The moon hung high over Blackwood, casting its cold silver glow across the jagged skyline. Stars blinked behind thinning clouds, and a bitter wind cut through the cracked window of the twenty-seventh floor of the Blackwood Auction House, slipping past the heavy velvet curtains to brush against the crystal decanters lined neatly along the shelf.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of aged tobacco, wood polish, and old paper—memories preserved in the dark paneled walls and velvet carpet. At the far end of the office, Alexander sat behind his grand mahogany desk, the gleam of candlelight catching in his sharp eyes. Across from him, Andrew leaned back in a leather chair, wine glass in hand. Between them lay a spread of half-emptied bottles—whiskey, wine, and something darker still—evidence of hours passed in quiet camaraderie.
Alexander tipped his glass, letting the amber liquid swirl lazily, ice cubes clinking like wind chimes in the quiet.
"So, how's it feel?" he asked, his voice low and amused. "Back on the road again? You've got a kid now. Brought Camael out of retirement. It's like getting the old gang back together." He chuckled, a deep sound from his chest, before taking a sip.
Andrew offered a wry smile, raising his glass of red wine in a slow toast. "It feels… right," he replied simply. "Strange, but right."
Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly, as if peering into something far beyond Andrew's words. "You never struck me as the family man type," he said, setting down his glass to pour another. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
Andrew exhaled softly, the wine momentarily forgotten. "Maybe I've just had my fill," he said at last, his tone lighter than the weight of his words. "A lifetime—no, several lifetimes—of bloodshed. Enough wars, enough terror. I want something quiet now. Something worth keeping."
Alexander laughed, the sound sharp and genuine as he raised his glass again. "Well, cheers to that."
Their glasses clinked together, a crystalline sound that echoed for a heartbeat too long.
"Where did you even find the boy?" Alexander asked as he leaned back, brows lifted in curiosity. "Caspian, I mean. He doesn't look like any child I've ever seen. That hair—white as frost. Eyes too old for someone so young."
Andrew's expression shifted, shadowed now. "Truth be told, I don't really know. He was kept as a slave by a tavern owner—a miserable little place a few days' ride from here. I bought his freedom, didn't ask questions. Doesn't matter where he came from, not anymore. He's part of our family now. That's all that matters."
Camael, silent until now, raised a hand for a brief fist bump. Andrew met it with a quiet grin.
Alexander watched the exchange, then leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Speaking of family," he said, voice lowering, "I do have a favor to ask. Two, actually."
Andrew raised a brow. "Go on."
"It's Layla. She hasn't been feeling well recently. Headaches. Fatigue. Sometimes she skips meals altogether. And she's been sneaking out at night, more often than not." He paused to refill his drink again, hands steady. "I know you were a medic during the war. Think you could take a look at her? Just to ease my mind."
Andrew nodded, setting his glass aside. "Of course. I'll do what I can."
"And the second favor…" Alexander hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the frost-lined windows. "I'm not asking you to go tailing after a teenage girl, but if someone could quietly follow her… see where she's going… it would give me some peace. From what I've gathered, she's been attending parties—mixing with other kids her age. Caspian might be the perfect fit for that. They're only a year apart, give or take. Could be good for him, too. Help him socialize."
Andrew considered that for a moment, then smiled. "I'll ask him. But knowing Caspian, he won't say no. He's got that quiet kind of loyalty that doesn't need convincing."
Alexander exhaled in relief. "Then consider it settled."
The room fell into a moment of silence. Outside, the wind howled between the iron gutters, rattling the frostbitten panes. Alexander glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist—a polished silver thing that caught the candlelight like a blade.
"It's late," he murmured. "I won't keep you any longer."
Andrew stood, stretching the weariness from his limbs. "Good night, Alexander," he said, yawning as he made for the door.
As he stepped into the hallway, Alexander called after him. "Andrew."
He turned.
"It's good to see you happy again."
Andrew held his gaze for a beat, then smiled—a quiet, tired, genuine smile—before closing the door behind him.
The moment the latch clicked shut, the lights in the office flickered violently. The chandelier overhead buzzed and sputtered, casting mad shadows across the walls. Then came the sound—a dull, resounding bang from somewhere beyond the corridor. Alexander didn't flinch. He simply leaned back, propping his feet up on the desk, the glass once more in his hand.
"Well," he said to the silence, eyes fixed on the trembling light, "I suppose he never did get over her after all."
The next morning
Caspian's eyes fluttered open, a sharp breath catching in his throat as he awoke. The morning light spilled in from the crack in the thick curtains, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, he lay there, unmoving, his mind drifting back to the events of the night before.
He was no stranger to strange things. But this—this definitely topped the list.
Zach's voice still echoed through his mind like a sermon half-remembered: "An administrator of chaos! A hitman, if you will—but on a global, metaphysical scale."
Caspian exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk. Right. That wasn't what he wanted. Not right now. Not yet.
What he did want was far simpler. He wanted to travel with Andrew and Camael, crisscrossing the world in slow, meandering lines. He wanted to taste food in forgotten towns, sleep under foreign stars, and laugh—genuinely laugh—without something clawing at the back of his mind. If that meant doing Ezra's dirty work on the side, so be it. Better a shadow than a corpse.
He wanted to see the world through a lens that wasn't stained in blood. To peel back the layers of violence and duty and see life again—raw, strange, beautiful.
Maybe this Devourer of Dreams nonsense Zach kept going on about was the key to that. Maybe it wasn't. He didn't know, and for now, he didn't care. The weight of it all could wait.
All he needed to think about today was… what he wanted to do.
Just for today.
Unfortunately for Caspian, peace was not in the cards today.
Moments after his brief moment of resolve, a faint rustling came from the door.
An odd sound.
Unusual, especially here. Housekeeping rarely visited the upper floors of Blackwood Tower, and when they did, it was only when the room was confirmed vacant. This was not the shuffle of cleaning staff. This was something else.
Instinct overtook thought. In one fluid motion, Caspian vaulted out of bed and over the loft railing. His bare feet hit the tile with a soft thud as he rushed to the kitchenette. A smooth, familiar weight met his hand as he drew a kitchen knife from the block. He stepped quietly toward the door, back pressed to the wall beside it. Another breath. Then he turned the handle and opened it, slow and deliberate.
But what lay on the other side was not a person. It wasn't a bomb either, though that had crossed his mind.
Instead, taped haphazardly to the doorframe, was an envelope—its edges curled, its seal pressed unevenly shut. It was... crude. Almost lazy.
Still suspicious, Caspian carefully peeled the envelope free, his eyes narrowing. He slit it open with the edge of the knife and withdrew the note inside. The letter was short, written in a hurried hand:
Dear Caspian,
Meet me on top of Blackwood Tower at 9 p.m. sharp.
Don't be late.
No name. No return address. No indication of who had sent it—except for the crude drawing scrawled in black ink at the bottom. A child, joyfully eating an ice cream cone, utterly unaware of the twisted demons looming behind him.
Caspian's grip on the letter tightened. Rage surged.
He slammed his hand into the mirror hanging beside the kitchenette, shattering it into a thousand glittering fragments. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the point of impact, and a jagged hole formed in the concrete behind it. Blood began to trickle from his knuckles.
But he didn't care.
"Damn it!" he growled, punching the wall again—this time with marginal restraint, leaving another dent, but nothing to widen the damage.
His voice rose with anger. "Out of all the people Ezra could've sent… why did it have to be him?"
He didn't need a signature. The drawing alone was enough. It had to be Julius.
And that was the worst possible outcome.
Julius thrived on chaos. He wasn't just violent—he enjoyed it. Carnage and destruction weren't tools for him; they were the game. He didn't care about plans, didn't care whose cover he blew, including Caspian's. Subtlety meant nothing to him.
So what did he want now?
Caspian growled under his breath, tossing the letter into the sink and gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white.
"And here I thought I could just do whatever I wanted today," he muttered bitterly.
As if answering his frustration, a knock came at the door.
He froze.
His body tensed again. Was it Julius already? Could he really be so bold?
Caspian slipped the knife behind his back and padded silently toward the door. He hesitated, took a breath, then opened it.
Not Julius.
Instead, standing there in the hall, grinning like a fool, was Camael.
Sitting astride a very large dog.
"…Huh?" Caspian managed.
"Hey, kid! Time for breakfast!" Camael announced, looking far too cheerful for this early hour. He slapped the dog's rear, and it trotted forward down the hallway. "Come on, don't make me late! They've got pancakes today—my favorite!"
Caspian stared for another few seconds before muttering, "What the hell…?" under his breath.
Still, he dressed quickly, throwing on his clothes with practiced speed before jogging after Camael down the corridor.
"Wait—what's up with the dog?" Caspian asked, falling into step beside him.
"This is Layla's," Camael said, proudly stroking the dog's back. "Name's Lucy. But since she's been... not around much lately, I figured I'd adopt her. Temporarily, of course."
Caspian raised a brow. He and Camael locked eyes for an awkward beat of silence.
Then Camael cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at the elevator buttons.
"Oh. Right." Caspian jabbed the one labeled 3 – Breakfast in bold black lettering.
As the elevator began its slow descent, Camael spoke again—this time, quieter. More serious.
"So... about Layla."
Caspian turned slightly, noticing the odd tension in his voice. Camael never sounded nervous. Arrogant, dramatic, even smug—yes. But nervous?
"Andrew's got a favor to ask. He wants you to keep an eye on her for a bit."
Caspian blinked. "What, you think she's doing drugs or something?"
"She doesn't seem like the type," Camael admitted, "but that's the thing—we don't know what she's doing. A few people spotted her sneaking off at night. Parties, mostly. Kids your age. Mr. Blackwood had to pay off some of the witnesses to keep things quiet."
"And you want me to... spy on her?" Caspian asked, arms crossed.
"I wouldn't call it spying," Camael replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "More like... being nearby. Watching her six."
Caspian sighed, long and slow. "Fine."
Camael's grin returned. "Thanks, kid."
"Let's just eat first," Caspian muttered. "I'm starving."
And with that, the elevator doors dinged open. Pancake-scented air drifted in like a gentle bribe from the gods. The day, it seemed, was far from done unraveling.