Raevyn had finally found a semblance of comfort—a feat easier imagined than achieved—on her worn yellow futon. The cushions, lumpy from years of defiant loyalty, welcomed her like an old, slightly disgruntled friend. She wrapped the threadbare blanket around her like a burrito of antisocial defiance and sighed, her eyes already half-lidded.
Ten blissful years of retirement. Ten years of no patrols, no magical politics, no court drama. Ten years without seeing his face.
So of course, that's exactly when the knock came.
Soft. Almost apologetic. She ignored it.
Then another knock. Louder. Confident. The kind of knock that said, I know you're in there, and I'm charming enough to get away with it.
Followed by the voice she'd hoped was a hallucination:"I know you're in there, Rae. I brought peace offerings."
Her eyes rolled so hard they practically summoned a minor storm spirit.
She kicked the blanket off and dragged herself to the door, muttering spells under her breath that weren't strictly curses—but weren't exactly blessings either.
She threw the door open.
Leo stood there, somehow managing to look both effortlessly smug and inconveniently handsome. He hadn't changed much in ten years—still tall, still broad-shouldered, still wearing that cursed half-smile that made people want to slap him or kiss him, sometimes both. His auburn curls were pulled back into a loose knot, revealing the slight points of his ears. A faint shimmer of glamour dust clung to him like a signature scent.
In his hands: two large enchanted coffee cups, steaming with exactly the way she liked it. He remembered. Of course he did.
"I come in peace," he said, raising the coffee like a holy relic.
She punched him in the gut.
Not hard. Not too hard. Just enough to knock the wind out of him and remind him that showing up uninvited after ten years wasn't cute.
Leo doubled over slightly, somehow managing to keep the coffee upright. "Damn it, Rae—"
"You'll live," she said, snatching one of the cups. "Though I was hoping your abs had softened with age."
He straightened with a cough and a smirk. "Still solid. Want to check?"
She gave him a long, unimpressed look. "I'd rather swallow a banshee's shriek. But thanks."
He leaned against the doorway, casual as ever. "You look good. Still dangerous."
"You look like a mistake I've already made."
Leo laughed—gods, that laugh, like wind through gold leaves—and for half a second, it made her chest ache in that annoying, traitorous way.
"Can I come in?"
Raevyn sipped the coffee. "Only because the wards recognize your aura and I'm too tired to reset them."
She stepped aside.
Ten years retired. Ten years without him. And now Leo, the Fae male who had once held her heart and shattered it like a glass curse, was standing in her living room with coffee, memories, and that damn smile.
This could only end well.
Leo wandered in like he owned the place—like ten years of silence and a few hundred miles of buried history didn't weigh the air down between them. He barely spared a glance at the chaos of Raevyn's living room: open books scrawled with ink glyphs, dried herbs crumbling onto the floor, and spell dust still smoking faintly in a cracked saucer.
"Still charming in a borderline feral way," he said, collapsing into her favorite armchair—the one she'd spelled to repel pests, bad vibes, and him. Clearly the wards were slacking.
Raevyn didn't bother to rise from her futon. She shifted, letting the yellowed fabric groan under her weight. Her gaze was half-lidded, bored. Dangerous.
"Still alive," she drawled. "Impressive. Disappointing, but impressive."
Leo held up a peace offering in the form of a coffee cup. The logo—a half-moon etched in gold—made her brows twitch. It was from that Fae-run shop she pretended to hate. Extra foam. Extra cinnamon. Her usual.
She snatched it without ceremony. "Bribery, Leo? Really? That your idea of foreplay now?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It was that or a fruit basket."
"Fruit wouldn't have gotten you through the door."
"I know."
There was a beat. The hum of the room shifted, turning taut as Leo reached into the inside pocket of his coat and drew out a folded parchment. The seal was thick black wax, etched with a symbol that shimmered in and out of visible space. Voidmarked.
Ancient. Corrupt. Alive.
Raevyn didn't reach for it.
"Three children," he said. "Three separate districts. Ten days."
She tensed, the joke evaporating from her posture.
Leo set the parchment gently on her table. The wax pulsed.
"They weren't just murdered. They were used."
Her voice was cold. "Used how."
He met her eyes. "To open something."
She didn't speak. Didn't blink.
"We think—"
She cut him off. "Don't say you think. You came here. You know."
He nodded. "We know. The last body was arranged in a glyph—ancient Fae-Void hybrid. Carved with precision. Fresh blood anchoring old magic. It wasn't random. It was ritual."
Raevyn rose slowly. The futon hissed beneath her. She padded barefoot across the room, past the dusty tomes and closed spell jars, to the case she hadn't opened in a decade. Her fingers hovered over the latch.
"I'm retired."
"You're needed."
"And I'm done."
Leo stepped forward, voice softer now. "You're the only one who ever understood Voidcraft without letting it unmake you. We need you, Rae. Not for the Court. Not for me. For them. Before this doorway opens wide enough to swallow everything."
She turned, eyes flashing. "Don't act like you remember who I am. You left that to rot a long time ago."
He didn't flinch. "You're still the only one I'd come to."
The silence between them stretched, thick with unsaid things.
Then Raevyn flipped the latch. The case opened with a soft groan.
She stared at the contents for a breath too long, the flicker of something old and reluctant surfacing in her eyes. But when she turned, the mask was already back in place.
"One look," she said, voice smooth with calculated disinterest. "Then you get out."
Leo smiled, but it was faint. Fragile. "So just like old times?"
She shot him a glare. "Say that again and I'll voidstep your lungs into the walls."
His hands went up in surrender. "Understood."
And somewhere—beneath the city, beneath the wards, beneath the bones of children who never got to grow up—something was watching. Waiting.