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He chuckled. “Now, now. No need to play hard to get. You think I go around making offers like this every day?”

His hand stayed where it was. Not so much as an offer as a demand dressed up as a question.

He wasn’t the first asshole to think no was just the start of negotiations. The biggest, meanest, and scariest—sure. But she was wrapped up tight in her liquid courage, drowning in warm fire and the high of bad choices.

Taly leaned in instead of flinching, like it was her idea. Like she was comfortable.

She turned fully to face him, voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret. “You know what I just realized?”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

And that was enough.

Taly ghosted her fingers over his wrist—soft, deliberate—before she twisted hard, breaking free in one smooth motion.

“I have somewhere else to be.”

This time, the hand that grabbed her wasn’t gentle. Neither was the dagger she pulled, pressing it firm to his throat.

In the shadows, she caught the flicker of widening eyes and flaring nostrils.

No one moved to stop him. No one tried to stop her, either.

Most shrank back into the shadows. But others… they watched her with something sharper. Tight-lipped, fingers gripped tight around the drink bought for them by their Savior .

“Go ahead.” The Sanctifier’s voice was low, like velvet stretched over steel. “You think you can win this?”

No. She didn’t have a chance. His buddies were already tensed, itching for a fight. Just a flick of her blade, the scent of blood, and they would come swarming.

And then it would be over.

She’d lose. Not just the fight, but everything. One errant drop of blood, a blip in her glamour—that’s all it would take. Her magic, her true identity as a time mage, would be exposed.

Taly stared up into the face of Death, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like relief. A blessing, even.

Fate had led them here—her end, his victory, the inevitable conclusion of the roles they were born to play. And since drinking hadn’t given her the peace she was looking for, this… well, it was certainly a more permanent means of escape.

No more running. No more sacrifices. No more dragging the people she loved into the fire merely by existing.

Just… the end.

The weight of the blade was a temptation—a hairsbreadth away from a mistake she couldn’t take back.

Then an arm slid around her shoulders.

“There you are.” Ren’s voice was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

“Sorry,” he said to the Sanctifier, his smile barely masking the tightness in his expression.

“This is awkward. My, uh, cousin—distant, on my mother’s side—has had a bit too much to drink.

It seems she’s even gone around telling everyone she’s the Savior.

Can you imagine? As you can see, she doesn’t handle her booze well. Gets a bit stabby.”

He pinched the dagger between his fingers, prying it from her grip. “Please, good sir, forgive her. She means well, really. Just... bad timing.”

Bad timing, her ass. This was fate.

Taly reached for the dagger, but Ren’s grip on her tightened. His smile remained steady as the Sanctifier continued to assess them.

His voice, when it came, was quiet, but it cut through the air like a blade. “Next time,” those shadows warned, “keep your Shardless on a tighter leash.”

The Sanctifier’s gaze lingered—marking her, memorizing her face. Then, turning, he stalked back to his table.

Taly watched him go. The relief came, but it was quiet and far too fleeting.

Ren turned to her, the corners of his mouth quirking upward as the tension drained. “So, I’m guessing my drunken, moon-faced cousin with a hero complex is having a bad day. Do we want to talk about our feelings?” he asked, light, a bit teasing.

Taly shook her head, feeling the corners of her lips twitch despite herself. “I’m fine,” she muttered, though the words were weaker than she’d intended.

Even the moon-faced part didn’t get a rise out of her.

“Right,” he said, arching a brow. “I forgot you’re the type to bury everything until it all blows up in your face. Healthy.”

Taly snorted, rubbing her temple. “You’re an ass.”

“Yeah. And yet, I’m the one that kept your throat intact.” He eyed the Sanctifier at his table, still watching from behind his shadows. “I don’t think your new friend’s buying the whole ‘drunken cousin’ act.”

Ren was right. Taly knew that look—a predator’s gaze. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the glass was a rhythm of calculation. He was deciding if he could afford to let her go.

A part of her still craved it—oblivion, release . Let it end , whispered a dark, reckless voice. But Ren was here, and even in her haze, she couldn’t bring herself to break him.

“We should go,” she said.

“Agreed.” Ren nudged her towards the exit.

The door slammed behind them. The cold hit like a slap, shocking her back to herself. The rush drained, leaving only the weight of reality settling into her bones.

She looked at Ren, his arms wrapped tight against the chill, huddled beside her under the flimsy awning. “You still haven’t told me what a butcher’s son is doing in a salvager’s bar?”

He huffed a laugh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I might run into you.”

Apparently, Skye hadn’t marked his territory well enough the other night. Or maybe this was just what men did—fought until there was nothing left to fight for. Until every last ember of hope burned out.

“I told you. I’m taken,” she said, her voice barely audible over the rain.

“Doesn’t seem that way if you’re here drinking alone.”

“We’re… fighting.” It seemed too simple a word for everything that had happened, but that was the core of it.

“Uh-huh.” He shot her a sideways glance. “Just so we’re clear, I’ll save you from Sanctifiers all day, but I’m not giving relationship advice on the man who took my spot. That’s where I draw the line.”

Taly snorted, shaking water from her hair. “Your spot. Shards, you Fey are all like. Someone breathes in your general direction and suddenly you’ve got a claim staked.”

Ren smirked. “Maybe we just know what we want.”

The rain blurred the city into a smudged painting of grays and golds.

It was daytime—technically—but the darkness still clung to everything, thick and stubborn.

Lights flickered in windows, their glow pooling weakly against the wet stone, barely pushing back the night.

The streets ran slick with black water, reflecting the light in broken, shimmering fragments.

“Do you ever think about it?” Ren asked, his voice softer now. “About what we could’ve been if my uncle had just… let us be?”

Taly shut her eyes, and for a moment, the darkness wasn’t endless. It was soft. Familiar. The rain on her skin became the gentle patter of water against a garden’s edge, the scent of earth and summer curling around her. A worn wooden door stood open, light spilling onto the porch.

She opened her eyes to cold rain and gray streets. “No,” she said.

Ren shook his head, laughing without humor. “You’re a shitty liar, Caro.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t change that I’m taken.”

She blinked, and the vision returned. Ren leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like she was late coming home. Flour dusted his shirt.

“You were supposed to be back before the rain.” His voice was easy, unbothered, like this was normal.

Taly scrubbed at her eyes. If only her Sight shut off when her aether ran dry. Instead, it just got weird—glitching at the worst moments, feeding her half-truths and ghosts of things that weren’t really there.

Ren was watching her, brows drawn, like he’d also felt the moment slip away. “Are you really going to throw yourself away on him?”

Taly didn’t answer. Just looked up at the boy she might’ve loved, in a life untouched by magic, by war, by fate.

“You’re human, Taly. You’re nothing to him.”

But she shook her head. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know Skye. Didn’t know he was different. He didn’t know there was no longer a human left to love, just all these fragments of a person she was barely holding together.

Taly glanced at the bar. “We should probably split up. You go left. I’ll go right. Just in case.”

“Taly, I watched you drink enough to embalm a horse. I’d feel better walking you home. Or to a hospital.”

If only that was the problem. In reality, she was sobering up too fast. Damn Fey metabolism. “I’m going to skip over the part where you just admitted to being a creepy stalker.”

She lifted a finger, squinting in concentration, and just barely managed to tap her nose.

“ See? Stone cold—” She missed on the second try. “Like I was saying, mostly sober.”

Ren only narrowed his eyes.

“They water down the whiskey,” she offered as an explanation, nudging his shoulder as she pulled up her hood. “Thanks for the save, cousin .”

Ren swallowed, throat tight. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but all he managed was a hoarse, “Yeah.”

She ducked into the rain, jogging across the street. Hugging the wall, she kept her pace brisk. The glow of shop windows flashed in her peripheral vision.

Then a glint caught her eye. A reflection in the glass, warm and golden.

She turned before she could stop herself.

Firelight flickered in the window, pooling around a worn rug and a low table cluttered with half-finished things—a cup of tea gone cold, a book left open, a candle burning low in its dish.

A pair of boots rested near the door, carelessly kicked off, like their owner had meant to put them away but never did.

It was nothing. Just a home. A place that spoke of presence, of permanence, of a life left unattended because there was no need to guard it.

Rain soaked her, but Taly didn’t care. She stepped closer.

Ren sat by the fire, legs stretched out, a glass resting loose in his hand, his other arm draped over the back of the couch—over her, where she leaned against him, tucked beneath his shoulder like she had never known any other place to be.

The ring on her finger caught the firelight, a quiet, simple thing.

That was what made her stomach twist. Not Ren, not the ring, not the brush of his fingers against her arm— but the stillness of it. The quiet certainty of a life where she wasn’t running, wasn’t looking over her shoulder, wasn’t clawing for the next escape.

The liquor hadn’t worked. Death wouldn’t take her. And this life—the stillness, the warmth—it wasn’t hers to claim.

She pressed a hand to the glass, just once. Just to see if it would feel warm.

But all she felt was cold glass and rain.

The vision dissolved from the glass, replaced by the familiar shapes of the shop beyond the window.

She turned away. And this time, she didn’t look back.

Eventually, she reached the townhouse, boots heavy, skin frozen to the bone. She collapsed onto the bench in the coatroom, head hitting the wall. Just for a second. Just to rest her eyes.

But in the darkness, the grimble waited, eyes blazing.

White. Lifeless. Endless .

She jerked upright, heart pounding wildly.

Rising on unsteady legs, Taly stood. Each step through the silent house dragged heavier than the last.

She wasn’t sure if it was late, but it felt that way as she peeked into Ivain’s office. The curtains were drawn, and a fire roared merrily in the hearth.

Ivain sat quietly behind his desk, eyes darkening with concern as she sank into the chair across from him.

“I need a favor.” The words scraped out, rough and quiet—the first she’d spoken in hours.

Ivain’s gaze softened with understanding, even sadness. “I had a feeling you’d be by,” he said, reaching for a black leather folio on the edge of his desk as Taly rolled up her sleeve.