The flophouse felt emptier now, the air heavier with the absence of those who’d once filled its sagging walls. The cots lay half-abandoned, blankets twisted like discarded skins, and the men who remained moved as little as corpses. The place smelled of mold, rot, and the slow decay of hope.

  Shale sat on his mat in the corner, staring at the cracked wall before him. His eyes traced the same jagged line over and over again, as though the stone might split wider and swallow him whole. In the far corner, where Hawthorn’s cot used to be, the impression of his body still lingered in the flattened straw. Shale couldn’t bring himself to look there for long.

  His hand drifted toward the dagger at his belt. Just a brush of his fingers against the hilt. The thought of slipping the blade between his ribs brought a flicker of peace—but only for a moment. Cowardice or survival, he didn’t know which pulled his hand away.

  Better to drown.

  He scraped together the last of his karmata. Enough for a few drinks. Maybe enough to drink himself to death. A quieter end.

  The tavern was tucked into the bones of the city, its wooden sign hanging crooked, swaying like a gallows rope in the breeze. Inside, the walls sweated with the heat of too many bodies crammed too close, the air thick with stale ale and hopelessness. Faded eagle banners drooped from the rafters like wilted leaves.

  No laughter. Just the clink of mugs and muttered curses.

  Shale threw his karmata on the counter, his voice rough. “Strongest you’ve got.”

  The bartender turned, and Shale’s gaze locked on her. A maenad. Catlike grace, fur dusted with alchemical stains, ears flicking beneath a mop of tangled black curls. Her white pupils on blue sclera slitted like a predator’s, but there was a weariness beneath the sharpness.

  Maenads didn’t belong in cities. They drifted through forests, their hearts beating to wild rhythms, not hemmed in by stone and smoke.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Curiosity stirred against the numbness. “Didn’t expect to see one of your kind here,” Shale muttered, lifting his cup.

  The maenad shrugged, wiping the counter with a stained cloth. “Same as anyone else. Trying to drink away the things I can’t forget. Never works, though.”

  Her voice was smooth, edged with something bitter.

  “Name’s Ariana,” she added.

  Shale nodded slowly. “Shale.”

  He studied her between sips. Pretty, even with the alien sharpness to her features. The slitted pupils, the flick of her tail, the gleam of her teeth when she smiled. Pretty, but not safe.

  “You’d think,” she continued, eyes scanning the dim room, “we’d be better than this. My people, I mean. We could build something. Anything. But when you’re born immune to poison, able to eat grass and bark and whatever the forest throws at you, what’s the point of working? The world’s a buffet for us. That’s probably why nobody lets us work either. Tavern owners too worried we’d eat the tables.”

  She smirked, tapping the counter with one clawed finger. “But I showed restraint. I always had more sense than most.”

  Shale raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you? Work at something better, I mean.”

  Ariana snorted, pouring another drink. “Because we’re dreamers by our very nature. Lazy, immature fools, chasing the next thrill. We burn bright and fast, then we’re gone. That’s the way of my people.”

  She leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “I stayed here. Figured if I was gonna drink myself blind, might as well make a living from it.”

  Behind her, rows of alchemical flasks and herbs lined the shelves, glinting faintly in the low light. Strange powders, colored liquids—things she could spike a drink with to numb the edges of memory.

  Shale lifted his cup. “Maybe you’ve got the right idea.”

  Ariana’s grin was lopsided. “It’s all rot in the end.”

  They sat in silence, two broken things drifting toward the same cliff.

  Shale barely noticed the weight of the drink as it pooled in his gut, his mind slipping further into haze.

  Until the blast shook the tavern walls.

  The floor shuddered beneath his boots. Glasses rattled on the shelves. Dust drifted down from the rafters, and for a moment, the room froze.

  Raised voices spilled from outside—panic, shouts, the electric hum of fear.

  Shale’s instincts flared. He pushed back from the counter, staggered by the drink but steadied by reflex. Soldier’s reflex.

  Ariana didn’t move. She leaned on the bar, unflinching, as though the blast were just another song in the city’s endless refrain.

  “Another riot,” she muttered. “Or has the empire finally fallen?”

  Shale turned toward the door, hesitating. His hand hovered over the handle.

  Ariana’s voice followed him, soft but biting. “Let the city burn. What do you owe it?”

  Shale’s jaw clenched, the fog of drink warring with the pull of duty—or guilt. Maybe both.

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