She knew it the moment her fingers slipped, the porcelain biting into her palms like it was alive. The soup surged forward, sloshing over the rim in a shimmering arc before gravity claimed it.
It shattered on the marble floor.
The sound was sharp. Final.
Heat splashed over her legs, searing through thin fabric and skin alike. She gasped—an ugly, broken sound—and collapsed to her knees, hands clawing uselessly at the air as pain bloomed bright and unforgiving.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then—
"Do you have any idea what that cost?"
The voice cut through the haze like a blade.
She looked up instinctively.
Madam Lysandra Blackwood stood near the dining table, perfectly composed in dark silk, her expression carved from disdain rather than anger. Her guests sat frozen behind her, crystal glasses suspended midair, watching as though the scene were an unfortunate stain on the evening.
The child tried to speak. Tried to explain.
"I— I'm sorry, madam— it was hot—"
Lysandra didn't let her finish.
She crossed the room in long, measured steps and seized the girl's arm with a grip far stronger than it needed to be. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain through burned skin, and the child whimpered, tears blurring her vision.
"Clumsy," Lysandra said flatly. "Useless."
She dragged her across the marble, past the spilled soup, past the broken shards of the expensive bowl. One of the guests turned away, uncomfortable. Another watched with thinly veiled curiosity.
The door to the storage room yawned open—dark, narrow, smelling of dust and old wood.
Lysandra shoved her inside.
The girl stumbled, barely catching herself before hitting the shelves. The door slammed shut behind her with a final, echoing thud.
The lock slid into place.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
She slid down against the wall, sobs breaking free now that no one could see them. Her legs burned. Her arm ached where fingers had dug too deep. Her chest felt tight, like something heavy was sitting on it.
She pressed her face into her knees and cried—quietly, because crying too loudly always made things worse.
Time passed strangely in the dark. Minutes stretched. Or hours. She couldn't tell.
Her breathing hitched.
And then—
Stop.
The voice wasn't loud.
It wasn't angry.
It was steady.
She froze, heart hammering.
"Who—?" she whispered, terrified.
Stop crying, the voice repeated, closer now.
She hugged herself tighter, shaking. "I'm scared."
A pause.
Then, softer—but firmer:
I know.
Something in her chest stilled. Just a little.
You don't have to be small, the voice said. Not here.
The girl swallowed, tears still slipping down her cheeks.
"I don't want to be here anymore."
The darkness seemed to lean in.
Then don't be , the voice replied.
The door didn't open.
The pain didn't vanish.
But something else did.
The fear… shifted.
_________________________________________
The scene fractured—
The gun recoiled smoothly in her hand.
The sound of the shot echoed once, then died.
The man fell where he stood, collapsing backward in a graceless sprawl. Blood bloomed against concrete, dark and immediate.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Smoke curled lazily from the barrel as she lowered the weapon, her expression unreadable—eyes sharp, posture relaxed, breathing steady.
"Clean," a voice remarked behind her.
She turned slightly.
Vespera Solace stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind her back, her tailored coat pristine despite the grim surroundings. Her gaze flicked briefly to the body, then back to the woman holding the gun.
"Efficient as always," Vespera continued. "You didn't hesitate."
The woman said nothing.
Vespera smiled faintly. "Good."
She stepped closer, heels clicking against the concrete floor. "You've proven your loyalty, Raven. Again."
Raven.
The name settled easily on her shoulders.
Vespera's eyes sharpened, businesslike now. "Which is why I'm finally ready to trust you with something… more significant."
She paused, letting the weight of it hang in the air.
"There's a mission," Vespera said calmly. "Important. Delicate."
Raven adjusted her grip on the gun, face still composed, eyes cold and focused.
"Failure," Vespera added, "is not an option."
Raven met her gaze.
For the first time since the shot, she smiled.
"Then it won't fail."
Vespera's smile widened—just a fraction.
"Good," she said. "Because I wouldn't have chosen anyone else."
The lights hummed softly overhead.
Somewhere far away, a child cried in the dark.
And somewhere closer—
Something stood tall enough not to kneel anymore.