The sun had long since dipped beyond Abranta's skyline, but the light of the fires still lingered, caught in the haze that hung over the city like smoke trapped in glass. The Night Owl Café, tucked away in a quiet crook between two winding alleys, had become their shelter for now. Inside, it was dim and still, filled with the low clink of ceramic, the ticking of the old wall clock, and the tension of too many thoughts left unspoken.
Nachtan sat in the farthest corner of the café, pressed against the wall, head bowed. His tea sat untouched, gone cold in front of him.
Across from him, Nola sat stiff-backed, her hands curled around a mug that still let off a faint, comforting steam beneath the amber glow of the overhead light. Her gaze kept drifting toward him—watchful, worried. He could feel it, like a weight pressing between his shoulder blades.
He didn't meet her eyes. Not because he was upset. But because something inside him felt off.
His fingers curled tighter around the ceramic. The colors of the room had started to fade at the edges, like warmth was slowly bleeding out of the world. Earlier, when he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror behind the counter, he saw it—just for a breath. His eyes—once that strange swirl of sea-glass green and deep blue—were paling, draining of color. Of life.
He blinked hard and stared into the tea again, hoping Nola would look away.
She didn't.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice light and deliberate. Nola always spoke like she was putting puzzle pieces together—careful not to break anything.
"Fine," he said, too quickly. "Just tired."
"You haven't looked at anyone since we got here."
"I just don't feel like talking."
She gave a small nod, but it didn't reach her eyes. She didn't believe him. He didn't either.
At the counter, Ronan was murmuring with Varric and Lorian—the café's owners, dressed in quiet comfort and timeworn familiarity. Varric leaned against the bar, rubbing the back of his neck, while Lorian stood with arms crossed, his brow creased deep.
Elora sat beside them, her hair slightly undone, the lines at the corners of her eyes more pronounced than earlier. She hadn't said much since they arrived—just ushered the siblings inside, locked the doors, and asked for privacy. Now, she leaned on one elbow, fingers tapping a slow, uneven rhythm on the worn tabletop.
"The city's only going to get louder," Varric said. "Fear like that doesn't just vanish with daylight."
"I know," Elora murmured.
"They're just kids, El," Lorian said, his tone softer. "But people don't think straight right now. They see fire, and they want something to burn."
"I'm aware."
She hadn't told the children yet, but she could feel it already—friends keeping their distance, meetings quietly canceled, neighbors pulling their shutters closed just a bit faster than usual. The Amaranthe name was being whispered again—in all the wrong places.
"I could move them through the lower tunnels," Varric offered. "Not far, but maybe far enough."
"Too risky. Every exit's being watched."
"There's... that place," Lorian said slowly, casting her a look.
Elora blinked.
Then remembered.
A place they'd spoken of in passing—outside the reach of the city, untouched by its politics. Strange people. Strange customs. Forgotten. She hadn't thought about it in years.
Her lips parted slightly as the thought sparked to life.
Then—three sharp knocks on the side door.
She stiffened.
Varric exchanged a glance with her, then cracked the door, whispering to someone outside. When he turned back, his expression was tight. "It's one of those stupid mainheads. Nexurian officials. They want a word. Just you."
Elora stood.
"Keep an eye on them," she told the brothers, nodding toward the children.
The door clicked shut behind her.
In the narrow back room, two minor officials waited beneath the glow of a hanging lantern. Both wore Nexurian silk, their insignias dulled with age. One adjusted his cuffs; the other pressed his lips together in a practiced, diplomatic line.
"We understand this is... delicate," one began. "Truly. You've done a great deal for Nexuria. But the Council of Nine will expect... answers. The public's mood is unpredictable."
Elora said nothing.
They shifted.
"We suggest a gesture of good faith," the second said. "Transparency. Voluntary cooperation. A formal detainment—brief—for questioning. Let the courts see the children have nothing to hide. It helps us shape the story."
She stared at them. For too long.
Then: "You want me to hand over my children. For the sake of optics."
They didn't reply.
She turned and walked out.
Back in the café, the tension had thickened like smoke.
Amelia sat perched on the windowsill, fingers twitching with restless energy. Gavin paced. Leo traced quiet runes into the condensation on his glass, lost in thought. Ronan hadn't said a word.
Nachtan still hadn't looked up.
Elora re-entered, her face unreadable. She opened her mouth to speak—
The café door creaked.
Everyone froze.
Two figures stepped through.
The first was tall and narrow, cloaked in a long coat of silver-gray that shimmered like steel under moonlight. His expression was calm, empty in a way that made people uneasy. His name traveled in whispers: Lucan Krail.
The second was a woman.
Skin like burnished copper. Hair short, bronze, brushed back from a sharp face. Eyes like volcanic glass—still and deep. She moved like someone accustomed to crossing shattered ground and leaving no trace behind. She carried no weapon. She didn't need one.
Her smile was faint, polite. And unsettling.
"Evening," she said. "Sorry to barge in."
Elora stepped forward. "Arbitrum Corps."
The woman nodded. "Solène Vael. My partner, Agent Krail who you already knew I suppose. We're here to speak with you."
No one moved.
The air held its breath.
Agent Vael tilted her head. "May we come in?"
No one answered.
But they already had.