Chapter 1 – Calista
I sit hunched at my station, tracing the outline of wings coiled around a blade—sharp curves meeting soft shadows. It’s not just a design—it’s another piece meant for my own arm, another mark in a tapestry of defiance inked over bone.
Loud music pulses through the speakers—a punchy pop tune, the unmistakable voice of Halsey echoing through the studio with gritty melodies. Probably "Nightmare"—fitting, in more ways than one. Outside, Veldenport groans—ships grinding at rusted docks, the distant wail of sirens, the pulse of a city trying to swallow its own decay. But here, inside Ink & Iron, the world is quieter.
Draw. Ink. Breathe. Repeat.
It’s the rhythm that keeps me steady. The ritual that stills the chaos stitched beneath my skin. Every mark on my body tells a story I let them speak for me. Each line, each symbol, a memory carved in defiance. And maybe that’s why this studio matters so much—because in here, I can be myself.
But even comfort has cracks.
My eyes flick toward the empty stool across the room—the one Noel, my brother, used to slump into, complaining about the weather while stealing my cigarettes. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. Days since his number last rang. I tell myself not to care, not to ache, but that stool is a reminder. And reminders hurt.
The bell over the door chimes—a sharp note that cuts through the haze.
I glance up.
Malissa strides in, the familiar click of her combat boots echoing on the floor. Blue hair spills over her shoulders in messy waves, and tattoos scatter across her arms—little bursts of stories inked in color and blackwork. She’s a regular, a walking canvas with a laugh like gravel and a heart sharper than most knives.
"Hey, Calla," she says, tugging off her jacket. "Got time to ruin my skin some more?"
I smirk. "Always. Let me guess—another phoenix, or are we branching out today?"
"Thinking a dagger wrapped in vines. Something a little badass, a little poetic. You know—me." She flashes a grin and hops onto the stool, the studio already brighter with her appearance.
I reach for a fresh sketch pad. "You’re running out of real estate, Malissa."
"Then I’ll just start tattooing my regrets on my legs," she jokes.
Malissa hums along with the music, tapping her fingers lightly on the edge of the stool as I sketch. Her offbeat rhythm blends with the buzz of the city outside, an oddly comforting background score. For a small moment, the world is just ink, banter, and soft sound.
Until it isn’t.
A sharp thud. Then shouting. There’s a crash outside the front door, dragging me out of my calm like a rip in still water.
I rise slowly and move toward the sound. Something’s off. The studio’s warmth turns brittle as I move toward the entrance, fingers brushing the edge of the counter for grounding.
"I’ll be back in a minute," I call over my shoulder to Malissa, already moving toward the back.
I grab my old switchblade from the drawer, heart thudding like a war drum, and push open the rear door.
I bolt outside, boots pounding against the concrete as I sprint into the alley. The narrow lane is cloaked in dim light, the scent of rotting garbage and old rain thick in the air. Graffiti stains the brick walls like scars, and a flickering streetlamp buzzes overhead, casting jagged shadows across cracked pavement. Just as I reach the edge, I glimpse a masked figure darting away into the darkness—the back of their head turning briefly before disappearing into the shadows.
My gaze drops.
Oliver. My neighbor. Quiet and reserved, the kind of man who always kept to himself—but somehow, he was always there when I needed something. A silent fixture in the background of my life, dependable in ways most people never are.
Oliver is crumpled beside the dumpster, blood slick on his shirt, one eye swollen shut. His ribs move shallowly—broken. His jaw hangs at an unnatural angle. Beside him, half-buried in dirt and gravel, lies a card—black, with the unmistakable crimson wax seal pressed with a falcon’s crest.
A warning. I’ve seen that symbol somewhere before—etched into memory, lurking in the edges of dreams—but I can’t place where or what it means. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know—I’ll find out soon enough.
"Oliver!" I rush forward and drop to my knees beside him, gripping his shoulder. "What the hell happened? Who did this to you?"
He groans, lips barely parting.
"Rourke," he gasps, voice ragged and soaked in pain.
"What about Rourke? What does that mean? Talk to me!" I shake him gently, desperation coiling in my throat. "Who did this to you, Oliver?"
His eyes flutter, unfocused, before he slips into unconsciousness.
I drag him into the shadows, checking for a pulse. It’s there—weak, fluttering.
"Calla!" Malissa’s voice is sharp with concern. I turn to see her rushing from the studio, eyes wide the moment she spots Oliver.
"Help me get him inside," I say quickly, trying to lift Oliver’s weight. She doesn’t hesitate—drops beside me and takes some of the burden, slipping her arms beneath his other side.
Together, we maneuver him toward the back entrance.
"What the hell happened?" she asks, her breath ragged as we move.
I shake my head, swallowing hard. "I don’t know," I murmur.
I just know this wasn’t a robbery. There’s no wallet missing.
This was a message. For me.
Once inside, I slam the studio's lock into place, then check every bolt, every window.
"It looks like he pissed off the wrong kind of devil," Oliver whispers before shutting his eyes again. Malissa throws me a questioning look, her brows furrowed with concern, but I keep my gaze elsewhere—because the truth is, I have no answer to give her.
Noel. He's done something worse than before, and as I drag Oliver inside, I can feel a storm approaching. Noel didn’t just vanish. He pulled hell with him—and now it’s at my door.
Later, when the adrenaline ebbs, I sit at my desk upstairs, trying to steady my breath. My fingers brush over an old USB drive buried beneath a stack of receipts and ink orders—a backup I haven’t touched in a while.
Curious, I plug it in. There’s only one file—an old voice message from Noel.
His voice crackles through the speakers, jittery and low. "Calla... I found a way out. Someone promised protection—said if I delivered a document, they’d get me clear. I didn’t think it meant anything—it’s just old paper, right? Just paper..."
I freeze, bile rising in my throat.
"I’m doing this for both of us," he continues, words unraveling into panicked mutters before the message cuts out.
I grip my laptop like it’s the only thing keeping me together. He didn’t understand the danger he’d walked into. He thought he was saving us—finding some backdoor escape from the world that swallowed our childhood whole.
He didn’t betray me intentionally. But his desperation damned us both.
I exhale slowly, the adrenaline still rushing under my skin, and glance down at my arm—at the half-finished tattoo of wings coiled around a blade, the one I had started earlier. The ink is smudged slightly at the edges from where I brushed against the counter. I run my fingers over the outline, the incomplete lines a stark reminder that peace is a fragile thing. And today, it fractured.