Chapter 24 Nerina #3
He kept walking. "We’re barely surviving as it is. We can’t save them—not without dying ourselves."
The words stung, even if they were true. I pulled my cloak tighter, helplessness settling over my shoulders like a second skin.
A shadow moved at the edge of the stalls—slow, deliberate—tracking us.
Alaric’s hand brushed my arm in a subtle, grounding touch. He leaned in, voice low and firm.
"Don't let them see your anger," he murmured. "They feed on it here."
His fingers curled briefly around mine, warm despite the chill sinking into my bones.
Alaric pulled me forward, and I followed.
Running was hard—my legs still unfamiliar, unsteady beneath me. The uneven stone tried to trip me with every step. Alaric’s grip on my hand never wavered, keeping me upright, keeping me moving.
We tore through twisting streets, boots slamming stone. The figures behind us moved fast.
The city moved with them—alleys narrowing, shadows closing ranks. Shadeau didn’t just permit the hunt.
It participated.
And I knew—brutally—that if we fell, no one would intervene.
We veered into an alley, swallowed by choking dark. My shoulder clipped rough stone, pain jolting through me, but I couldn’t stop. Somewhere behind us, a low voice barked orders, and pounding feet grew louder.
Suddenly, Alaric yanked me sideways. I stumbled, and we shoved through the door of a narrow shop wedged between two buildings.
The threshold pulsed as we crossed it—a faint ripple of magic brushing my skin.
Inside, candles flared once, then steadied. The air was heavy with jasmine, charred resin, and brine—with a thin undercurrent of cold metal and something dry and stale, like old paper left too long in the dark.
A shelf toppled from the impact; glass vials shattered across the floor. Smoke from crushed herbs drifted upward.
I coughed, eyes watering, while Alaric slammed the door shut and braced against it, waiting for something to follow.
Symbols carved into the beams glowed faintly. A low hum vibrated through the room, and the shadows on the walls shifted in small, precise movements.
We slowed—laughing, just a little, at the insanity of it.
The danger hadn’t passed. We’d only slipped into the eye of the storm. A pause, not a refuge. Safety here came in borrowed moments—stolen between disasters. I was learning those things always demanded repayment.
I turned to Alaric, still shaken, about to speak.
But something in the way he looked at me—wild-eyed, a touch of wonder softening the harsh angles of his face—stilled the words in my throat. I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze properly, the height difference suddenly immense in the narrow space between us.
Then his mouth brushed my ear, voice low and laced with amusement. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you actually enjoy my company."
Heat unfurled in my chest—low and insistent—curling through my limbs like flame. I tried to shove him away, rolling my eyes, but the smirk on his face told me he’d seen straight through me.
I nudged him with my elbow. "Don’t flatter yourself. The fumes in here are clearly messing with your head."
He smirked, pleased with himself.
Then he glanced past me. His expression shuttered.
And just like that, the moment broke.
I turned—and the laughter died on my lips.
Behind the counter stood a woman unlike anyone I had ever seen.
She was draped in deep purples, blues, and golds, fabric shifting like smoke as she moved. Symbols were stitched into the hems—ancient sigils that pulsed faintly in candlelight. The way she carried herself—poised, powerful.
Charms, bones, and beads were woven into the long dark locks of her hair. One eye glowed like a golden ember; the other was black as obsidian.
When her attention settled on Alaric, the shift in him was immediate. His shoulders tightened. Something unreadable flickered across his face—recognition, caution, something older than both. His fingers twitched at his side, a reflex he tried to hide.
The way he squared his stance, the slight narrowing of his eyes—this wasn’t the look of a man greeting an old acquaintance. It was the look of a man preparing for whatever hell came next.
Behind her, shelves of glass bottles and ceramic jars gleamed in the flickering light.
Dried herbs hung in twisted bundles from the ceiling, their scents mingling into an intoxicating blend of spice and smoke.
Strange vials carved with symbols pulsed faintly, as though alive.
When she spoke it was warm and intimate, as if she had all the time in the world.
“Cap’taine Dreyse.”
I could feel it—an unspoken conversation passing between them, laden with ghosts and unfinished business.
Alaric exhaled slowly. His shoulders stayed rigid, his expression carefully neutral. But the tension in him crackled like drawn wire. “Séraphine Devereaux.”
But there was something beneath it—restrained. A history I didn’t yet know. The way his fingers flexed, the tension in his stance—it was the stance of a man preparing for either battle or betrayal.
Séraphine tilted her head, studying him. "Been a long time..”
Her attention moved over him—assessing, calculating—before the corner of her mouth curled.
Alaric said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. He wasn’t just being cautious.
He was calculating. Preparing.