The letter arrived in the morning post, its heavy cream envelope sealed with red wax and the crest of the Mage's Association pressed deep into it. Rin Tohsaka stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. The weight of the paper was wrong for anything casual. This was formal. Official. Dangerous.
She broke the seal with a fingernail, sliding the folded parchment free. The script was elegant, the words precise: Lord El‑Melloi II's office requests an audience to discuss recent magical disturbances in Fuyuki. An envoy will arrive within the day.
Rin's jaw tightened. "Magical disturbances." That was their polite way of saying the Steel‑Eyed Raven just turned half the Matou district into a crater and we think you know something about it.
She set the letter down and exhaled slowly. She'd been expecting this. Ever since the missile strike, the Association had been sniffing around Japan, and Fuyuki was too small a stage to hide on for long. Still, she'd hoped they'd take longer to get here.
By the time the knock came at her door that afternoon, she'd already brewed tea, set out the good porcelain, and rehearsed her answers.
The man who stepped inside was tall, thin, and dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored in London. His hair was slicked back, his eyes sharp and assessing. He introduced himself simply as "Mr. Harcourt," a representative of Lord El‑Melloi II.
"Miss Tohsaka," he said, inclining his head. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."
"Of course," Rin replied smoothly, gesturing toward the low table. "Tea?"
They sat. Harcourt accepted his cup but didn't drink. His gaze wandered over the room, noting the wards etched into the woodwork, the faint hum of bounded fields. When his eyes returned to hers, they were cool and unreadable.
"It's curious, isn't it?" he said at last. "A modern magus capable of such… spectacle. The Association is very interested in him."
Rin sipped her tea, keeping her expression neutral. "Spectacle is for the stage. Whoever this Raven is, he's reckless. That's not my style."
"No," Harcourt agreed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I suppose it isn't."
They danced around the subject for a while, Harcourt asking about "recent disturbances" and Rin deflecting with vague references to "local anomalies" and "mundane interference." He was good — never outright accusing, never giving her anything to push back against — but she was better. Years of dealing with both magi and high school gossip had honed her ability to say nothing in a way that sounded like something.
Still, she could feel the pressure mounting. The Association had been monitoring her correspondence, her movements. If Shirou slipped up abroad, if he was spotted in that armor again, they'd connect the dots. And when they did, they wouldn't just come for him.
When Harcourt finally rose to leave, he paused at the door. "If you hear anything, Miss Tohsaka — anything at all — I trust you'll inform us."
"Of course," Rin said, smiling politely. "We all want the same thing, don't we? Stability."
His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer, then he nodded and stepped out into the fading light.
The moment the door closed, Rin let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She crossed the room to her desk, pulling open a hidden drawer. Inside was a single envelope, its paper rough, its seal unmarked. She'd received it two weeks ago, delivered by a courier who hadn't given his name.
She hadn't opened it. Not yet. She told herself it was because she didn't want to risk whatever was inside falling into the wrong hands. But the truth was, she wasn't sure she wanted to read it. Not when the man who'd sent it had just made himself the most wanted figure in Japan.
She closed the drawer and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. "Idiot," she muttered. "Absolute idiot."
That night, she walked through the city, her coat pulled tight against the chill. Fuyuki felt different now. There were more uniforms on the streets, more checkpoints. Posters with the Raven's image stared down from walls and bus stops. People whispered about him in shop queues and izakayas — some calling him a hero, others a monster.
She passed a group of teenagers clustered around a phone, watching grainy footage of the missile strike. One of them laughed. "He's like Batman, but scarier."
Rin kept walking.
The next day, she visited Kotomine at the church. The priest greeted her with his usual infuriating calm, offering tea as if nothing in the world had changed.
"You've heard, I assume," she said, not bothering to sit.
"About the Raven?" Kotomine's smile was thin. "It's hard not to. He's quite the topic of conversation."
"You know who he is," Rin said flatly.
Kotomine's eyes gleamed. "Do I?"
She stepped closer. "If the Association finds out, they'll come for both of us."
"Then perhaps," Kotomine said, sipping his tea, "you should make sure they don't."
Rin stared at him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and left. She hated that he was right.
That evening, she sat at her desk again, the hidden drawer open. Her fingers hovered over the envelope. Finally, she broke the seal.
The letter inside was short, written in a hand she recognized instantly.
Don't trust anyone. Not the Association. Not the Church. Not even me. I'll be back before the year's out. Until then, keep your head down.
No signature. None needed.
Rin folded the letter and slipped it back into the drawer. She closed it gently, then sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the city outside — the hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, and somewhere, faintly, the echo of a storm that had changed everything.