Crow Queen

“I know that voice.” Rafayel’s words cut through the room like a shard of glass. His playful demeanor has vanished, replaced by a grim set to his jaw as he stares at the screen. “Onychinus. They’ve been hunting EVER’s shadow for as long as I can remember.”

Xavier’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing. The usual sleepiness is gone, replaced by the sharp, calculating focus of a Hunter. “That’s a very specific brand of knowledge, Rafayel,” He says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register, “Exactly how many times has an artist crossed paths with the N109 Zone?”

Rafayel rolls his eyes, “I know enough, nightlight. And I’m telling you, that’s who’s behind your little assassination thingie. But what this tells us is that Onychinus hasn’t put their grudge to rest yet and they’re still hunting them down. We can use this to our advantage.”

“And just how do you propose we do that?” You place your hands on your hips, “We can’t just walk up, bat our lashes at him, and be all, ‘oh please mister gang leader, do our dirty work for us please!’” You drop into a mock-curtsy, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“We need to give him something he wants, obviously. And luckily, we have it.” Rafayel points to your heart. 

“What? No way. We aren’t using her as bait.” Xavier bristles, glaring at your boyfriend.

“I’m not asking for your permission, Hunter,” Rafayel counters, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low hum.

The air in the room thickens, the temperature fluctuating between Rafayel’s rising heat and a sudden, sharp chill from Xavier. You step between them, a hand on each of their arms. Xavier looks down at your hand, his expression softening into something pained. He realizes you've already made up your mind. 

“It’s not bait if she’s the one holding the rod,” Rafayel snaps back, his eyes darkening into that dangerous storm again. “She’s the only one who can get close enough to Sylus to find out what happened to that lab.”

Sylus. The name feels like a heavy weight in the room. You almost repeat the word, needing to hear it come from your own lips. As soon as the urge comes, it’s gone again.

“I’ll do it,” You say, the words slipping free as you shake off the confusion, “If he’s the one killing the people who hurt me... maybe it’s time I met him.”

“You won’t be alone,” Rafayel adds, slipping his warm hand into yours, “I’m going with you. But the plan I have is private,” He shoots a look towards Xavier.

“Fine,” Xavier says quietly, though his jaw remains tight. He begins packing his laptop, his movements slow and deliberate. “But if his 'private plan' puts you in a position you can't get out of, I don't care about 'underworld etiquette.' I'll level the building to get you out.” 

You’ve never seen Xavier’s jaw clenched so tightly. The devotion in his voice makes you equal parts uncomfortable and thrilled.

 “I’ve been tracking the energy spikes from Biosun for weeks,” He adds, shouldering his bag, “That’s how I found this footage. Rafayel might have the underworld contacts, but I have the data. And the Hunter’s Association has been after Sylus for years. He is dangerous, unpredictable, and basically a ghost.” 

He turns to you at the door, silhouetted against the hallway light. “I’m going to go back to the HA and see if I can pull the redacted files on Onychinus. If you’re going to work with this man, you need to know exactly who he is.” He offers a small, tired smile, “Good luck.”

With a final, lingering look that seems to see right through your skin, he slips out the door. The apartment feels strangely dim the moment he’s gone.

“You shouldn’t be so mean to him,” You chide, turning to Rafayel, “He’s just trying to help.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Rafayel mutters, pouting. His gaze traces the air around your shoulders as if he’s seeing something you can’t. “And I like it even less that whenever he’s around... you start to glow. And anyway, he doesn’t know my secret and what I have to say can’t be heard by human ears. Well, other human ears.” 

A sharp "Wait—what?" hitches in your throat, your head tilting as you try to process his words. You want to pin him down, to make him explain what he meant by ‘glow’, but Rafayel is already a step ahead, the moment sliding away like water through your fingers as he doesn't leave you any room to untangle it.  

He leans back and crosses his arms, “In truth, this works out well for me. I was planning on getting involved with Onychinus anyway. I’m meeting with two of their goons tonight. I need their help with something, so this will just catch two fish with one net.”

“Why on earth are you getting involved with the mafia, Rafayel?” You look at him like he has two heads, “And more importantly, when were you planning on telling me?”

“I wasn’t,” He shrugs, “But you’re in this now too, so there’s no sense hiding it anymore. There’s a group in the N109 Zone I’ve been tracking, the Anglers. Stupid name, I know. Anyway, the Anglers have been kidnapping Lemurian children for two weeks now and no one knows where they are.”

Rafayel stands, and for a second, the light seems to shy away from him, casting a shadow that stretches too long across the floor. He isn't pouting anymore. His spine is a rigid line of steel, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped an octave, carrying a resonance that makes the very air around you stop to listen.

"They are taking them from the streets," He says, and you feel the words in your soul before you hear them in your ears. "My people. Children who should be under the protection of my tides are being caged in the N109 Zone like common livestock." He spits out the words in disgust.

He paces, prowling across your living room like something that has spent eons at the top of the food chain. His fingers curl as if he’s already feeling the phantom weight of a weapon. "I have scoured every warehouse, every back alley, every digital footprint. They are simply gone. Swallowed by the dark."

He turns to you, and the fire in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding. "Sylus is the only one with eyes in that abyss. I don't care what he asks for. I don't care if I have to burn the Zone to the ground to get his attention. I am getting them back."

You should be backing away. A normal person would be terrified of the way the room seems to shrink around his fury, or the way the temperature has risen to a stifling, almost suffocating heat. But as you watch him, you don't feel the urge to run. A weight you can’t describe settles on your shoulders, and your head bows before him on instinct– an ancient, reverent reflex. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you think about what those children are going through. 

Just as soon as the fire started, it vanishes, leaving the air tasting of salt. A gentle hand, warm and trembling, hooks under your chin to lift your gaze. The question leaves you in a breathy whisper, "How many?" 

“Ten as of this morning,” He whispers back. 

Your heart shatters at that number. Taking a shaky breath in, you state, “You’re not just a Lemurian, are you.”

“I’m not,” He confirms.

You nod, the confirmation landing like a missing piece of a puzzle you’ve been holding for lifetimes. It doesn't feel like a surprise; it feels like you’ve known the truth the entire time. He brushes the tear from your cheek, his touch lingering as if he’s memorizing the shape of your face. 

“I wasn’t going to tell you because I didn’t want to get you involved in this.” He sits next to you, pulling you into his lap, “It’s dangerous. And I’m ashamed that I wasn’t—” He swallows, the sound thick and jagged in the quiet room. “I wasn’t strong enough. I am not the god I once was. I can’t protect them the way they need me to.” He collapses into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I don’t even know if they’re alive.” 

You don't say anything at first. You just hold him, your fingers threading through his hair, grounding him to the present. You let the silence sit until his breathing evens out and the "God" in him settles back behind the mask of the man you know.

"Then we find them," You say, your voice steadier than you feel. "We use whatever we have to. My heart, your secrets—everything. If Sylus is the key to the dark, then we’re going to turn it."

He pulls back slowly; the fury in his eyes has dimmed to a simmer. He wipes his face with both hands, a sharp, professional coldness settling over his features. The vulnerable man is tucked away, replaced by the calculating strategist who survived the fall of a kingdom.

"You're right," He says, his voice losing its tremor. He stands, offering you a hand, "The meeting is in two hours at a bar called Elysium. If we're going to do this, we don't look like victims. We look like a threat."

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You admire yourself in the mirror, appreciating the intricate braids Rafayel wove into your hair. The expensive cocktail dress he bought you drapes perfectly to the floor. Beside you, he adjusts the cufflinks on his matching suit, then holds out his hand. 

“Rules?” He asks for the third time in thirty minutes. You take his hand in yours, turning towards the door. “Don’t speak until you mention the core. No drinks unless they come from your hand. And I don't leave your side, not even for a second.”  

“Good girl,” His thumb rubs your hand affectionately as you reach his car.

You’ve spent the majority of the past hour and a half learning the ins and outs of the shadier side of the world. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little nervous. 

Your gun is strapped to your thigh with a frilly holster, easily accessible through the slit in your dress. If things go south, at least you won’t be defenseless. Adrenaline burns hot in your veins as Raf’s Ferrari speeds down the highway. 

Ahead, it’s like a wall of darkness cuts off the setting sun from the rest of the sky. The city is a blot of spilled ink on the beautiful painting that is the flower field surrounding it. As the Ferrari nears the boundary, the air changes. The warmth of the sunset is swallowed by a sudden, artificial fog. You shudder as the car speeds past the wall and into the city. 

Neon signs fracture against the heavy mist, bleeding jagged streaks of red, pink, and blue across the wet pavement. The further you drive into the heart of the Zone, the more the city sheds its skin. The crumbling, low-slung dive bars and boarded-up windows of the outskirts give way to looming monoliths of glass and steel. Shabby storefronts are replaced by silent, high-end lounges that look more like fortresses than clubs. The Ferrari's tires hiss against the asphalt as Rafayel swings the car into a vacant space, the engine’s purr echoing off the cold steel of Elysium. 

Rafayel’s hand is firm on the small of your back as he guides you toward the entrance, his usual playful grace replaced by a rigid, regal composure. 

Smoke drifts lazily through the low light, weaving between the men gathered around high-stakes games. The air is punctuated by the crystalline clink of chips and the slide of cards against felt. You keep your chin high, the weight of the dress pulling at your shoulders as you cross the floor, the bar acting as the only lighthouse in the dim room. 

Rafayel leans against the counter and raps on it with his knuckles. “I’ll take a blackbird shot, she’ll have a shot of cardinal sin.” 

The bartender gives him a curt nod and passes you two shot glasses. Rafayel hands one to you. “Salud,” Raf taps his glass on the counter before downing it in one go. You imitate him. The liquid burns, tasting of dark cherries and bitterness. Rafayel’s "Salud" isn't his usual cheerful toast; it’s a grim seal on a contract.  After you drink, the bartender nods to a nondescript nearly invisible door behind him.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the muffled bass of the lounge. The silence in the room is absolute, thick with the scent of old wood and expensive tobacco. You sit at the long table, the silk of your dress whispering against the chair, and wait.

The heavy silence in the room settles between you, neither daring to utter a word. Every few seconds, the silk of your dress rustles like a scream in the tomb-like quiet. Beside you, Rafayel is a statue of shadow, his breathing so shallow you can’t even see his chest move.

The rattle of the doorknob cuts through the air like a gunshot.

Two men saunter into the room, their faces obscured by masks shaped into the sharp, predatory beaks of crows. They move in a terrifying, mirrored rhythm. One pulls a chair out in front of you, the wood groaning against the floor; the other does the same for Rafayel. They sit simultaneously, straddling the chairs and leaning their weight forward, bird-masks tilting in unison.

"What do you want?" The voices overlap perfectly, a haunting, double-tracked monotone that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

"The Anglers dismantled," Rafayel says. His voice is smooth, devoid of the warmth he usually saves for you. He sounds like he’s informing them of rain tomorrow. "And their leader’s head delivered on a silver platter."

The Crow on the left stretches, his joints popping in the silence. "That’s a heavy price."

"They have a heavy reach," the Crow on the right echoes, his gloved fingers drumming a staccato beat on the table.

"I am aware," Rafayel counters. He leans back, the movement deceptively casual. "Which is why the payment I’m offering is the only thing your master doesn't already possess."

The Left Crow lets out a long, theatrical yawn, leaning back until his chair balances on two legs. "The Boss-Man doesn't have much of a wish list left, little painter."

"I'm offering her," Rafayel’s hand sweeps toward you.

The room goes dead. For three heartbeats, the only sound is the frantic pulse thudding in your own throat. Then, the masks tilt back as a mocking harmony of laughter erupts.

"The Boss doesn't buy women," the Right Crow wheezes through his mask.

"And he tends to bury anyone who tries," the Left one snickers.

"You misunderstand," Rafayel says with a smirk, his voice dropping like he’s sharing a mischievous secret between them. "She’s mine. I have her heart, and it is not for sale." He pauses, his sunset eyes locking onto the dark lenses of the masks. "But what your master wants is the Aether Core inside it."

The laughter is cut off as if by a guillotine.

The twin crows freeze, their heads snapping toward you with such speed you hear the leather of their collars creak.

"You’re lying," They breathe in unison.

Rafayel doesn't argue. He simply gestures to you in a silent command. Your fingers tremble as you reach into your clutch, pulling out a redacted version of the medical file. The paper feels like lead. You slide it across the polished wood.

The Crows lean in, their masks nearly touching as they scan the EKG charts and the stamped Gaia seal. You watch their eyes, hidden behind mesh, darting between the technical data and your chest, as if they're trying to see the glow of the aether core through your skin.

They don't say another word. They don't even look at Rafayel. They snatch the paper, stand in that same eerie synchronicity, and vanish back through the door.

"Five minutes," One of them shouts as the door shuts behind them.

The silence that follows the Crows' departure isn't broken by a knock or a glide. Instead, the door hinges groan, forced open by a weight that makes the previous two men seem like mere shadows.

A single man saunters into the room. He is a mountain of tailored charcoal wool and cold intent, his suit jacket draped carelessly over his shoulders like a cape. He doesn't sit; he claims the space. He moves with a slow, deliberate arrogance, pulling a chair out with the toe of a heavy, polished boot. He plants his foot firmly on the edge of the table and leans forward into your space, resting his elbow on his knee.

The air in the room suddenly feels electric, charged with a static that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. You feel a frantic, rhythmic thrumming in your chest—not just your pulse, but a vibration from the Core itself, as if it’s recognizing a kindred spirit or a mortal enemy.

You find your gaze climbing the broad expanse of his chest, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, until you are trapped.

His right eye is a puncture wound of crimson light. It doesn't just look at you; it devours you. The red glow bleeds into the darkness of the room, snaring your vision and pinning you to the back of your chair. You try to look away, to find Rafayel’s grounding presence beside you, but your muscles refuse to move. You need that eye. It’s yours.

He watches you, a faint, dangerous tilt to his lips, as if he can already hear the frantic ticking of the aether core against your ribs. Then, his smooth voice reaches you.

 “Hello, sweetie. I’ve been looking for you.”

pt. 1...pt. 10 ao3