anything worth preserving. He drew a slow breath and turned his attention back to what lay before him — the livestock in question.

  "Get on with it," Ceryne snapped, landing another kick against the old man's skull that sent him straight back to the floor. "You're bleeding all over my floor."

  The man hauled himself up, reached with trembling hands for the rusted chain. Then he seized the whimpering girl and fled in blind, stumbling haste. What remained was a twitching, ownerless hand. And a chamber in the Inn of Bliss, decorated with a fine spray of blood.

  What an entrance, thought Aethyrael, glancing questioningly at Ceryne. But she only grinned, calmly and without remorse stowing her gold and the rest of her belongings into her dimensional ring. Neither hurried nor guilt-ridden. Only the clink of coins to be heard.

  "What exactly are you doing here?" he asked.

  Ceryne raised her gaze from the ring. Briefly. As though she had been expecting the question.

  "I make sure the herd fares a little better."

  She tossed him a coin. Without warning. Without looking up.

  "For a price, naturally."

  Aethyrael caught it. Studied the coin. Rough and heavy in his palm. Then her. The words still hung in the room — quiet, casual, utterly in earnest. And yet. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words, but many questions. Ceryne found this visibly amusing. The gleam was back — not the false one. The honest one. The more dangerous one.

  "Before you ask." She leaned back. "Yes. I'm bored."

  A pause.

  "But you already knew that." Her gaze drifted to him — brief, warm, carrying an undertone older than the smile that accompanied it. "Little one."

  Aethyrael looked at her. Speechless was the wrong word. It was — disordered. A feeling that had no drawer to belong to. Ceryne, protecting the herd. For a price. With a dimensional ring full of gold and a severed hand on the floor. He decided against trying to understand it. For now.

  "And the hand," he asked, gesturing toward the twitching piece of flesh on the floor.

  The witch looked at him and gave an indifferent shrug. "A keepsake." Then a short laugh. "And a trail."

  "A trail to where?" he asked, resolving to ignore the hand for the time being. For the sake of his sanity.

  She picked it up and looked him directly in the eyes. Not a trace of revulsion or disgust.

  "Oh, that remains to be seen," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of a secret. "But rest assured — the hand was not the last part of him the old man will lose tonight."

  Ceryne traced a magical sigil in the air with absolute self-satisfaction. Blue light flickered, displacing the candles' glow. Aethyrael knew what it was. The sigil hovered for a moment, pulsing, then the room began to vibrate. From the shadows stepped a construct. Expressionless face. Dead eyes. A puppet's body. But there was one crucial difference — this soulless imitation of a corrupted thought did not want to serve. It wanted to kill.

  She took the hand and threw it at the construct's feet like a coveted bone tossed to a dog. The mindless thing threw itself upon it like an animal on raw meat. It crouched beneath the chamber's table afterward, hunched and still. Wet, smacking sounds and the crack of breaking bone rose from the darkness. Aethyrael's face twisted with revulsion. With one final loud crack, followed by a swallow, silence returned. The vile creature crawled from the darkness — wide eyes, lips smeared with blood. It searched for its mistress with an expectant gaze. Every movement rang like metal on metal. Even its breath was little more than a strange, rattling wheeze laced with the stench of rot. Coughing and slavering, it threw itself at Ceryne's feet.

  "Construct eats. Construct seeks. Construct kills," it muttered without looking up.

  "Then seek, wretched thing," Ceryne hissed. "Bring me his head. The rest is yours."

  "The Mistress of Shadows is most generous," it stammered — and vanished into the sinful night.

  What remained was bewilderment. The pressing urge to scratch one's head. Revulsion and a foul stench. Aethyrael had seen many constructs, but this was something new. Even the sigil of its caste was unknown to him. All he knew was Moonshire — and yet he knew nothing. Not the faintest thing. Unsettling sight or not. Flying limbs, blood and tears. None of it anything new. But those sounds. That gaze. He shook himself as though trying to shed what he had witnessed, to shake loose the disgust. Instead he felt nausea rise.

  "You look pale, little one," she said, watching him with care.

  Silence was the only thing Aethyrael could offer her.

  "I would offer you something to eat," she continued, letting her gaze sweep the room. "But I rather suspect you've lost your appetite."

  Then she shot him a knowing look and began to laugh. Mockingly. Without pause.

  "Silence, witch," he growled, eyes flashing.

  Ceryne laughed on. Mocking. Relentless. One long breath.

  Then — nothing. Only her hand closing around his arm. Firm. Without warning.

  "The Bliss has rather outstayed its welcome." She looked at him. No smile. No gleam. Only — focus. "Come, little star. We'll find somewhere new."

  A pause.

  "I already have an idea."

  The night received them with everything Helios had to offer.

  Aethyrael followed her through the narrow alleys of this wretched pit. Ceryne moved through the crowd like water through cracks — soundless, purposeful, without hesitation. He observed. Let the scenery settle over him. The cold of the night pressed against his skin and brought his senses into alignment. Sharper. Clearer. As though the world had finally returned to its accustomed orbit. But the star had not.

  At that thought, he couldn't help but grin.

  Slaves slept in the filth of the street. Huddled between refuse and damp stone. Among them children — so small that one only noticed them on a second glance. And creatures that had no names and needed none. The city did not sleep. It breathed. Heavy. Damp. With the rhythm of everything lesser mortals inflict upon each other when no one is watching. Desire here was not merely a word. It was a taste that lay like acid on the lips. Violence not merely a condition but a smell that hung threatening in the air.

  Moaning behind shuttered windows. A scream that broke off before it was finished. Laughter pitched too high to be honest. Helios was not merely some den of iniquity. It was sin made flesh, concentrated at a single point in the shadows of this tormented world. But a den presupposes a shore somewhere.

  In this ocean of temptation and hunger, there was none.

  Aethyrael drew the air in. Blood. Woodsmoke. Cheap perfume. And beneath it all — something rotten that had no source. That was simply everywhere. He let it be. Let Helios watch him while he watched Helios. Two sets of eyes measuring one another without blinking. Ceryne stopped — and he beside her. Before them hung a sign. Plain. Wood. Letters burned unevenly into the surface, as though whoever had made it simply hadn't cared enough.

  The Clean Conscience.

  Aethyrael read it. Once. Twice. Then he looked at her, at a loss for words.

  And began to laugh.

  Not because it was funny. It was — absurd. A city that sold its guests bliss and a clear conscience while the streets outside were paved with flesh and misery. Here there was neither. Only death and its performance. Patient. As always. The laughter stopped as quickly as it had begun. He looked at the sign. Then at her.

  "You can't be serious," he said.

  She pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside. The room beyond was empty. No innkeeper. No guests. Only a reception that no one was minding. Chairs without owners. A single candle burning in solitude — the last light of hope. Nothing more.

  Then — a sound.

  Dull knocking. Rhythmic. Coming from somewhere behind the counter. Followed by a groan that resisted interpretation. Pain or pleasure. In Helios, both sounded the same. Aethyrael stood in the doorway and listened. The cold of the night still clung to him, leaving him faintly shivering.

  "Pure Conscience," he muttered darkly. "Indeed."

  Ceryne shot him a glance. The gleam was back.

  "Wait here," she said — but the door behind the reception swung open in the same instant. With a crash, the brass handle buried itself in the wall behind it. In the frame stood a bald man who had seen better days. He wore plain grey clothing and a leather apron that had once been white. Little of that white remained. In its place, a work of art in red spatters. His piggy eyes swept the room and found Ceryne first. Then Aethyrael.

  This nightmare knows no end, he thought, and this time actually scratched his head.

  "Who's this brat?" the bald man barked from behind the counter.

  "A room for two, indefinite stay, no questions, Manni," Ceryne cut him off sharply. "The little one is with me."

  She placed both hands possessively on his shoulders. Manni gave her a knowing look and grinned broadly — the grin of a sadist. A grin he had seen often enough on Silvara when she played her games with mortals.

  "They call me Manni, little one," he said, fixing his small eyes on Aethyrael. Then he grinned and ran his tongue over his thick lips. "But everyone here calls me only — the Butcher."

  "Thyrael," he said curtly. Then he cast the self-appointed Butcher a venomous look. "Trouble on two legs."

  The man gave an approving nod and gestured with a brief wave toward the dusty staircase. The inn's interior as welcoming as the Butcher at the counter. The rooms old and dusty. Dilapidated. Worn. Spent. The finest Helios had to offer. And Thyrael would savour every moment of it. Front row seat.