Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJF97BE9EPF038EP6FV84

The green neon of the Raven’s Nest sign cast a watery, underwater glow on the wet pavement of the Soho alley. Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy wooden door, the scent of old wood, polished brass, and faint, spilled whiskey a familiar welcome. It was late, past midnight, and the last of her delivery shifts for the Golden Empress had left a phantom ache between her shoulder blades and the smell of chilli oil clinging to her clothes. All she wanted was a quiet drink, a moment of stillness in the flat upstairs before the cycle began again tomorrow. The bar was a sanctuary of shadows. Low-wattage bulbs pooled amber light on the dark wood of the tables and the worn velvet of the banquettes. The walls, as always, were a testament to journeys taken and forgotten, covered in dog-eared maps of cities that no longer existed and black-and-white photographs of faces with stories Rory could only guess at. A low murmur of conversation, the clink of ice against glass, the soft thrum of a jazz standard from the hidden speakers—it was a gentle hum that soothed the ragged edges of her day. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the few remaining patrons. Silas wasn’t in his usual spot, polishing glasses with a meticulous, almost ritualistic grace. Instead, a younger man with tired eyes was wiping down the counter. Rory ordered a gin and tonic, the words coming out automatically, a reflex. When the drink arrived, the condensation beading on the glass like a promise of coolness, she wrapped her hands around it, letting the chill seep into her skin. She closed her eyes, just for a second, letting the noise of the bar fade into a neutral backdrop. A presence settled on the stool next to her. Not intrusive, just a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the pressure of the air. She didn’t open her eyes. The bar was half-empty; it was bound to happen. But then a voice, roughened by time and something else, something deeper, cut through the haze. “Still drinking the same poison, then.” Her eyes snapped open. Her heart gave a painful lurch, a bird beating against a cage. She turned. It was him. Of course, it was him. Silas Blackwood. He looked older, but then, so did she. The grey in his auburn hair had spread from distinguished streaks to a more prominent dusting, framing a face that seemed carved from the same worn leather as the bar stools. His hazel eyes, sharp and knowing, held the same quiet authority she remembered, but now it was layered with a weariness that hadn’t been there five years ago. A neatly trimmed beard followed the strong line of his jaw. He still wore the silver signet ring on his right hand, its familiar glint catching the low light as he rested his hand on the bar. He moved with a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his left leg, a ghost of an injury she’d only ever heard whispers of. “Silas,” she breathed, his name feeling foreign and heavy on her tongue. “I didn’t know you were… here.” It was a stupid thing to say. He owned the place. She lived above it. And yet, in the year she’d been here, she had successfully, deliberately, avoided him. The bar was his territory, and she had treated it like a lion’s den, scurrying past to the safety of her flat. He gave a small, wry smile. “It’s my name on the lease, Laila.” The use of her old name, a name she hadn’t heard in years, struck her with the force of a physical blow. Laila. The girl who’d argued politics in university common rooms, who’d planned a future in a barrister’s chambers, who had been so certain of her own cleverness. That girl felt like a stranger, a character from a book she’d read long ago. She was Rory now. Aurora, if she was feeling formal. Carter, to the takeaway customers. But never Laila. “It’s Rory now,” she corrected, her voice tighter than she intended. “Rory,” he repeated, testing the shape of it. He didn’t comment, just accepted it with a nod that felt both dismissive and deeply understanding. “It’s been a long time.” “Five years, seven months, and… eleven days,” she said, the numbers tumbling out before she could stop them. She flushed, heat creeping up her neck. She’d always had a head for figures, a useless talent for marking time. His eyebrows rose slightly. “You never were one to forget a detail.” He gestured to the bartender for another drink, a simple scotch this time. “How have you been, Rory?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. How had she been? The answer was a tangled knot of fear, relief, loneliness, and fragile independence. She’d fled Cardiff with nothing but a backpack and Eva’s frantic phone calls guiding her. She’d slept on sofas, worked terrible jobs, cried herself to sleep more nights than she cared to count. She’d built a new life, brick by painful brick, in the shadow of the one she’d abandoned. “Fine,” she said, the word a brittle shield. “I’m fine. Working. Living. You know.” She gestured vaguely upwards, towards the flat. “Yu-Fei’s a good boss. The work is… steady.” Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. He saw past the words, past the practiced smile. He’d always been able to do that. It was what had made him a brilliant operative and a frustrating mentor. He was watching her hands, she realized. Her left hand, still curled around her gin and tonic. The small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a childhood souvenir from falling off a swing, was visible. But his eyes lingered there for a moment too long, as if looking for something else, for other marks she kept hidden. “Cardiff seems a long way away,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “It is.” She took a long swallow of her drink, the gin burning a clean, sharp path down her throat. “A different world.” “And your parents? Brendan and Jennifer still arguing over the finer points of Welsh devolution?” A genuine, if fleeting, smile touched her lips. “Of course. Some things never change. Dad’s a QC now. Mum’s head of the English department. They’re… proud.” The word landed like a stone. He heard the unspoken part. *Proud of the daughter who isn’t there.* “And Pre-Law?” he asked, his voice softening. “Did you ever finish the degree?” The question was a needle to a bruise. She’d been two semesters from graduation when she left. All that work, all that pressure from her father, evaporated into the London fog. “No,” she said, staring into her glass. “It wasn’t for me.” Silas was quiet for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The silver signet ring caught the light again. “No,” he agreed, his voice low. “I don’t suppose it was.” He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough broken people in his line of work to recognize the signs. The guarded posture, the careful words, the shadow in the bright blue eyes that had once been full of fire. He was looking at a survivor, and he knew survival always came at a cost. “You look tired,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact, as simple as noting the colour of her hair. “I work a lot,” she deflected. “We all work a lot,” he countered gently. “That’s not the kind of tired I’m talking about.” He paused, and for a second, the mask of the genial bar owner slipped, and she saw the Spymaster underneath, the man who had stared into the abyss in Prague and come back with a limp and a lifetime of quiet regrets. “This city… it can be a refuge. Or it can be a place to get lost. Make sure you know which one it is for you.” The knot in her chest tightened. He saw too much. He saw the girl who was still running, the woman who was afraid to stand still long enough to figure out who she was now, without Evan’s shadow, without her parents’ expectations, without the name Laila. “I’m not lost,” she said, the lie tasting like ash. Silas just nodded slowly, taking a sip of his scotch. He didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just sat there in the comfortable silence with her, a solid, unmoving presence in the dim light. It was more comforting than any platitude. It was an acknowledgement. He saw her. Not the delivery girl, not the runaway, not the failure. He saw *her*. The person she was trying to become. He finished his drink and placed the glass back on the bar with a decisive click. “Well,” he said, the bar owner persona settling back into place. “The night’s not getting any younger.” He slid off the stool, his left leg taking the fraction of a second longer to find its balance. He started to turn away, then paused. “If you ever need a map, Rory,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the walls covered in them, “not just of the city, but of the way out… you know where to find me.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just gave a final, slight nod and limped back towards the other end of the bar, disappearing into the deeper shadows. Rory watched him go, her breath caught in her throat. She turned back to her half-finished drink, the condensation now a puddle on the bar. The weight of the last five years felt both heavier and lighter than it had a moment ago. The regret was still there, a cold stone in her gut, but for the first time, it didn’t feel entirely her own to carry. She was in the Raven’s Nest. And for tonight, that was enough.