Corvian, 3181,
--------------------------------------------------------
The pounding on the door grew sharper, more deliberate, as though each strike carried a message beneath the sound. I turned toward Hugo. His eyes were wide, breath short, pulse breaking into staccato bursts I felt through the mark.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice until it barely crossed the space between us.
"Listen," I said. "Something is going wrong."
His breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
"The memory blurring isn't working on them." My gaze flicked toward the door. "So you'll go with them for now. I'll come back to get you."
His panic sharpened into something frantic. "No. No, no — what do you mean go with them? And what do you mean something is going wrong, Corvian?"
"We have no time left," I said. "Go with them. Ask for a lawyer. Don't speak about anything. Deny whatever they ask. I'll come for you. I swear on your life."
He stared at me like I had placed a blade against his chest. "Is this the most precious thing or the most useless thing to swear on?"
"Not the time for sentiments."
His voice trembled. "You're the only thing I have left. I need to know — if I'm going with them… is it the most important or the most useless, Corvian?"
For a moment, I saw every piece of him — the fear, the stubbornness, the boy who had been left behind too many times. I placed both hands on his arm, tightening my grip until I felt his pulse beneath my palms.
"Important," I said. "Now go."
His breath stilled.
I released him and turned away, striding toward the window that led to the back garden. I unlatched it with a swift motion and pushed it open. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant highway fumes.
Before stepping out, I looked back.
Hugo stood frozen near the door, his hand trembling on the handle. He looked breakable in the joints and stubborn in the marrow. a creature carved from contradiction.
"Just go…" I whispered, barely audible even to myself. "Please just go."
Then I stepped through the window and let the body drop.
It fell into the grass with a soft thud, limbs crumpling, eyes empty. Only a suit. An empty grammar of bone and fabric. I slipped free from it, weightless, formless, then took shape again, feathers gathering from the air as though they remembered where they belonged.
A raven. One of the many shapes I could take.
I perched atop the fence, watching the husk of the body below me collapse further into stillness. Hugo's silhouette lingered inside the house, unmoving, like a candle held too close to a draft.
Something was wrong. And not the usual wrong that accompanied mortal systems or political schemes or human authority.
A wrong that carried jurisdiction.
When we first walked into the compound, I blurred their memory. Subtle, efficient, clean. They should have turned away, puzzled, returning to their cars with no recollection of why they came. That was how it always worked. My influence seeped into minds and rewrote action into confusion, confusion into retreat.
Yet they stayed. They remembered. They knocked again.
Police do not resist devil-work. They never have. Mortals break too easily, their minds bend too quickly. Only one type of being resists a devil's hand.
Or something worse.
I lifted my head to the wind, senses stretching outward across the compound. Nothing human lingered in the air. Something else did—ozone braided through cold iron, the after-taste of command. Not devil work. Not ours.
"A devil," I muttered, "or worse… an angel wearing the shape of one."
The idea coiled in my chest, unwelcome and intrusive.
How can that happen?
This was beyond my reach— and that was what unsettled me most. Devils do not lose their dominion over mortal perception. Not unless another power interferes.
My wings tensed. My claws dug into the wood beneath me.
"I need to see Thea," I said.
And as Hugo finally opened the door to the world waiting to consume him, I launched into the night.
Crossing into the Other World tore through me with a familiar violence — the sudden pull of gravity turning inside out, the rush of air collapsing, the silence that wasn't silence at all but a living pulse beneath the earth. My shape shed itself. Bones dissolved, flesh darkened, wings unfurled from the space where breath should have been. Heat pulsed through the ridges of my spine, settling into the structure of a body never meant for human eyes.
The landscape stretched before me in layers of shadowed stone and light that did not belong to the sun. The pantheon rose at the center, carved from obsidian-like rock that looked wet yet never dripped. Pillars curled upward like the ribs of a long-buried giant. I walked up the ancient steps, wings brushing the air with a slow resonance that made the ground beneath me tremble.
Thea lay on one of the upper platforms, sprawled across the cold surface with a kind of deliberate indolence. Their hair spilled over the steps like pale strands of smoke, shifting though there was no wind.
I approached, the weight of my form casting long distortions along the stone.
"Thea," I said. "What's happening?"
Their eyelids lifted slowly, as if waking from a dream they had no desire to leave. "What do you mean, Corvian?"
"The police came to take him," I said. "My ability to blur their memories is disabled. They remembered everything. They resisted me. So tell me—what is going on?"
Thea exhaled, long and weary, and folded one arm under their head. "If it isn't the obvious. The police are doing exactly what we hoped they wouldn't." A pause. "They've gotten themselves a helping hand."
A sharp surge of anger crawled through my chest. "We'll have to abide by the law now? Is that what you're implying? That we bend to mortal authority?"
Thea didn't move, but their gaze sharpened. "We never abide by any law, Corvian. Mortal law is for creatures who bleed on earth. We are bound by a single ordinance—the echo of our making. Break that, and even grace remembers you." A shift of their expression, almost bored. "Your Hugo will simply suffer the consequences."
I stepped forward, wings flaring with a heat that cracked the stone underfoot. "What is happening, Thea?"
They arched one brow. "Straight into demands, without even a 'sir' before my name."
"Formalities are for the small," I said.
"Your ego," they murmured, "will be the end of you."
I said nothing. The silence between us deepened like a well.
Thea finally sat up, stretching their long limbs as though this conversation was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. "It seems," they said, "that the police may have made a pact with a devil to aid them."
I stared, disbelief shifting quickly into disdain. "The police did that?"
"Yes."
"To which one?"
"Not sure," Thea said. "Might need to speak to Kaelith. He keeps himself around humans like a stray cat near warm windows."
I scowled, the temperature around me rising. "Why would I want to speak to that imbecile?"
"Because he knows all the gossip," Thea said with a lazy wave of their fingers. "He follows humans like he wants to be one. He probably knows which devil shook hands with the police chief and for what price."
"I can't speak to him," I said. My voice came out sharper than intended.
Thea's mouth curved into a faint smile. "Your own actions led to that, didn't they?"
I looked away for a heartbeat. The old bitterness rose in me, swift and sharp, but I pushed it back down.
"So this is it?" I asked. The words left my throat like stone scraping stone.
Thea rose to their feet — tall, pale, and ancient — the lines of their body sculpted from something older than time itself. "Speaking to Kaelith will give you whispers, nothing more. It won't free your boy. There is only one way to get him out now."
The air between us tightened, thick enough to feel against my wings.
I turned my head slightly, thinking through the paths laid before me — the forbidden ones, the violent ones, the ones even devils avoided unless cornered.
Then the truth landed.
It landed with the precision of a blade piercing the hollow part of the chest.
"Oh." I said.
Thea's grin deepened — cold, knowing, almost fond.
"There you are," they whispered. "You finally understand."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hugo Hollands, Age 25.
----------------------------------------------
I didn't open the door so much as I surrendered to the moment. My hand was trembling before it touched the handle. The knock had died away, but the pressure behind it remained, thick as if the whole doorway was listening.
The second I stepped outside, the air changed. Four officers at the threshold, all in controlled formation. Their faces unreadable. Their eyes too steady, like they already knew what they would find. One of them asked my name, a formality that didn't matter because they already had it.
"Hugo Hollands?"
I nodded.
They asked me to step out. Not a request. Not yet force, but close enough that my pulse climbed up my throat.
They didn't give me cuffs at the door. They guided me down the small walkway with a careful politeness that felt colder than outright hostility. One officer walked ahead, two on my sides, one watching the windows of my house as if something else might climb out after me.
I kept glancing at the street, seeking any hint of Corvian in the shadows, but the night offered nothing. No flicker. No shape. Just the police cars lined like stones placed in a ritual.
They opened the back door of one and gestured for me to enter. The interior smelled like old leather, the kind that held on to the ghosts of every person who ever sat in it. I lowered myself onto the seat slowly, aware of how unsteady I felt. The door shut behind me with a soft click that felt far louder.
As they drove, everything blurred outside. The city's lights streaked across the windows, each one pulling at the edges of my thoughts. I tried to steady my breathing, but the car felt too warm, the air too still. My mind kept returning to Corvian's last words. Deny everything. I'll come for you.
The drive took longer than I expected. They didn't speak to me. They didn't look back. Their silence felt intentional, practiced, the kind that didn't want to offer comfort or answers. Whatever they thought I had done — or whatever they had been told — they were treating me like something fragile, or volatile.
We arrived at Ebonreach Central, the largest station in the district. Its concrete walls rose tall under the streetlights. The entrance swallowed us whole as they led me through double doors into a hallway that smelled of old printer ink and something sterile that never fully faded.
Inside, the process began.
They didn't push or drag me. Everything was done with a strange, official calm. They took my belongings and placed them into a clear bag, writing numbers I couldn't focus on.
They took my photo. The camera flashed; for a second, the room went white, and in the afterimage I saw the outline of a noose where the ceiling vent should be.
They asked me to sit in a secondary waiting area, under lights that felt too bright for the hour. People walked by wearing uniforms, badges, gloves — no one looked at me directly, but some part of the atmosphere seemed to shift around me like a ripple announcing that someone of interest had arrived.
Eventually someone called my name. I stood. They led me deeper into the building, past desks with scattered papers, past bulletin boards filled with missing person notices and mugshots, past officers who didn't glance up. The floors echoed softly under my steps.
Then the hallway changed. Narrower. Quieter. The air felt heavier here, like the walls listened to secrets more than voices. A door opened with a hiss, and an officer gestured inside.
The interrogation room wasn't large. Cold walls, a table fixed to the floor, two chairs that looked uncomfortable on purpose. A camera blinked red in the corner, watching as though it had been waiting for me.
They told me to sit. I lowered myself into the chair slowly.
The door shut behind me. The sound reverberated through my ribs.
For a moment, I just stared at the table. It was scratched across the surface, edges worn from hands gripping it too tightly. I placed mine on my lap, because if I put them on the table, I wasn't sure if they would shake.
The quiet in the room pressed close, not like silence but like something alive, waiting.
All I could think was that Corvian told me to deny everything. Deny what? I didn't even know what they believed I'd done.
My heartbeat pulsed in my throat, sharp, uneven. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt too dry.
The door remained closed. No one came in.
It was almost worse. Being alone with my thoughts, with the marks of past interrogations etched into the table, with the knowledge that Corvian — for the first time — wasn't here.
He said he'd come for me. He swore on my life.
I didn't know if that made me safer, or doomed.
The handle turned before I even had the chance to gather myself. Two detectives stepped inside, closing the door with the sort of quiet finality that made the room feel smaller. Their presence shifted the air, not threatening, but watchful. They placed a folder on the table, exchanged a short glance, then one of them eased into the chair across from me.
The older one spoke first. His voice carried a tired softness, the kind you hear from someone who's spent years filing tragedies into neat little boxes.
"Hugo Verran," he said, nodding as if we were meeting at a café instead of a sealed room. "Didn't think I'd see you here tonight. My kid loves your shows."
I blinked. The statement drifted across the table in a way I didn't know how to catch.
He went on, settling his elbows on the surface. "We watched your last big performance together. Had the whole living room dark, snacks everywhere. He's been begging me to take him to some fancy magic shop so he can buy a starter kit. Says he'll be doing card levitation by Christmas."
The younger detective chuckled at that, the sound light but out of place in the sterile quiet. "He really thinks he'll be pulling off your tricks next week," he added. "We keep telling him it doesn't work like that, but you know how kids are."
I didn't know how kids were. Not really.
I tried to shape my face into something polite. A small smile. Not wide. Not insincere. Something safe enough to pass as friendly without giving too much away. My palms rested on my thighs, hidden under the table, because the tremor in them wouldn't stop.
"That's sweet," I said quietly. "Really… sweet."
It wasn't a lie. It just felt strange in my mouth.
The older detective's eyes softened. "He wanted me to ask if the floating-card trick is something he could learn."
I exhaled a slow breath, unsure if they were warming me up or genuinely trying to make this easier. The room felt colder than before, the chair beneath me too stiff, the air too still. Kindness didn't belong here, yet they placed it on the table like an offering.
"I don't think I can reveal that," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Would ruin the fun."
They both nodded, smiling a little, as if relieved I could joke.
But a tension still hung between us, thin as a fishing line, waiting to pull taut.
The younger detective sat down at last, leaning back slightly. "You look nervous," he said, not accusing, not gentle, just… observant.
I shrugged. "I didn't expect to be taken from my house tonight."
He hummed in acknowledgment, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah. It's been a long night for everyone."
A long night. For what? For whom?
I couldn't read them, not yet. Their kindness wasn't soothing; it felt like the quiet you find right before someone pulls back a curtain.
The older detective clasped his hands on the table. "Look, Hugo… before we get into anything, I just want to say this isn't the kind of conversation we enjoy having with people. And you don't seem like someone who belongs in a place like this."
That made my heart stumble.
Belongs. As if there were places I naturally fit in. As if I hadn't spent years drifting through cities, jobs, rooms, houses—never belonging anywhere until a devil laid claim to me.
I swallowed hard.
"Right," I said. "Thanks."
I didn't know if I meant it, but politeness felt safer than silence.
They smiled again—too soft, too measured—then slowly opened the folder.
The camera's red light steadied—three blinks, pause, three blinks—exactly the rhythm Corvian's breath set in my lungs the night he marked me.
The paper whispered against cardboard, and the room's temperature seemed to shift again, settling lower.
Whatever this was, the softness had an expiration date. And we had just reached it.
The detectives shared another brief look before the older one cleared his throat softly.
"Sorry," he said, lifting a hand in apology. "We didn't even introduce ourselves." He tapped his chest. "Detective Rowan Hale." The younger officer nodded. "Detective Marcus Reed."
Rowan leaned back a little, the chair creaking under him. "So, Hugo… before we get into anything official, we wanted to ask a small personal question."
I kept my eyes steady on him, though my pulse wouldn't settle. "Alright."
He opened the folder but didn't look down at it yet. Instead, he studied me with a strange mixture of caution and familiarity. "Your name. You perform under Verran, but your legal last name is Hollands." He paused. "Is there a reason for the change?"
My throat tightened. Not enough to show, but enough that swallowing took effort. "Every performer needs a name that catches on," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Hugo Hollands didn't feel like a stage name. That's all."
He smiled, faintly amused. "I don't know. I think Hugo Hollands is pretty catchy. But… was it perhaps because your father is incarcerated and you didn't want anyone finding out?"
The room seemed to lean in at that moment.
My back straightened. "I don't care if people find out about him," I answered. The words came out clean. "I just wanted a change for myself."
Marcus tapped a pen lightly against his notebook, not writing yet, only marking time. "Fair enough," he said. "A name is a choice. People reinvent themselves all the time."
Rowan nodded, more slowly. "Makes sense. And hey—if we're being honest, the name suits you. Verran. Has a nice pull to it. My boy thinks you picked it because it sounds mysterious." He chuckled quietly.
Rowan's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together with deliberate calm.
"Now," he said, voice lowering into something steadier, "we need to talk about a few things that happened over the last few months."
Marcus slid the folder closer, still closed. His hand hovered above it as if waiting for permission.
I felt the weight of the moment settle over my shoulders. The kind introduction had expired.
Rowan kept his eyes on me, not unkind but no longer soft. "We want you to be comfortable, Hugo. That's why we start slow. Not everyone walks into a room like this ready to talk."
My heart beat once, heavy. I wondered if they could hear it.
Marcus added, "And I know this feels surreal. You were pulled from your house, brought here without explanation, and now we're sitting here talking about stage names. It's a lot."
"It is," I said quietly.
"Good," Rowan said, giving a small nod. "Then let's take it step by step."
He finally opened the folder.
The paper inside shifted. Something inside me did too.
Rowan didn't push it toward me. He only looked down at the top page for a moment, then lifted his eyes back to mine.
"Hugo," he said, tone even and unhurried, "we appreciate your cooperation so far. So let's keep this simple. We're going to ask you a few questions, and we hope you'll answer them honestly."
A soft chill climbed the back of my neck. Everything in me wanted to hold still.
"I'll try," I answered. My voice was steady, but my hands were clasped too tightly in my lap.
Rowan's gaze held mine a second longer, searching for something.
"Good," he said again, softer this time. "Let's begin."
The room felt smaller. The air thinner. My own name heavier than any trick I'd ever performed.
And somewhere beneath all of it, a single thought kept echoing in the back of my mind— Corvian told me to deny everything.
I didn't know yet what everything was.
Rowan was about to speak again when I lifted my hand slightly, just enough to interrupt without provoking anything.
"Actually," I said, clearing my throat, "I'd like a lawyer."
Both detectives paused.
Marcus leaned back first, eyebrows raised. Rowan tilted his head a little, studying me as though the request revealed something about me he hadn't yet decided how to use.
"Why?" Rowan asked. "You're planning to answer honestly, right?"
"Of course," I said. "But… I was taught that no cops are your friends."
For a second the room loosened, the air shifting as both detectives laughed. Not loud laughter — the kind that comes from shared experience, from an inside joke between colleagues who've heard worse from worse people.
"I'll try not to be offended by that," Marcus said, grinning slightly.
"Sorry," I murmured. "I didn't mean it like—"
"No harm done," Rowan cut in lightly. He laced his fingers together on the table and tilted his head. "But tell me something. You don't even know why you're here?"
I kept my expression steady. "No. And I won't until my lawyer is here."
Marcus let out a quiet breath, almost amusement but not entirely. "Really? Because I thought we could get this over with real quick, move on to the next step." His gaze sharpened a little. "Because, Hugo… we already have a case."
My chest tightened.
"Good," I said, voice lower than before. "Then that means I really need a lawyer."
Rowan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. We'll get you sorted. While we wait, a couple of basic questions—administrative. Nothing substantive."
Rowan didn't look away from me. His eyes were steady, calm, but there was a pressure behind them — the kind that pressed without touching. "Not a single lawyer in all of Ebonreach," he said, "will be able to help you as much as we can."
My fingers curled together in my lap, knuckles stiffening with the effort not to show anything.
Rowan continued, his tone still warm, too warm for what followed. "Tell me something, Hugo." A beat. "Do you know Harry Doyle?"
Everything inside me went cold.
It felt like someone had pushed a hand through my chest, not to grab anything, but to hold something still. My vision tightened at the edges, and the chair beneath me suddenly felt too small.
"He's my cousin," I said. The answer left my mouth without thought, instinctive, like breathing under water and realizing too late there's no air.
Rowan shifted his gaze to Marcus. A silent exchange passed between them — something satisfied, something certain.
"Looks like," Rowan said, returning his eyes to mine, "we'll have a fun reunion."
My blood drained so fast I felt lightheaded.
The walls around me seemed to tilt. The lights above burned too bright. My heartbeat didn't speed up — it stalled, like it didn't know whether to race or stop entirely.
Harry. Harry.
Whatever this was, however deep it went, however long they had been preparing it—
They weren't guessing. They weren't fishing.
They already knew something. And they had been waiting for me.
A cold shiver ran up my spine, slow and deliberate, as if the room itself whispered the truth:
This wasn't a conversation. It was a burial.