Irene Clermont

At some point, somewhere between getting completely thrown off of his feet and hitting the mat so hard it knocked the air right out of him, it occurred to Sammy that maybe, just maybe, offering to spar with someone who had been training their whole life was a bad idea.

It was a learning experience. He was actually a decent hand when it came to close up-combat, a few years of being seriously into karate helping to earn him a couple of wins, but the kind of people he was going to end up fighting in this line of work wouldn't know karate. He couldn't go out into the world thinking that everyone was going to fight by the rules he was used to. 

Still. Fights back at the dojo tended to end with him getting thrown on his ass just as much, maybe even less, than he was left victorious. Fighting Irene was less like going up against another student, and more like when one of the sensei would step in to remind him not to get too cocky. 

Irene stood there, weight settled evenly on both feet, arms relaxed at her sides, like she hadn’t just sent him flying so hard the mat still remembered it. Her breath came steady, not even a hint of strain in her shoulders. If anything, she looked… patient. Like she’d been expecting him to ask. Like she knew he would, even after that.

Then, finally — a flicker of a smile, subtle but unmistakably there. The kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but carried enough sharpness to let you know it wasn’t pity, either. “I told you I wouldn’t go easy on you,” she said simply, tilting her head just enough to catch the angle of his stretch — the long, slow motion of a man very much feeling the hit he just took. Her hands flexed once, the wraps on her knuckles creasing slightly as she stepped closer to the center again.

“So,” she added, voice calm but edged with something dry, something a little smug. “You getting up? Or do you need ten?”

A pause. Then, because she wasn’t cruel — just honest — she let the smirk soften into something more neutral.

“I’ll give you ten if you want them. But if you’re asking for another round…”

She nudged his shoe lightly with the toe of hers.

Finlay holds back from going by the Aviary for a couple weeks following the gala. It's better to just let that... die down a bit. Less so the residual feelings behind the fight, and more so the the combined embarrassment of very quickly getting his ass handed to him & the accusation motivating said fight. The broken nose also needs its time to heal.

He can't skip out on training for too long, though. Especially after putting his face out there, he needs to keep sharp.

By whatever sliver of fortune he so rarely sees, he's able to slip in without garnering Aurelia's notice. He'd planned on working solo, initially, but he spots Irene as he enters. Maybe he could do with some hand-to-hand practice, and with building some stronger bonds within the group.

(Please, just don't ask about what happened at the gala.)

Irene didn’t look up right away.

She was mid-wrap, one hand tugging the last loop of gauze around her knuckles with the kind of casual precision that came from routine, not vanity. The kind of muscle memory that came from needing to keep her hands intact in the kind of work that didn’t allow second chances. Her hair was tied back, sleeves rolled, sweat already drying at her collar. She’d clearly been here a while — or hadn’t left since this morning.

But when she heard his voice —her name spoken like a question— she glanced up.

Not surprised. Not hostile either. Just… taking stock.

“Finlay.”

She gave a nod that wasn’t quite a greeting, not quite a challenge either — something in between. And then, after a beat, her mouth quirked, just slightly. “Sparring, huh?”

Her eyes flicked over him like a scan — not rude, but practiced. The way someone checked gear before a climb. The way a medic sized up a wound. She wasn’t looking at his clothes or posture. She was looking at the way he held himself, how stiff his stance was, whether or not he was favoring a side.

“How’s the nose?” she asked, mild and dry, like they were discussing the weather. No malice, no teasing, just honest curiosity. “Still working?”

She stepped back from the mat to give him space, shaking out her wrapped hands as she did. “I’m always up for a good session. Just hope you’re not looking for something gentle.” There was a glint in her eye then — the kind that didn’t quite soften her, but made her easier to read. Not warm, exactly, but game. Interested. She didn’t seem like she was planning on bringing up the gala, and maybe that was mercy. Or maybe she was just waiting for a better time to twist the knife.

Hard to say with Irene.

“You sure you’re ready?”

When Jaya had heard about Thera’s plans to throw a party for Irene, Jaya couldn’t resist butting in a little bit. The days before had been colored by Thera’s insistence that she fund it all, and his insistence that he at least pay for half, and that his half is whichever was more expensive. 

Thera hadn’t seemed very happy about that offer either, but she’d at least picked up that it was less about the urge to take some financial load off of her (she’d already made it very clear that the Wendell accounts were not anywhere near empty), and more about a desire to do what he could to make this party nicer for Irene. 

The first person he’d had a kind conversation with when he was new to this town. The one who had come to see him at the gala, pulling him back from what could have easily spiraled into locking himself in that bathroom and scrubbing all of the skin off of his hands. He’d poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into people who couldn’t bring themselves to care about him beyond a checkbook, the least he could do is hand over a couple hundred for something that might make someone who actually cares happy. 

“Happy birthday!!!” He said, pulling her into a hug before stepping back, taking in the sight of her. “I haven’t seen you in a while, how are you??” 

Irene hadn’t quite gotten her bearings back yet.

Not from the lights snapping on, or the way voices had erupted from every corner like laughter spilled out of a bottle. Not from the streamers that floated like spellwork in the air, or the unmistakable warmth of people — people she knew — gathered not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Because Thera had planned this. Because Jaya had helped.

Because, somehow, it was all for her.

So when he pulled her into that hug, she didn’t resist. Just stood there for a second longer than she probably should have, trying to keep her breath even as her heart felt like it was rattling against the cage of her ribs.

And when he stepped back, when he smiled that particular kind of smile she’d come to expect from him, she couldn’t help the way her face finally, finally caught up with the mess of emotions climbing up her throat. “…Jaya,” she said, and her voice cracked just the tiniest bit on his name.

Then, a breath — steadier this time, enough to let a small, surprised laugh slip past her lips. “I’m— yeah. I’m okay.” A beat. “I think.” Her eyes flicked around the room again, taking in the decorations, the people, the care etched into every detail like a spell meant only for her. Then back to him.

In summary, that the receiver of the message is invited to a small house party the night of the 15th to celebrate the birthday of one Irene Clermont, it will be a surprise party so arrive early and do not say a word to the birthday girl. All letters are signed by Thera Lee Wendell.

While most of the messages hold this standard message, they are all handwritten and hence a few contain spell instructions or clauses that if violated will result in consequences.

This is an event that is long overdue in being celebrated and the resident witch of the Crow and Chalice wants everything to be perfect for Irene. She knows what its like to live a life that feels like it is compounding on top of you and, if she can help it, for this one evening, she wants Irene to feel seen and appreciated.

Thera goes to stand in her foyer as the lights are shut off hiding the streamers and balloons that are hung and floating amongst the guests that have arrived on this evening.

She told Irene she wanted to see her about a strain of wolfsbane she had been fermenting that both the Brotherhood and Kiri might find curious. It wasn’t completely a lie, but as the thread she had set up to alert her to Irene’s coming snapped, she shushed the dark room behind her as the rustling of people sliding behind corners and furniture quieted down.

She opened the door as Irene climbed the single stair it took to get to Thera’s doorstep, “Irene so glad you could make it.” The girl started talking to her as Thera opened the door to her living room and a severed the magical line she had stitched to turn on the lights.

As the lights went on and people popped out from hiding spots found throughout the room all Thera had to say was, “Surprise Irene, Happy Birthday.”

Irene froze in the doorway.

Not in that sharp, reactive way she was known for — no shift of weight, no flicker of muscle like she was bracing for a fight. This was something else entirely. A different kind of stillness. The kind that came when your brain stopped cold, unable to quite compute the thing right in front of you. The lights snapped on. Streamers, floating candles, little sparks of enchantment hanging in the air like suspended fireflies — the whole room seemed to breathe celebration. And with it, people. Familiar ones. Smiling ones. Faces she knew and didn't expect to see all at once, in one space, for one reason.

Her.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked. Once. Twice. The same way she would after a blow she hadn’t seen coming — except this time, it wasn’t pain that had struck her. It was warmth. All-consuming, knee-buckling warmth. The kind that burrowed under your ribs before your mind could make sense of it. Her mouth opened. Closed. Not even a joke on the tip of her tongue.

She looked at Thera and then slowly across the room, gaze skimming over every shadow that had once been a hiding spot, every grin that had been waiting in the dark. It was too much. Too much and still — not bad.

Her voice came smaller than usual, edged in disbelief. “This is… for me?”

It wasn’t the kind of question that needed answering. Not really. But the words tumbled out anyway, raw and quiet, like they hadn’t been filtered before speaking. Like she couldn’t quite believe it even with all the proof right in front of her. The shimmer of the decorations. The hum of the spells. The way everyone was actually here.

A party. For her.

She hadn’t had one in years. Hadn’t expected to. Hadn’t thought anyone would remember, let alone go to this much trouble. Irene had learned a long time ago how to survive without being celebrated. But standing there, in Thera’s doorway, with the echo of “surprise” still crackling through the air — it hit her somewhere deep. Slow and steady. And her face, finally, caught up with the rest of her.

The smile that curved its way across her lips wasn’t wide or flashy, but it was real. Earnest in a way that stripped her bare. It stayed even as her eyes shimmered a little — not tears, not yet, but close. The kind of closeness that made you blink a few times too fast.

Miyazaki doesn't falter. Even as his jaw blooms with colour, he has not forgotten that he bleeds like any creature might. In this final lifetime, he must pay the deadliest cost of magic long abused. But he stands stagnant, watching her justifications tumble from her mouth.

Regret is an ugly trait.

"It was your only winning move." A cost weighed. Tetsuya hadn't needed to use power; the hunter hadn't needed to use strength. If they had wanted to dance, they could have. But she had not come here for that. And amongst her well-hidden lies, truths slipped out of the cracks. "Your mistake was relinquishing control of it."

An opponent that can be pushed to draw forth power they did not intend for their enemies to know about — that is truly careless for a hunter claiming her expertise.

Somehow, the titling, the confession. There's respect rooted deep within her, despite knowing what she faces. It earns a sliver of his.

Miyazaki breathes a laugh. It's the first break in the stoicism.

Can I, or will I? It makes no difference to him. The politics of witches amongst hunters has never been anything surprising. A former student founded an entire order of the very same to snuff him from existence. Tetsuya determines that she is not some lackey infiltrating the dojo; Akemi would like to draw the final blow, he's sure. Not a woman asking for discretion. Nor one that's hiding behind a tattoo she did not earn.

"I have no interest in your secrets, hunter."

Truths hang like sharp hooks in the space between them now. One could cut themselves on the edge if they get too close. She will not last until one thousand; it took only seven until she broke her own version of intent. Crossing a line that she had been so afraid to. Imagine what she might do at seventeen, seventy, seven-hundred. What would she do if she stopped hiding like a coward amongst thieves?

That's all hunters are. Stolen magic and stealing lives. Miyazaki has more respect for mortals and their science; their technology, than he does for those out to thieve what is not meant for them. Miyazaki could burn that tattoo from her flesh with just one look. What would she determine is fair then?

There is no fair. Only discipline in how one views and is seen. An act of intent.

He begins to turn, "If you have nothing else. This is finished."

Irene didn’t flinch when he called it finished.

Didn’t move, either — not right away. She watched him, back straight, chin lifted just slightly, like she was taking inventory of the moment. The bruise blooming at her ribs, the sting along her palm where skin had split against the floor, the faint, searing tug of the rune still humming like a wire beneath her skin. Her body had already started recording it all. So had her mind.

He was turning. She let him.

But her voice followed him, low and dry and a touch sharper now — not angry, not raised. Just clean. Precise. “You know,” she said, “I’d heard great things about you.”

A pause. Just long enough to let it sink in. To let the echo find his spine.

“I came here thinking you’d be... I don’t know. Maybe not fair — not a lot of us get that luxury — but honorable. A teacher. Someone who pushes boundaries without tossing people off the edge.”

Her head tilted, the movement subtle, deliberate. “Guess that was my real mistake.”

There was a thread of something in her voice now — not quite bitterness, not quite amusement. Something halfway in between, twisted like ribbon around the edge of something sharper. “I didn’t cheat to land that hit, Miyazaki.” Her tone shifted, softer now, almost companionable in its honesty. “I earned it. Same way I earned that tattoo. You just assumed I didn’t. Which says more about you than me.”

She took a step back then. Not retreating — resetting. Composing. If he turned around now, he’d see a girl who looked less like the one who had cracked under pressure, and more like the one who’d simply decided to stop giving him the satisfaction.

He said he had no interest in her secrets — but she didn’t believe him. Not really.

And that scared her.

Because if he did say something, if he talked, whispered it to the wrong person, even in passing? She was finished. A hunter with magic wasn’t just an anomaly — she was a threat. One no one would hesitate to put down.

But he hadn’t said it.

Not yet.

So, she offered him that last, careful glance over her shoulder — steady, unreadable. “Maybe you’ll keep your mouth shut. Maybe you won’t. That’s something I’ll probably find out the hard way.” The corner of her mouth tugged up — a flash of something that could have been a smirk if it weren’t so tired. “Seems to be a theme tonight.”

“Hell no,” she said, tone flat with finality. “I’m out of here.” She didn’t bother trying to make it sound graceful. It wasn’t. None of this was. The gala had turned into a spectacle, and now the air felt laced with accusation — like the walls themselves were watching, waiting to decide who got named next. “Last thing I need is some tight-collared prick trying to say one of us did it,” she added, voice pitched low, jaw tight. “Wouldn’t be the first time a witch ended up a convenient distraction.”

Her fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for something — a weapon, a charm, a familiar kind of control — but she stilled them. She was too exposed in this dress, too obvious in a room that had already turned half-hysterical. The more distance she could put between herself and all this, the better.

“I’m gonna go check for the others one more time,” she said, her eyes scanning past him again — that same habit of searching, always measuring. “Kanta, Sammy — couple others. Make sure they’re breathing. Then I’m gone.”

When she looked at him again, it was more direct this time. Not hard, but firm.

“Will you be alright?” she asked, quieter now. “You shouldn’t stay. Seriously. Just go. This—” her hand gestured loosely toward the grand ballroom behind them, “—this isn’t worth the trouble.”

But she didn’t press. Not yet.

“It’s okay,” she said, like she meant it. Like it was meant to be enough. “I’ll go with them. Kanta knows how to vanish clean, and Sammy’s enough of a cutie that no one’s gonna suspect him of anything organized.” There was the faintest flicker of dry humor at that, but it passed quickly.

“Just take care of yourself, alright?” she said, softer now, gaze lingering. “Don’t let them drag you into the center of it. You don’t owe them that.”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated, not forcefully, more to remind himself aloud that it was true. He was used to things like this, he could handle it. “Check on your other friends. I have your number, I can text you when I’m home safe, if you want.”

“Trust me, I’m not going to get in the middle of this, I’m going to get a drink or two, and then I’m leaving.” The little rush of intrigue at the spreading news of the body, whatever little ideas he’d gotten about miraculously being able to figure out the mystery of what had happened, it had all been thoroughly squashed by the sight of it. He might be willing to ask around, indulge a bit of curiosity, but there was no way he was going to force himself to push beneath the surface of this thing. “I’ll be alright. Thank you for checking on me, Irene.”

Irene didn’t move when Skylar turned — just let her gaze follow, unbothered. The bar behind them buzzed soft with laughter and clinking glass, a scene too distant from the quiet standoff nestled in the corner like a shadow pretending it didn’t mind being stepped over.

Then, quietly, like it barely needed saying;

“Nope. Not a witch.”

She let that sit a beat.

“Just wearing a dress that belongs to one.”

There was no smile. No clever edge. Just a dry, easy honesty that settled between them like dust. Skylar’s nose might’ve been sharp — Irene didn’t doubt that — but no matter how good a wolf’s senses were, there was no way her spell would’ve slipped. Not this one. Not after the hours she’d spent binding it tight, layer by layer. The illusion was as seamless as it needed to be. The dress, though? That had been a risk. She hadn’t had much choice.

Wearing Thera’s clothes wasn’t smart.

But it was necessary.

And sometimes, necessary got you killed. Or mistaken. Or talked to like you were something you weren’t. She turned her glass between her fingers again — a slow, thoughtful spin. No drinking. Just movement. Control.

Skylar’s question pulled her eyes back up.

“No,” she said plainly. “Not my business.”

Her voice was level, without weight. Not cruel, not dismissive — just honest. She wasn’t the type to play judge and jury unless someone made her. And Skylar… well, she wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Not yet. She used to be one of them. Sad truth was, how anyone could be in her shoes. This was the reality they fought with.

“Just be careful out there.”

That was all she said. But something about the way her voice dropped — the subtle gravity in it — said more. That she meant it. That she'd seen what happened when people didn’t watch their corners. That she wasn’t here to start fires, but she’d walked through plenty already.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want this to be another.

"Not sure if that was clever or stupid."

To wear something that belonged to a witch while being a hunter. It could very well paint you as an ally as it could an enemy. There are hunters that take pride in going after witches.

When Irene's eyes move up, hers are already waiting, expecting to find something that would force her to move, to do something but the answer catches her by surprise just as much as this whole encounter has.

She nods once, slowly. As if letting the words sink in, the warning that didn't seem like a threat but a genuine advice and she can't help the frown, the searching eyes as she looks at the other. Trying to understand.

"You as well." Is all she mutters back before she tilts her head in a silent goodbye. "Have a good evening."

He waits. Watches. With his hands refolded behind his back at the sight of her fingers moving against the tatami.

And then, Miyazaki pauses. He feels it long before he sees the ripple of his surroundings morph. A needle-like blade that had slipped beneath lazy armour; an arrogance he can confess to. Confidence in the lack of threat from a hunter.

Not just a hunter.

He doesn't move. Not to embrace the illusion, or to war against the power of a mind; it remains to be a mindset. It is not painful; she has not borne a world to inflict agony on him. This is to stir an emotional response, likely driven by whatever sensations are flooding her own system.

After his senses are swarmed with dustfall and aged decay, with feet that teeter on a cliff's edge that cannot possibly be there. She has not transported them, he determines. Eyes fleet around to see if there is a break in the path or find a fracture in her creation that he might play upon. But there is no dojo here. There is no hunter lying weak on the floor either. Gone. Somewhere in amongst this realm, with an undetectable power to track.

She's hidden her abilities from him. Because he would have sensed magic the moment she entered. But he had not. Miyazaki does not make these amateur mistakes. And he knows few who could mask their power so smoothly, for not even someone like him to detect. Clever. He's abused amplifiers in the past to nullify his essence so he might delay the Voiceless' chase, but nothing so invisible as this.

Impressive, even. More so than the fear she might intend to invoke upon him, by taking away his domain, and making him play in hers.

Wind that isn't his; the kind that isn't real or tangible. The same sort he cannot touch makes his robes sway. He does not control this power. Miyazaki is a stagnant force; he could erupt every element in every direction, but what would that do besides destroy his own dojo? He understands that beneath this is the world he does possess the reins to; it'll quake under the explosion of everything let free.

Crack.

His jaw lights up with fire. It takes instinct to salvage the bones and calcify the minerals in the ivory. It hardens them within his face to stop them from shattering under the hunter's raw strength. It doesn't stop his tumble or the jerk reaction that sends him sideways, knee colliding with a rock and tipping him off the edge of the cliff; a mind lapsing on reality, and the falsity of it all.

He doesn't fall, but he knows that a moment later. His body reacts late, slamming his back into the ground that is the dojo mats. The impossible world peels away, and Miyazaki stares up at the woman towering above, a half smile that covers his indecision about how he feels that she managed to hide her magic so cleanly. There is a bruise forming on the side of his face, purple that pools to the surface, and wraps around his chin.

Seven, she says.

Tetsuya almost laughs.

"You hide." It's a statement, as he brushes the robe from its entanglement over his stomach and draws himself to a stand. He feels the sudden ache in the blossoming rot beneath the cotton, peppering his torso with every new day he wakes. The sign of his time coming to its ruthless end. It's not frustration he expels, but the unsatisfying result of revelation: "Your power. You wear a hunter's mask."

Why? So she might surprise and ambush an opponent like him? To land a single blow in the dominion of her fabrication. How much power did she exert just to prove her worth to him? After all, she'd wanted to hit something.

And now she has.

This time, he offers her an opportunity.

"Would you like to try again?"

Not an order. Or a command. A goad; a challenge. To see what she might do when all their cards are exposed. Who wins when there are no more hidden moves to make?

The second ruse. He might be wearing blue on his chin, but even a dying man will never neglect a lesson. He notes her concentrated force: "You look tired, hunter."

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She was still catching her breath — not from exhaustion, not truly, but from the weight of what had just happened. The spell had landed. Her fist had too. And for one fleeting, glorious second, she thought maybe she had the upper hand. But now, looking at him as he stood — straightening his robe, blood darkening beneath the surface of his jaw like ink sinking into water — she felt it like a stone in her stomach.

Disappointment. Not in him. In herself. She’d revealed too much.

She’d let him see her, truly see her — not just the bruises or the bite of her punch, but the truth stitched beneath her skin. The magic she wasn’t supposed to have. The mask she’d worn too well for too long. And worse? She hadn’t even meant to. Not like that. Not yet.

You hide, he’d said. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She wasn’t hiding anymore.

Her eyes narrowed — not from anger, but calculation, coiling like wire behind her gaze.

Irene didn’t step back. Didn’t cower. But she also didn’t move forward again. Not when the stakes had shifted. Not when he’d seen what no one else had. And not when she could still taste blood on the inside of her cheek from that first slam to the floor.

So she gave him the only thing she had left — a small, crooked smile. Less warmth this time. More bite.

“Well, sensei,” she said, brushing a speck of dust from her shoulder, “you’re not exactly the type who gives out gold stars for honesty.”

Her voice stayed light, but her stance had changed — less of the poised, coiled aggression from earlier, more guarded now. Braced. If she was going to lose this round, she’d lose it with her back straight.

“Wasn’t trying to ambush you,” she added after a beat. “That wasn’t strategy. That was a bad choice. One I won’t make again. You don't fight fair either.”

She should have saved the spell. Should have waited for something worse. Someone worse. But she’d been angry — bone-deep, shaking, furious — and it had made her reckless. That was on her.

And now he knew.

He offered another match. Not a command. A challenge. She could taste the dare in his voice. The twist of something sharp and clever in his tone when he called her tired — like a knife pressed against the idea of weakness, not deep enough to cut, but enough to make you bleed if you leaned into it.

She didn’t lean.

Instead, she tilted her head. Studied him like he was another puzzle, one she hadn’t decided whether to solve or walk away from.

Then her voice lowered — softer now, edged in something that sounded almost like curiosity. Or maybe caution. “Can you keep it secret?”

She likes to touch him, he realises, and he brushes at the spots she's put sweaty, wine-stained fingers on right after. Like a God removing the knowledge of a peasant from their sleeve. "Usually they aren't left out willy-nilly, love. Diplomat vanishing act is the standard." Dark, gold-flecked eyes stare at her. He's not memorising her face, but he's making sure she knows that she only gets off easy once. Next time, she'll be the body looking pretty in a gallery, admired by onlookers as she reflects their faces right back at them.

He has had worse. But they're not making it a bloody contest.

And he might've just let it go and grinned through that gin if she didn't undercut him with a shafting remark. The help? AJ resists looking down at himself because whoever this woman is, she doesn't know fuck all. She might boast how jovial she is, and careless in holding finery, but she is nothing on the grander scale.

AJ gets close, shoulders moving in first, tongue wetting lips. He'll retract his offer now, because she isn't all that.

"Go bugger off and buy it for someone who can't afford it." A beat, to dismiss her and this entire interaction. No longer does Astor find the appeal in a mess because she's hit a nerve and he doesn't care to nurse it. "The help, perhaps?" He breathes a laugh at the audacity of her and her butter fingers. "I'm busy."

He doesn't notice he's a little lighter under his cuff.

Irene’s lashes dipped just slightly when he leaned in — not flinching, just recalibrating. Taking in the shift. The change in tone. The bite.

It wasn’t unexpected.

People like AJ always thought they saw more than they did. Thought they could flay someone open with words just because they knew how to wear power like cologne. But his tongue wasn’t nearly as sharp as he thought it was — and she’d survived worse than a bruised ego wrapped in tailored silk.

Still, she played her part. Let the breath catch just a little at his words, the flicker of something like embarrassment crossing her expression as she stepped back half a pace. A stumble in her own performance — but carefully chosen. Intentional. The illusion of a woman who didn’t quite belong here, who’d fumbled too close to something gilded and got burned for it.

“Right,” she said, voice soft now — contrite in a way that would read as forgettable. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

She trailed off, didn’t finish it. Let the awkward silence drape over them like a veil.

And then she nodded — small, deferential — the kind of motion someone makes when they’ve been dismissed and know better than to linger. The woman he saw would walk away. Wouldn’t press her luck. Would tuck her tail and take the lesson.

So that’s what she did.

Turned on her heel with the faintest wince of discomfort, clutching the still-untouched glass like a tether, the spell still pressed tight beneath her skin. It held. Of course it held. She was too careful to risk a falter now. Even with the bracelet resting warm and solid in the small hollow between her ribs and corset lining. It hadn’t been a perfect lift — a heartbeat too fast, a second of doubt — but the chaos had masked it, and AJ had never looked close enough to notice the shift in weight.

He was too busy nursing his pride.

And Irene? She didn’t look back. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t crow.

She just disappeared into the crowd like smoke under a door, spell still intact, profile still soft, and a million miles from the girl she actually was.

One more mask. One more moment survived.

Let AJ sulk. Let him boil in his own smugness.

“I spoke with Juniper right before the meeting let out, but that’s it. I... had to go take care of something, immediately after seeing the body.” He smoothed out his outfit, the soft material managing to feel almost harsh under his hands still raw from all of scrubbing. This discomfort with the body felt almost embarrassingly childish. If he kept this up, he’d have to break through the four months without contact to ask his mother for one of her cleansing rituals. The very idea of it was enough for him to set his jaw and straighten his posture. He wasn’t ready to feel that pathetic just yet. “I haven’t been able to find anyone else.”

“Hell no,” she said, tone flat with finality. “I’m out of here.” She didn’t bother trying to make it sound graceful. It wasn’t. None of this was. The gala had turned into a spectacle, and now the air felt laced with accusation — like the walls themselves were watching, waiting to decide who got named next. “Last thing I need is some tight-collared prick trying to say one of us did it,” she added, voice pitched low, jaw tight. “Wouldn’t be the first time a witch ended up a convenient distraction.”

Her fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for something — a weapon, a charm, a familiar kind of control — but she stilled them. She was too exposed in this dress, too obvious in a room that had already turned half-hysterical. The more distance she could put between herself and all this, the better.

“I’m gonna go check for the others one more time,” she said, her eyes scanning past him again — that same habit of searching, always measuring. “Kanta, Sammy — couple others. Make sure they’re breathing. Then I’m gone.”

When she looked at him again, it was more direct this time. Not hard, but firm.

“Will you be alright?” she asked, quieter now. “You shouldn’t stay. Seriously. Just go. This—” her hand gestured loosely toward the grand ballroom behind them, “—this isn’t worth the trouble.”

But she didn’t press. Not yet.

“It’s okay,” she said, like she meant it. Like it was meant to be enough. “I’ll go with them. Kanta knows how to vanish clean, and Sammy’s enough of a cutie that no one’s gonna suspect him of anything organized.” There was the faintest flicker of dry humor at that, but it passed quickly.

“Just take care of yourself, alright?” she said, softer now, gaze lingering. “Don’t let them drag you into the center of it. You don’t owe them that.”

How many of theirs had she killed? How many had fallen with her name on the bullet? Looking at her was getting harder by the second. So he didn’t. He kept his gaze pinned to the small window by the ceiling, even when she kept small hands on him, pushing and pushing into her once brother, "I couldn’t stay, Irene," he said quietly, voice laced with something that sounded a lot like regret. "They wouldn’t let me stay. You were too young to understand that then." He thought disappearing would be better, that she’d grow up to have a life without him. A better life.

He remembered her mother. He remembered the Astors’ mother too. All of them better, kinder, still there — while his wasn’t. Murdered by the very ones Irene trusted now. "And do you remember who murdered mine?" A hollow, fragile thing breaking through the silence.

Riven believed his grief overshadowed hers, as if they were both weighed down on opposite ends of a scale, waiting to see which one sank deeper. Grief was always heavy, like a bag of bricks on your shoulders. But he was a selfish man. A self-centered creature. And somewhere between his pain and hers, her grief lost meaning.

"You—why did you do this, Irene? Because I couldn’t stay where I wasn’t wanted? Because I was trying to find a way to survive? Find a place for myself? Is that why you picked up a weapon and started killing your own kind?"

There was no mercy in him for the ones who butchered his sisters and his brothers. A powerful man. even God-like. like AJ was still only a man in the hands of death. As powerful as Astor was, he wasn’t immortal. And he'd die like a dog, when those assholes decided his time was up. Riven wouldn’t let that happen.

"Are you in love with him?" His words low and dangerous. "Is that what this is? Love?" As though hunters were even capable of something as profound as being loved — or loving in return. They were soulless creatures, born out of hate and dying choking on it. And now she was swallowing the same poison. "This is your mess, Irene. You dragged yourself into this muddy, nasty pit. I’m not pulling you out of it."

He was no longer who she remembered. No longer what she needed him to become. Whatever brotherly affection had once been in him was gone — scraped clean. His hands released her. He took one last, lingering look at the former witch.

"I’m not doing you any favors."

Irene didn’t move for a long moment.

She stood there, staring at him — not like someone who was about to scream or fall apart, but like someone who had just realized something quiet and devastating. Like something inside her had gone still. A flame snuffed out without fanfare. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t begging anymore.

And that scared her more than anything. Because it meant she’d finally accepted it.

He wasn’t listening. He didn’t want to. He didn’t even look at her and see her anymore.

Irene begged — not for mercy, not even for forgiveness, but for understanding. For a scrap of the boy who used to drag his mattress next to hers when it stormed. For the brother who’d once threatened to hex a kid at school just because he made her cry. That version of Riven had lived in her chest for years like an echo, just waiting for a reason to come back. She’d held onto him like a thread through fire. A promise she made herself every time everything else turned to ash.

But he was gone. Not dead. Not buried. Just… gone. And worse — he’d looked at her like she was the one who killed him.

When he asked if she loved Kanta, Irene blinked. Once. A slow, flat movement that gave nothing away. But when she spoke, her voice was cool and low and bitter at the edges. “No. That’s not what this is. You’ve lost your mind.”

She should’ve laughed — would’ve, if the pain in her chest didn’t feel so damn real.

“He’s an ally. Believe it or not. He’s the one who pulled me out of the wreckage you left behind. Not because he loves me. Because he saw me. Because he wanted to help.”

Her hand twitched once at her side, as if she could still pull that warmth back — but it passed. She let the thought wither. She’d already given too much.

“You don’t want to believe people like him exist. Because if they do, then maybe you left for no reason.” Her voice didn’t crack this time.

Instead, she reached.

Her fingers slipped under the slit of her dress and unhooked the small knife strapped against her thigh — the one she hadn’t drawn all night. Not even when the body was found. Not even when the hunters whispered. Her palm curled around the hilt like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

She stepped forward, silent. And then — without warning — she grabbed Riven’s hand. Fingers tight. Intentional. She shoved the dagger into his grip, forced his fingers closed around it. Cold metal in warm skin.

Then — she lifted his arm. Pressed the blade’s tip right against the center of her chest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then finish it.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. No tears. No rage. Just raw, haunted defiance. “You think I’m a killer?” she asked, voice barely above a breath. “Then do what you think they deserve.” The knife trembled only slightly — not from her, but from the sharp exhale she let out through her nose.

“You won’t do me any favors, right?” she continued, jaw clenched, words scalding now. “Then do them one. Since I’m so dangerous. Since I’m a traitor. Since I’m too far gone.” Her hand lifted his again, still pressed to the blade, guiding it harder now. The tip began to press deeper into her skin — red rising in a sharp bloom beneath the silver. “Do it right here,” she said. “Right now. No one else will have to think twice.”

Her breath hitched once. Her other hand spread across her own ribs, keeping his arm where it was — keeping that blade poised over her heart like a dare.

“Or —” her voice dropped lower, steadier, darker, “— try. Just once. Try to see what’s actually inside my mind. Read it. Look. See for yourself if I’m what you think I am.”

Her eyes were steel now. “Unless you're scared?” Her head tilted slightly. “Scared I’ll hurt you? Scared you’ll look and find I never stopped caring for you? That you are wrong?”

She didn’t wait for his answer. “I haven’t killed a single person who didn’t draw first. Not one. But you won’t ask. You’d rather assume. Your so-called brothers and sisters? They tortured the only parent I had left. They broke her. And I was next. They didn't have to do that. They could have gotten me, they didn't have to break her.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it struck like a blade — low and clean and final.

“You think I’ve changed?” she asked. “I haven’t. I still love you. You’re still my brother. I’ll always choose you. Even now.”

Her chin lifted. Her eyes never left his.

“But I know you wouldn’t choose me. Not once. So why play the game, Rivy?” She let her hand fall away from his, leaving the knife where it rested — flush against her heartbeat. “Finish it,” she said again, voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed at the idea of having to carry all the healing potions. “I don’t know, I’m just clumsy enough for it to be a hazard. I might drop them all. But yeah, making me explain to Shiv is a valid threat, I’m not getting near real bees anytime soon.”

“Tattoo bees, though... I wouldn’t be completely covered. Just, y'know, my arm or shoulder or something. A lot of little lines to stick runes in, some sort of symbolism about being a hard worker... I kind of like it.” He said, shrugging. “I’d have to ask him what he thinks, though, and I guess google symbolism stuff... what would you get, if you had to get some sort of animal or something instead of just the runes? Not that the runes don’t look cool, they really do, just as a hypothetical?”

Irene’s mouth quirked again — something not quite a smile, but not far from it either. The kind of expression that passes for warmth when you are more knife than open hand. “It’s not that I’m not a fan of Garnett,” she said, tone wry. “It’s just… I don't know. I guess I'm just wary of everyone.” A small shrug followed. “Everett seems cool though. I’ll give him that. But half the coven wouldn’t last a week doing what we do. They think power makes them untouchable. It doesn’t.”

The words weren’t bitter — not entirely — but they came with an edge honed from too much fieldwork and not enough support. Irene had scars that would never show through a gala dress, and she didn’t expect anyone in Garnett to understand what that meant.

At his joke about being clumsy, she gave a soft huff of breath, almost a laugh. “Then I’m giving you the glass ones. Make it extra risky.” A beat. “Hey — tattoo bees can be cool. Better than one of those hyper-realistic ones that look like it’s crawling off your skin. If you get one of those, I’m setting you on fire by accident. On principle.”

Her glass shifted again between her fingers, her eyes flicking over the rim before she set it down with a faint clink.

At his question, though — the one about tattoos and symbols and hypotheticals — her brow lifted slightly. Not caught off guard, just... surprised he thought to ask. She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted upward, briefly thoughtful. “Crow,” she said finally. “Not for the reasons most people think. I don’t give a damn about omens or graveyards. But they survive. Adapt. They’re clever enough to pick a lock and spiteful enough to remember your face for years.”

Then, a wry glance back at him. “You don’t last long in this life if you’re not all three.”

The moment lingered for just a second, then passed. She shifted her weight slightly and glanced toward the exit hall again, attention narrowing.

“Hey,” she said, stepping back a pace, her voice softening just a notch. “I’m gonna go check on Shiv and Sage. Haven’t seen them since the announcement.”

Another beat — her eyes resting on him now, steady and quiet in a way that meant she meant it.

“You’ll be alright?”

"I don't think so," he offers. It's not much, given they've had two conversations and he's not sure he even knows her name, but anger isn't what he would associate with her. Stoicism, exhaustion maybe, but not rage or wrath. "Maybe it doesn't count for anything from a stranger, but I'm Kevin. So... not strangers anymore."

The Brotherhood. He wonders what group they represent if they're not wolves or vampires. He's heard the names of a few of the communities throughout Port Leiry. He knows of Reardon, through Kali. Of Cerberus through Jude and Autumn. Names that seem to carry an unspoken weight behind them to know who know. But that's always been the problem. Kevin doesn't really know.

He wonders if it's all so bad, having a group of people who care enough to have him represent them. The pressure would be a lot, but maybe it would be drowned out by knowing that he belonged somewhere. It's a silly thought though. He doesn't belong here and he never would. Maybe her idea of takeout and TV wasn't so bad. "I uh... I came with my-" he hesitates. "My ex," he said finally. He doesn't explain that they weren't exes when the night started, that it was Kevin's problems and mistakes that broken them apart, but he just looks down at the bar top again.

“Kevin,” she repeated, giving it a small nod. No smile, not really, but something softened at the edges of her expression — a subtle shift. Like she was acknowledging a truce they hadn’t said out loud. “Not strangers, then.”

It was a simple line, but the way she said it gave it weight. Like maybe she didn’t give her name to just anyone. Like maybe this wasn’t nothing.

“Irene,” she added a moment later, quieter. Not shy — just careful. Letting it land without needing to dress it up.

She didn’t respond to his protest about her not being angry — not directly. But the silence that followed said enough. She’d heard it before. She’d hear it again. Some people meant it, others didn’t. Most never looked long enough to know the difference. Kevin, at least, was trying. That earned something.

At the mention of his ex, though, her gaze cut back toward him, sharp without being cruel. Not surprised — just… attuned. Like she’d seen that kind of ache walk into too many rooms.

“That’s rough timing,” she said, simply. No pity. Just a clean observation, like a medic poking at a bruise to see if it bled. But it wasn’t detached. There was understanding beneath it — enough that it didn’t sound like a judgment.

The way he looked down after… yeah. She recognized that, too.

And Irene, for all her walls, didn’t like kicking someone who was already on the floor.

“Look,” she said, her fingers tapping lightly against the bar again, slower this time. “If you’re here because it hurts less than going home alone… that counts. If you’re here because something in you hoped things would change, or maybe just hoped to pretend for one night that they hadn’t — that counts, too.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the bar, chin tilted slightly as she studied him. Not dissecting. Just seeing.

“You don’t have to explain it. Not to me.”

A small pause. Then, a dry, near-imperceptible flick of amusement in her voice:

“Besides, between the two of us, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s more likely to commit a crime tonight, so I think you’re safe.”

But she pauses enough to hear, to smell.

"You're a witch." She said, matter of fact. It wasn't a question, but the frown on her face deepens, confused. Because she knows The Brotherhood worked with witches, she had before herself.

But she never saw one going through those files.

She scoffed, turning away from the girl, her hands going instantly into the pockets of her pants.

"Why do you even care?." It's not like she'd get something out of this. Not like they could do anything here, in a floor so full of supernatural beings.

Shaking her head. Sky takes in a deep breath. "I'm not stupid... and this wasn't a reckless decision."

She turns back to the other. "I'm here with my pack."

And for the first time, it feels right to say it. Even if it still feels weird on her tongue. "If you don't consider me to be danger, then maybe you just weren't trained properly. But it doesn't matter... not here, anyway."

Irene didn’t move when Skylar turned — just let her gaze follow, unbothered. The bar behind them buzzed soft with laughter and clinking glass, a scene too distant from the quiet standoff nestled in the corner like a shadow pretending it didn’t mind being stepped over.

Then, quietly, like it barely needed saying;

“Nope. Not a witch.”

She let that sit a beat.

“Just wearing a dress that belongs to one.”

There was no smile. No clever edge. Just a dry, easy honesty that settled between them like dust. Skylar’s nose might’ve been sharp — Irene didn’t doubt that — but no matter how good a wolf’s senses were, there was no way her spell would’ve slipped. Not this one. Not after the hours she’d spent binding it tight, layer by layer. The illusion was as seamless as it needed to be. The dress, though? That had been a risk. She hadn’t had much choice.

Wearing Thera’s clothes wasn’t smart.

But it was necessary.

And sometimes, necessary got you killed. Or mistaken. Or talked to like you were something you weren’t. She turned her glass between her fingers again — a slow, thoughtful spin. No drinking. Just movement. Control.

Skylar’s question pulled her eyes back up.

“No,” she said plainly. “Not my business.”

Her voice was level, without weight. Not cruel, not dismissive — just honest. She wasn’t the type to play judge and jury unless someone made her. And Skylar… well, she wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Not yet. She used to be one of them. Sad truth was, how anyone could be in her shoes. This was the reality they fought with.

“Just be careful out there.”

That was all she said. But something about the way her voice dropped — the subtle gravity in it — said more. That she meant it. That she'd seen what happened when people didn’t watch their corners. That she wasn’t here to start fires, but she’d walked through plenty already.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want this to be another.

Only a few seconds of taking in the scene, watching those amateurs poking at the corpse without any gloves on for their rudimentary investigations, and he was off, scrubbing his hands raw in a sink on the other side of the building. What was wrong with these people?

He dried his hands, stepping out into a corridor and hovering halfway into the main room again. Did he really want to go back out there? Was there anything else he could get from this event, now that the focus had shifted from politics to a half-dozen amateur detectives rubbing corpse-germs around the room? 

A figure cut through the throng of people, offering him an answer. Irene, close enough to speak quietly without crowding him, offering him a lifeline that he gratefully accepted. 

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her gaze lingered on his hands — clean now, but red at the knuckles from too much scrubbing. The detail sat in her mind like a stone in water, quiet and telling. She hadn’t expected anything less from him. That sharp, clinical edge to his decency. A refusal to leave blood beneath his nails even when everyone else had already moved on to spectacle.

“I’m fine,” she said finally, though her voice didn’t carry the kind of conviction that usually followed her words. “Still in one piece.”

She didn’t mention the way her shoulder ached — bruised from a hallway collision during the early scramble, when too many people were trying to be first on the scene. Didn’t mention the low buzz of her magic humming under her skin, restless and sharp, or the iron taste still lingering on her tongue. None of that was relevant right now.

“I found a few people,” she added, quietly. “Not everyone, but enough.” She hadn’t seen Juniper. Not since earlier in the night. But Thera had passed her a look across the chaos — one of those wordless, anchored things that meant I’m here. And that had been enough, for now.

At his question, Irene exhaled, slow and measured. “Not rumors,” she said. “It’s her. Fia. The way it happened — the cuts, the placement — it’s almost exactly like the one in Primrose Park. Same pattern. Same symbols. Just… cleaner.”

Her voice dropped a little further. “No bite marks this time. No claws. Just blades.”

She glanced past him briefly — not out of distraction, but habit. Watching for movement. For interruptions. But when her eyes found his again, they softened by a fraction.

“I know you’ve seen worse,” she murmured, “— but not like this. Not here.”

The gala was still buzzing behind them, champagne and confusion flowing in equal measure. And yet, for just a breath, the noise faded — like this corner belonged to neither the party nor the aftermath.

“I don’t think it was random,” she said. “But I also don’t think they’re done.”