Scene 1 — The Den
"So what do you want to drink, kid? Juice or water?"
I tore my focus off the nearby fighting before my body decided it was my business.
A bottle burst against somebody's cheekbone and the sound was sharp enough to cut through the music—then it wasn't. Like the noise had two versions: one that hit my ears, and another that slid under my skull where the memories lived.
On the surface, the bar fight was just chaos.
Underneath, my mind tried to label it as something older. Familiar.
The stage lights stayed warm and gold, painting the singers like gods. Their velvet voices never stopped, never broke. Beautiful women in flowing fabric moved like they'd rehearsed ignoring violence the way soldiers rehearse ignoring screams.
But every time I blinked, the room shifted.
For half a breath I'd see the same stage… except it wasn't a stage. It was a raised platform in a different hall—stone columns, smoke braziers, serpent carvings in the arches. The song was the same melody, but older. The language changed mid-note.
Then my eyes snapped back and the bar fight was real again. Modern wood. Modern glass. Modern laughter.
Two levels.
One happening in front of me.
One happening behind my eyes.
"Juice is fine," I said, holding my voice steady like Dad drilled into me. "So who all gathers here?"
The bartender I'd been stationed with—my assigned babysitter while Dad handled his meeting—didn't hesitate. Scarred knuckles. Sleeves rolled up. His gaze too measured for someone who served drinks in a snake pit.
He poured and slid the glass to me like he'd already decided I wasn't prey.
"The normal sort," he said. "Kingsmen. Outlaws. Bandits. Even the dark organizations. They come to trade."
I took a sip.
Sweet. Clean.
Wrong for this place.
And for a second the sweetness doubled—like my tongue remembered a different drink: bitter herb wine, warm spice, the taste of old coins and blood vows. My stomach tightened and I forced myself not to react.
"Trade?" I asked. "Information, goods, slaves… taboo relics?"
His eyebrow raised.
Behind me, the sound dipped—not fully, but enough. Like the room collectively pretended it hadn't heard the word slaves.
The memory-layer tried to fill in the gap: a different crowd going quiet, not out of offense—out of calculation. Like the word had weight in contracts.
"Depends on who's asking for what," the bartender said. "Notice how it gets quieter in here? This is a den of snakes. Everyone's here for their own reasons."
His eyes flicked over me—fast and sharp, like he was checking for a tail.
"Even you, little snake."
I glanced back.
In the real room, men laughed too loud at tables, pretending they were safe because they had numbers. In the memory-room, those same tables were carved stone, and the laughter was quieter—controlled—like everyone had learned not to show teeth unless necessary.
My memories weren't spiraling today.
They were explaining.
"Yes," I said, returning my attention to the bartender. "So information is the main trade here."
I paused, choosing words like stepping around a trap.
"Can I request information about the Golden Crow clan?"
That landed harder than it should've.
Not fear—interest. Like I'd just spoken a name that drew threads.
"Specifically," I added, "its former leader."
The bartender's eyes didn't widen. He didn't flinch. But his attention sharpened the way a blade sharpens.
He glanced around—quick, practiced—measuring who might be listening.
Then the room's background noise restarted like people collectively remembered to breathe.
"Quite the hefty request," he said. "What do you have to trade?"
I tapped my finger twice against the counter.
Dad would call this reckless.
So I did it anyway.
"Shadow wolf cores," I said. "Most at ninth rank. The alpha at eighth."
I willed my ring open.
The cores slid out with a soft clink—dark, dense, carrying the cold pressure of predators that had died unwilling. The air around them felt heavier for a moment, like the Den itself acknowledged value.
The bartender's gaze dipped, calculating.
"I'll accept them," he said finally, "because you're a kid… and because of who your father is."
Then he leaned closer.
"In the future, your best offers will be information equal to what you're asking for."
He reached under the counter and placed something flat and black in front of me.
A card.
Serpent sigil stamped into it—ouroboros style, biting its own tail. The material wasn't paper. It felt like lacquered scale.
"I'll throw in a membership card," he said. "You'll be our youngest member. Master's going to be pissed once she finds out—so tell your dad. Let him protect it."
I slid it into my pocket without smiling.
Around me, I felt the stares change.
Not open hostility.
Inventory stares. Like people were deciding whether I was a rumor, a weapon, or a future problem.
The bartender disappeared behind a curtain.
Then he poked his head back through.
"This way," he said. "I forgot to tell you—trades are conducted in the back."
His tone hardened.
"That way we don't deal with blowback. Especially you. I don't want my branch uprooted because you caused a shit storm tied to Tenebris."
The name hit the room like a seal.
A couple people went still. A few pairs of eyes suddenly looked away too fast. Like prey realizing the shadow above them wasn't a cloud.
I kept my mouth shut like Dad taught me.
And I realized the bartender hadn't spoken Tenebris's name casually.
He used it like a shield.
Scene 2 — Sydney's Office
"I should kill you!"
A chair flew.
I ducked and felt the wind of it cut past my head before it shattered against the wall hard enough to rattle the wards.
Sydney stood behind her desk like fury was her natural state. The barrier she threw up sealed the office tight—her own layer stacked over the organization's enchantments. Nothing in this room would leak outside.
Tenebris stood in front of her like her anger was weather.
"Calm down, Sydney," he said. "There's nothing I can do about it. I told you long ago why it wouldn't work out."
He started talking.
And then—like an idiot—he put his foot in his mouth.
"You know I wouldn't come back to this side of the continent unless I need to. I was living constantly wit—"
A book flew this time.
Hardcover. Thick. The kind that could crack a skull.
Tenebris shifted just enough to avoid it.
"Say her name," Sydney hissed, "and I'll really chop your balls off."
Her voice shook—rage and something else tangled together.
"You dropped all of this for what? To end up looking after a brat that isn't yours!"
Tenebris's smile thinned.
"That's not what I meant," he said, voice flattening. "This isn't about Rye or Elizabeth."
He glanced at me—just once—acknowledging I was present without softening his words.
"Ras doesn't belong here," he continued, "but he's already stuck here. All I'm asking is for you to aid your sister in the future. She agreed to taking over my projects."
Sydney's jaw tightened.
Tenebris exhaled like the truth tasted bitter.
"My time is running out," he said. "The more headaches I deal with while traveling to get things in order… the more time I bleed."
He lowered his voice.
"So please—let it go."
He touched one of the rings in his white braids.
Not decoration.
A warning.
"She's an echo," he said. "Finds me whether I move or not. These rings aren't decorations."
Sydney turned away from the desk like looking at him too long would make her break.
"I should hang you by your balls until you die," she said, voice rough. "Just go and die already."
Tenebris didn't argue.
He placed a pendant—his personal crest—on the desk and stepped back.
For a moment, the room went quiet.
Not peaceful.
Final.
He waved once—casual, like leaving an inn.
Then stopped at the door and looked at me.
"Dex," he said, "where I'm going is more haunting than where those idiots cry for forgiveness."
His mouth twitched.
"But yes—it'll be a good hunt once I chase down my slippery prey."
He patted my shoulder, grip solid.
"Make sure you use my techniques well. You aren't one of my students… but you can be considered an informal member of my school of Suns."
He stepped out.
"Happy hunting, my boy."
The door shut.
A second later, glass shattered against the wall as Sydney finally let the emotion slip.
I didn't look at her face.
I simply recast the barrier stronger for her—strong enough that even her grief couldn't leak into the hallway.
Then I left.
Scene 3 — Road Night (Anchor)
"You know, Dad… I miss the mountain sometimes."
The words slipped out while we raced through the night like roads were decorations.
Tenebris drove with one hand on the wheel, posture too relaxed for someone who could kill cities if he got bored. Streetlights smeared across the windshield like lines of paint.
"It's fun being out here," I continued, staring out the window. "Making friends. Seeing things."
My throat tightened.
"But the memories make some things fuzzy. Like two things happening at once."
I rubbed my temple.
"Now I can only remember my memories as the ones growing up at home with you."
Tenebris reached over from the driver seat and rested a heavy hand on my head.
"Good," he said. "Then I did a decent job."
His voice softened just enough to be dangerous.
"Use those as your anchor until you find one," he said. "Those memories are useful like a guide—but not to live through."
He glanced at me.
"But sometimes you must confront them in your own way."
I swallowed.
"If the information hub's environment made the process easier to digest," he continued, "we'll go to a couple more."
I looked down at the membership card in my pocket without pulling it out.
"You have a VIP card now," he added casually, "since Dex's baby brother likes to piss off Sydney."
He snorted.
"Bad luck for him. You benefited. I'll give you stuff to trade."
I nodded, letting the meaning settle.
This road trip had been wonderful.
But the mountain was home.
And every birthday the memories got louder—like someone was turning a knob, daring me to crack.
I watched the dark horizon.
Trying not to remember.
Trying anyway.