The knock at the mortuary's gate was soft—almost reverent. A second tap followed, then silence.
Zhada moved first, leaning by the window's edge with one hand on the hilt at her hip. "They're still out there."
Veylen didn't move from his place by the hearth. The fire crackled, casting him in a low amber glow. His eyes were distant, fingers slowly trailing the edge of the scroll now resealed and bound. "I know," he said. "They've been waiting."
Thae stood nearby, her expression unreadable. Her skin was mostly mended now—Veylen's bloodwork had done its job—but she still bore a quiet tension in her spine, like something was unfinished inside her. "So what now? Invite them in for tea?"
Zhada scoffed. "Tea with the people who tried to kill us in a forest? Sounds charming."
Veylen rose. "If they've come bearing light," he murmured, "let's see what burns."
He crossed to the door, unlatching the heavy lock with a cold metallic click.
The figures who stepped in were dressed in ceremonial silks and etched armor. One was clearly Fae—tall, luminous, with silver-gold hair threaded in braids and an iridescent gaze that flickered like water under starlight. The other bore the unmistakable weight of Nephilim blood: broad-shouldered, halo-scarred, with a blade sheathed at his back etched in divine runes.
"We come on behalf of the Alignment of the Light," the Fae said, voice smooth but almost too rehearsed. "We mean no harm."
"That's new," Zhada muttered under her breath.
Veylen folded his arms. "Strange how people never 'mean harm' until you're bleeding."
The Nephilim inclined his head. "We're here because the Red Choir has begun moving. We believe they seek to awaken Her—Lilith. And we believe you may be crucial in stopping it."
Thae shifted slightly behind Veylen. The words hung heavy in the air.
"We've read the sigils," the Fae continued. "The ones marked in the soil… and the ones in blood. Your name traces back through them."
Zhada's jaw tensed. "So what? You want him to play hero in your holy war?"
"We want to work together," said the Fae. "Our goals align."
Veylen's lips curled faintly. "Pompous. Polished. Smells like a trap."
Zhada smirked. "Told you."
The Nephilim didn't flinch. "We could have attacked you tonight. We didn't. We're here offering something else."
Veylen's gaze narrowed. "And yet… you did attack me. In the forest. One of your agents said I carried Her scent. That I was the mark."
Silence.
Then, the Fae said evenly, "And we now suspect that's precisely why you should stand with us."
Zhada stepped forward. "So, your logic is: 'If you smell like the enemy, we might as well recruit you'
"Enough." Thae finally spoke. Her voice cut cleanly through the tension. "You're not wrong to be cautious. But they're not wrong either."
Veylen turned slightly to glance at her, brow arching.
"If the Red Choir is moving to summon her," Thae went on, "we'll need more than grave dust and blood tricks. We need power. Reach. Allies." She looked at Veylen now, searching. "Isn't that what your grandfather wanted? To be prepared for what's coming?"
Veylen's face hardened. "My grandfather wanted me hidden. That's not the same thing."
A beat passed.
Then Zhada snorted. "I still don't like them."
"Neither do I," Veylen said, eyes flicking back to the visitors. "But I'll consider it. For now, you've delivered your message. See yourselves out."
The Nephilim opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.
As the two turned to leave, Zhada muttered, "Can you tell if they're lying?"
Veylen hesitated.
"Fae blood is… slippery," he said. "It folds over itself. Illusions, glamour, intention—it's not linear like ours. And Nephilim… theirs is too bright. You can't see the shadows."
"Then how do we trust them?" Thae asked.
"We don't," Veylen replied. "But we watch."
He closed the door slowly behind them, then whispered almost to himself:
"Let the light knock. It's the flame that tells the truth."
The mortuary was silent once more. Veylen closed the heavy doors behind the departing emissaries of the Aligned, fingers lingering on the iron handle as though to feel their aura fading.
He stood there for a long breath, then turned.
Zhada sat sprawled over the arm of a worn velvet chair, boots muddying the edge. Thae was perched on the staircase, legs tucked beneath her, arms crossed tight across her chest, her brow furrowed in thought. The energy between them was electric and brittle.
"They were pompous," Zhada said first, lips curled in distaste. "That one's hair was too shiny. What the hell are they using—starlight-infused sap?"
"They didn't seem dangerous," Thae muttered, not looking at her. "And they didn't lie."
Zhada scoffed. "They didn't tell the truth either. I hate people who dance around with half-answers like it's a game of celestial charades."
"You mean like you do?" Thae shot back, the corners of her mouth twitching upward with venom-laced sweetness.
Zhada leaned forward. "You wanna repeat that, Geometry Girl?"
"I said," Thae replied, slowly rising to her feet, "you talk a lot for someone who didn't even recognize the sigils carved into that tower. Maybe if you spent more time studying instead of flirting with shadows—"
"Oh, right, because staring at dusty scrolls and drawing glowing circles in the dirt is so helpful in a fight."
"I saved your life, remember?"
Veylen's voice cut through their escalating bickering like a scalpel. "Enough."
They both turned, quieting like students caught mid-fight in a sacred hall.
Veylen crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, the lamplight casting long shadows behind him. "You want to know what that tower was for? Who this 'Lilith' is they all seem terrified of?" He didn't wait for their answer. "Then listen."
He paced once before the hearth, then stopped.
"There are stories," he began. "Whispers too old for ink, too dangerous for books. The name Lilith appears in them all—each time, she's a little different. Sometimes a seductress. Sometimes a demon. Sometimes a goddess who refused to kneel."
Thae tilted her head. "So… myth?"
"Not to the things that bleed magic," Veylen said. "Not to those of us who feel it when something old stirs."
He faced the hearth, flames dancing low. "The legends say she was the first to take divine breath… but not the first to obey. That she was exiled not for sin, but for sovereignty. And when she left, she didn't just fall—she fell with purpose."
Zhada, quiet now, folded her arms. "So she's… what? A rogue goddess?"
"A force," Veylen corrected. "One that's been sealed three times. Each time, harder. Each time, costlier. She corrupts through desire—wants, fears, wounds you think you've buried." He turned to face them fully. "And every time she rises, she doesn't come alone. She has… vessels. Choirs. Blood-bound agents."
Zhada narrowed her eyes. "So the Red Choir…"
"Is just the beginning."
Thae took a step forward. "You think I could be a vessel?" Her voice faltered. "Because of what happened to me?"
Veylen met her gaze. "No. But they marked you for a reason."
Zhada looked over, more serious now. "Why do they care about you then, Bloodkeeper?"
Veylen didn't answer immediately. He stared into the fire, the flicker of it catching the edge of his eyes like molten gold.
"I don't know," he said softly. "But my name made them nervous. And the dead are starting to whisper."