Ashfall's morning is a wet bruise — rain that doesn't clean the streets, just spreads the filth thinner.
---
Detective Iris Calder stands in the squad bullpen under harsh fluorescent lights, half-listening to the police radio spit static. Navarro sits on her desk, boots muddy, grinning like a kid who snuck backstage at a crime scene.
"So this 'Raven' thing — you think it's real?" Navarro asks, spinning her pen between his fingers.
Iris doesn't look up from the evidence printouts — grainy photos of scorched brick, black feathers, a charred child's shoe she wishes she could unsee. "I think we've got half the Flock torching blocks to send a message, and some myth with knives for wings taking their heads off in alleys. 'Real' doesn't matter. People believe it."
Navarro shrugs, taps the TV bolted in the corner. "Ironhaven's on fire again. Riot cops. Protesters. This 'Scourge' guy sliced up two more cartel lieutenants. Mayor's crawling under his desk."
Iris's eyes flick to the crawl at the bottom of the screen: EAST DOCKS MASSACRE COLD CASE REOPENED. A swarm of umbrellas and riot shields blurs behind the anchor's too-perfect smile.
She grinds her teeth. Another city bleeding from the same vein. She flips the page — half-burned warehouse blueprints. The fire didn't kill the Flock's message — it broadcast it.
Navarro pushes himself off her desk as a new voice barks through the bullpen — Captain Hugo Voss, suit jacket strained over thick shoulders, skin red with the promise of a heart attack he refuses to die from.
"Calder! Navarro! My office — now!"
---
Voss's office is a tomb of stale coffee, half-done commendation plaques, and half-torn Umbra memos he pretends not to notice on his desk.
He points at the crime scene board — black feathers pinned beside arson maps. "I'm hearing you two want to chase fairy tales instead of real cases."
Navarro grins, opens his mouth. Voss cuts him off with a finger jab. "Shut it, Eli. Calder — you got kids, right? Husband at the Feds? Do you want them buried under whatever this 'Raven' or these psychos leave behind?"
Iris's jaw tenses. "Sir — these fires, the Flock, the rumors — they're connected. If we—"
Voss slams his palm on the desk. "You wanna know what's connected? The commissioner's phone in my ear at 2 AM, Umbra's lawyers sniffing our budget, and half this city ready to tear itself apart because you keep feeding ghost stories to the press!"
Navarro shifts beside her, eyes down. Voss leans in, voice dropping to a growl: "You do your damn job. You get me names, evidence, real firebugs I can drag into court. Leave the feathered bogeyman to the freaks in Ironhaven. Clear?"
Iris nods stiffly. "Clear, sir."
Voss flings a file at Navarro's chest. "Good. Now get the hell out before I bury both your pensions in my desk drawer."
---
Back at the morgue, Selene's gloved hands slide a new corpse into the drawer. Burn victim — no ID yet. Another message for someone too slow to read it.
She feels him before she hears him — Damian Holt, leaning on the doorframe with two cardboard cups and a crooked grin.
"You look like you haven't blinked since Tuesday."
Selene doesn't glance up. "Busy week."
He crosses to her table, sets down a cheap pastry bag. "Chocolate croissant. Sugar's good for nightmares. And coffee. Black, no poison."
Selene slides the drawer shut. "I don't eat sweets."
"Yeah, you keep telling me that. One day I'll find your weakness." His smile is so soft, so stupid — like he thinks the walls here are normal walls, not a cage where she hides claws and feathers in floorboards.
"Need anything, Holt?"
He shrugs, picks at the coffee lid. "Just checking samples. Umbra's been shipping weird tissue again. Thought maybe you'd seen something… strange."
Selene wipes down her scalpel. "Everything's strange if you look close enough."
In the corner, the breakroom TV burps static before the anchor cuts in — "Ironhaven's East Docks Massacre cold case reopens today amid protests outside City Hall. Meanwhile, Ashfall Council convenes tonight to address rumors of a vigilante killer known as the Black Raven…"
Damian smirks at the screen. "Ironhaven's got its monster. Maybe we needed one too."
Selene's eyes flick to the TV. In her pocket, her burner phone buzzes — Micah's code: MINOTAUR MOVING. WITNESS IN LAB. TONIGHT.
She nods once, tight. "Lock the door when you leave, Holt."
He raises the cup in salute, oblivious. "Try the croissant. For me."
She's gone before the door clicks shut.
---
In their kitchen, Iris watches Nathan shovel papers into his briefcase between sips of burnt coffee. He doesn't see her eyes narrow when she catches the edge of a sealed envelope — Umbra letterhead — half-hidden under his files.
"You working late again?" she asks.
He flashes that tired grin — the one that once made her forgive everything. "Feds want me to babysit the lab contractors. Nothing major."
He kisses her cheek. The warmth doesn't reach her bones anymore.
---
Far across Dockside, King Crow stands behind thick glass smeared with Moloch Horn's breath. The Bull King's shoulders bulge with stitched muscle and chemical rage.
Crow taps the glass. "Ready to stretch your legs, beast?"
A deep snort. Metal cuffs squeal.
Outside the lab gates, Selene watches through a cracked visor — a feathered silhouette crouched on rusted girders, a talon blade twirling slowly in her gloved palm.
Tonight, the chain breaks.
---
END OF CHAPTER FOUR