Halvren did not believe he was doing anything wrong.
That was the most dangerous part.
He stood at the balcony of his estate, hands clasped behind his back, staring out over a city that had begun to whisper his name again. Not kindly. Not yet reverently. But loudly enough that he could feel it.
He had almost lost everything.
Almost.
Varros had maneuvered him into ridicule. The Duchess had frozen him out. The council had begun to look at him with the same polite distance reserved for men whose usefulness was expiring.
And yet—
Something had shifted.
Influence crept back in subtle ways. Doors reopened. Invitations arrived that had no sender attached. It felt like momentum returning.
Halvren smiled thinly.
"They're afraid again," he murmured.
Behind him, a shadow leaned comfortably against the wall.
"You wanted to be important," Caelum said pleasantly. "Fear is a very efficient shortcut."
Halvren turned, startled—but relief washed over him when he saw the angel.
"You," Halvren said, straightening. "Good. I need—"
Caelum raised a finger.
"I am not here to assist," he said. "I am here to observe how you use what you asked for."
Halvren frowned. "You said—"
"I said your desire would be acknowledged," Caelum corrected. "Not that it would be kind."
Halvren waved the concern away. "Results matter. And I intend to secure my position fully this time."
Caelum tilted his head. "How?"
Halvren's smile sharpened.
"There's a woman," he said. "One of the troublemakers. Close to the boy. Close to the Duchess's interests. If she's… contained, the others will follow."
Caelum's expression did not change.
"You mean abducted."
Halvren hesitated. "Temporarily restrained."
Caelum nodded once. "I see."
"And after that," Halvren continued, emboldened, "I'll have leverage. Authority. No one will question my relevance again."
Caelum watched him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
"Oh," he said softly. "You want to matter so badly."
Halvren felt a thrill run through him. "You understand."
"Yes," Caelum replied. "Perfectly."
The wish twisted—not loudly, not violently, but precisely.
---
Liora had stepped away because she couldn't breathe.
The city was too loud. Too heavy. Everyone looked at her like she was either dangerous or expendable, and she was tired of being neither seen nor safe.
She didn't notice the men until it was too late.
They didn't grab her at first. They closed off the street instead. Quiet. Efficient. Halvren's men—professionals, not brutes.
"Come with us," one said calmly. "No one needs to get hurt."
Liora's heart hammered. Light sparked instinctively around her hands—
—and failed.
A pressure wrapped around her chest, not magic, not binding. Authority.
She staggered.
"What did you do?" she demanded.
The man smiled apologetically. "Orders."
Then the world screamed.
Not audibly.
Conceptually.
Every man froze as if their thoughts had been yanked out mid-breath.
Caelum stood behind them.
This time, he did not hide his wings.
They unfurled slowly, pale and vast, brushing the air like something remembering how to be terrible.
"You touched her," Caelum said, voice low.
The men tried to speak.
Their mouths opened.
Nothing came out.
Caelum turned to Liora—and for a heartbeat, the mask cracked.
"You should not have been made a target," he said quietly.
Her vision swam. "You… know me."
He closed his eyes.
"Yes."
Then he turned back to the men.
"You were sent by a man who wished to matter," Caelum said. "Who wanted authority without responsibility."
He lifted one hand.
"I grant you that authority now."
The men collapsed—not unconscious, but aware.
Suddenly they understood every consequence of their actions. Every political chain. Every implication. Every life they would ruin by obeying.
They screamed then.
Caelum's gaze sharpened.
"You will live," he said. "And you will serve."
The men stiffened, eyes wide.
"You will be recognized," Caelum continued, voice echoing strangely. "Your names will surface in every inquiry. Every abuse will lead back to you."
He lowered his hand.
"You wanted importance," he said coldly. "Now you will be central."
The pressure vanished.
The men ran.
Liora dropped to her knees, shaking.
Caelum knelt beside her—not touching.
"Listen to me," he said carefully. "What happens next is not your fault."
She looked up. "Why did you help me?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because once," he said, "someone like you was punished for doing the right thing."
Her chest ached. "Who?"
Caelum stood.
"For tonight," he said, "that knowledge would hurt you more than the attack."
And then he was gone.
---
Halvren felt the wish complete hours later.
Not as triumph.
As exposure.
Reports flooded in. Names surfaced. Allies distanced themselves. His operatives were suddenly too visible. Investigations opened—not led by the Duchess, but by factions eager to offer her proof.
Halvren raged.
"This is sabotage!" he shouted.
But the more he protested, the more important he became.
Exactly as he'd wished.
---
Aiden sat on the steps of a crowded square, breathing hard.
"That was close," he muttered.
Seris crouched beside him, grounding him with a steady presence. "You didn't react."
"I wanted to," Aiden admitted. "Everything in me was screaming to do something."
"But you didn't," Seris said gently. "You helped people instead."
Aiden nodded shakily. "It worked. A little."
Inkaris watched the crowd with sharp eyes.
"This was inevitable," he said quietly. "The city is bleeding desire. Someone was going to try to use it."
Aiden swallowed. "And Caelum?"
Inkaris exhaled. "Caelum does not punish out of justice."
Seris frowned. "Then why intervene?"
Inkaris looked toward the alley where Liora had been attacked.
"Because some lines," he said slowly, "are personal."
Aiden's chest tightened. "Is this going to get worse?"
Inkaris didn't lie.
"Yes," he said. "But now we know the shape of it."
Aiden looked up at the city skyline, where lights flickered uncertainly.
"I don't want to be interesting," he whispered.
Inkaris rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Then keep doing what you did tonight," he said. "Be necessary instead."
Far above them, unseen, Caelum folded his wings.
The game had changed.
Not because someone had won.
But because someone had finally crossed a line that mattered.
And ruin, once personal, is never gentle again.