Chapter 10 Harkan
Harkan
She wasn't crying anymore.
That was worse, somehow. The screaming, the fighting, the desperate clawing toward the flames—those I could handle. Those were grief with teeth, grief that wanted to destroy something because destruction was better than feeling.
This silence was something else entirely.
Sable stood in my arms like a puppet with cut strings, her eyes fixed on the inferno that had been her home. Her face was slack, empty, wiped clean of everything that made her her. The sharp tongue, the stubborn chin, the fire that burned behind those hazel eyes—all of it gone.
Fix it, the wolf howled. Make it stop. She's hurting and we can't FIX IT.
I couldn't fix it. Couldn't undo what had been done, couldn't pull her mother's belongings from the ashes, couldn't find the faceless bastard who'd done this and tear him apart—not yet, anyway.
All I could do was hold her.
"Alpha." Riven appeared at my elbow, his young face pale with shock. "We need to move. The fire's drawing attention."
He was right. Already figures were gathering at the edges of the alley, faces lit orange by the flames. Some were curious onlookers. Others... others had the look of predators scenting wounded prey.
Varro's territory. Varro's eyes everywhere.
"The Lock & Key," I said, my voice rough. "Back entrance. Jex will let us in."
The bar sat on pack land—had for centuries—but a decade ago I’d lent the space to Merrit Locke with a yearly tithe.
That tithe had since been paid off by the king as a gift for his likely daughter-in-law and future princess.
It was neutral ground in a city that had precious little of it.
If anywhere in the Divide was safe, it was there.
"Can you walk?" I asked Sable, though I already knew the answer.
She didn't respond. Didn't even seem to hear me. Just kept staring at the fire with those empty, empty eyes.
I scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She didn't resist. Didn't help. Just let herself be lifted like she weighed nothing, her head lolling against my shoulder.
"Kael takes point," I ordered. "Riven, watch our backs. We move fast and we move quiet."
They nodded and fell into position.
The wolf howled beneath my skin, desperate to do something—anything—to ease her pain. But there was nothing I could do except carry her to safety and hope it was enough.
We moved through the Divide like ghosts, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the main thoroughfares where Varro's men would be watching.
Kael cleared each corner before we crossed, his hawk's eyes sharp for any sign of trouble.
Riven brought up the rear, his hand on his blade, his body coiled for violence.
And I carried Sable through it all, her weight nothing compared to the heaviness in my chest.
She's so still, the wolf whimpered. Why is she so still? Make her move. Make her fight. Make her DO something.
But she didn't move. Didn't fight. Just breathed in shallow, steady rhythm against my neck, her body limp, and her mind somewhere I couldn't follow.
Twice, we had to detour—once when a patrol of Varro's men crossed our path, their voices loud and careless in the morning air, and again when I caught a scent that made the wolf's hackles rise.
Something wrong.
Something hungry.
Either way, we couldn't afford a confrontation. Not with Sable like this. Not when protecting her meant I couldn't fight at full strength.
By the time the Lock & Key's back entrance came into view, my nerves were frayed to breaking. The building looked the same as always—dark wood, iron fixtures, a door that had seen better days—but to me, it looked like salvation.
Jex was waiting.
Seven feet of demon, all muscle and sharp angles and horns that curved toward the sky like weapons. His gold eyes found us the moment we rounded the corner, tracking our approach with the predatory stillness of something that had lived long enough to recognize trouble on sight.
"Harkan." His voice was a deep rumble, neither welcoming nor hostile. Then his gaze dropped to the woman in my arms, and something shifted in his expression. "Sable. What happened?"
"Her shop," I said. "Someone planted an incendiary. We barely got out."
Something flashed in Jex's expression—recognition, then anger as his golden eyes narrowed. "Her mother's shop. That's been her place since she was a child."
"I know."
He studied her for a long moment: the ash coating her skin, the emptiness in her eyes, the way she hung limp in my arms like something vital had been torn out of her. Then he stepped aside and pushed open the door.
"Rhett," he called into the dim interior. "Back room. Now. And bring the calm-water."
The corridor beyond was narrow and smelled of old wood and spilled ale. We passed through it quickly, Jex leading the way, until we reached a door at the end. He pushed it open to reveal a small, private space—a bed, a chair, a window that looked out onto nothing but fog.
I laid Sable on the bed as gently as I could manage. She didn't resist. Didn't help. Just let herself be moved like a doll, her eyes fixed on some middle distance I couldn't reach.
"Sable." I crouched beside her, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers were ice-cold. "Come on, little witch, can you hear me?"
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
She's gone somewhere we can't follow, the wolf said, and the anguish in his voice matched my own. Bring her back. Please. Bring her back.
The door opened, and Rhett slipped inside.
His usual easy smile was nowhere to be seen.
He took one look at Sable—at the emptiness in her eyes, the ash on her skin, the stillness that was so unlike her—and his expression hardened into something I hadn't expected.
Competence. Concern. The face of a man who'd seen this before and knew exactly what to do about it.
"How long?" he asked, already moving to the bed with a small vial in his hand.
"Since the fire. Maybe fifteen minutes."
Rhett's expression tightened. "She's drifting toward Evara's Call.
I've seen it before—grief so heavy the soul starts walking toward the Veil on its own.
The body stays, but the spirit..." He shook his head.
"The calm-water will help anchor her, but it's not a cure.
Just a bridge to bring her back before she wanders too far. "
Evara's Call.
I knew it. Knew it in my bones, in the marrow, in the place where the wolf had sunk his teeth into my soul and refused to let go.
After I lost everything—after my father chained me in the dark and left me to rot—I'd felt that pull. The grief so vast it became a doorway. The Veil thinning, the goddess reaching, the promise of peace on the other side.
But the wolf wouldn't let me go.
He'd kept me feral. Kept me raging. Kept me so tangled in fury and instinct that my soul couldn't slip away even when I'd wanted it to. I'd hated him for it then—hated the animal that wouldn't let me die, wouldn't let me rest, wouldn't let me follow the ones I'd lost into the dark.
Now I understood.
He'd been saving me. The only way he knew how.
"Hold her head steady," Rhett said, uncorking the vial. The scent of rain on summer stone filled the room. "She needs to swallow, not choke."
I lifted Sable gently, cradling her head in my palm. Her hair was tangled, the braid singed at the ends, smelling of smoke and loss. Her eyes stayed fixed on nothing—fixed on something beyond the Veil that was calling her home.
Not yet, I told whatever goddess was listening. You can't have her. I won't let you.
The wolf rumbled his agreement. OURS. She stays.
Rhett pressed the vial to her lips, tilting it carefully until the pale-blue liquid slipped into her mouth.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then she swallowed. Once. Twice. And something shifted behind her eyes—a spark of awareness, like a candle flame guttering back to life.
"There she is," Rhett murmured. "Come on, Sable. Come back to us."
She blinked. Her gaze focused, unfocused, focused again. When her eyes finally found mine, there was pain in them—raw, devastating pain—but at least she was there.
"Harkan?" Her voice was a rasp, barely audible.
"I'm here, little witch." I squeezed her hand. "I'm right here."
Her eyes welled with tears that tore at my heart. "The shop—"
"It’s gone. I'm so sorry."
She closed her eyes, and those tears slid down her cheeks. "My mother's things. The grimoire. The mirror. Everything she left me..."
"Sable." I waited until she opened her eyes again, until I was sure she was looking at me, until I knew she could hear what I was about to say. "Not everything."
I reached into my coat and pulled out her bag.
The leather was singed in places, blackened at the edges by the heat of the blast. But it was intact. Whole. And inside—
She snatched it from my hands before I could finish the thought.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the clasp. For a moment, she just stared at the contents, like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Then she reached inside and pulled out the first object.
The scrying mirror, still wrapped in its protective cloth. She unwound it slowly, and when the dark glass caught the light, a sound escaped her—half-gasp, half-sob.
"I grabbed the bag when the blast hit," I said quietly. "I don't know how it survived, but—"
She wasn't listening. Her hands were already back in the satchel, pulling out the next item.
The vial of perfume, unbroken. She uncorked it with shaking fingers, brought it to her nose, and breathed in. Her eyes closed, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Rose and sandalwood," she whispered. "She always smelled like rose and sandalwood."
The bundle of sage came next, tied with red thread. Then the small wooden figure, worn smooth by years of love. Each object emerged from the bag like a miracle, and each one broke something open in her that had been locked tight since the fire.
And then, at the bottom—her mother's grimoire.