AI
The Raven’s Nest smelledof stale beer, ozone, and something faintly metallic beneath it all – the tang of old secrets and the polish of a bar that had seen too many deals go sour. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as she’d insisted on being called for the past five years, pushed through the heavy oak door, the green neon sign flickering a welcome that felt more like a warning. She’d lived above this place for two years, delivering dumplings to the regulars, her life a carefully constructed routine of anonymity and quiet observation. The bar itself hadn’t changed much – the walls still groaned under the weight of yellowed maps and faded photographs of faces she didn’t recognize, the air thick with the low murmur of voices and the clink of glasses. But the weight of seeing Silas Blackwood here, of all places, settled on her shoulders like a physical blow.
Silas Blackwood, the Spymaster, the man who’d been her mentor, her anchor, her friend, sat hunched over a stool near the far end of the bar. He wasn’t hunched; he was simply… still. His grey-streaked auburn hair, neatly trimmed, framed a face that held the deep lines of experience, the hazel eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses sharp and assessing. The neatly trimmed beard, the silver signet ring catching the dim light on his right hand – all the markers of the man she’d known. But the slight limp, a subtle shift in his weight as he shifted on the stool, was a new detail, a testament to the passage of time and the cost of his past. He wasn’t the same boy who’d taught her to pick a lock or read a person’s intentions in a glance. He was older, harder, carrying the weight of Prague in his posture.
She’d seen him once, years ago, in a crowded market in Marrakech, a fleeting glimpse of a tailored suit vanishing into a side alley. But this was different. This was him, sitting in his own bar, the bar he’d built as a front, the bar where he’d hidden, waiting. The air between them crackled with the electricity of years unspoken , of paths diverged. She’d left Cardiff, fled the abuse, found a new life in London, a life built on delivering food and keeping her head down. He’d retired from the shadows, opened this den of secrets, a place where old agents and new players met under the guise of a pub. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“Rory?” His voice, when he spoke, was low and gravelly, cutting through the ambient noise. It wasn’t the voice of the boy who’d shared her first real secrets. It was the voice of the man who’d seen too much. “Rory Carter. Or should I say Laila? Or Malphora?” He didn’t sound accusatory, just… knowing. “It’s been… a while.”
She didn’t move from the threshold, the green light casting long shadows across her face. She’d changed, too. The sharp, almost reckless intelligence was still there, but it was tempered , honed by necessity. The quick, out-of-the-box thinking was now a survival instinct. She wore a faded hoodie pulled low over her head, dark jeans, practical boots. Her straight black hair, usually pulled back in a messy ponytail, fell loose around her shoulders, framing her face. The small crescent scar on her left wrist, a relic from a childhood accident, was visible where the cuff of her hoodie had ridden up. She looked older than twenty-five, worn by the weight of her own choices, the burden of leaving her past behind.
“Silas,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth it once held . “Or should I call you Si? Or the Spymaster?” The aliases felt like armor, a shield against the vulnerability of seeing him again. “It’s been… long enough.”
He nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Time has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? Stealing years, leaving scars.” He gestured towards the stool beside him. “Sit. Have a drink. It’s been… a while.”
She hesitated, the scent of him – old leather, tobacco, something uniquely his – pulling her in. She took a step forward, the worn soles of her boots echoing on the polished wood floor. She slid onto the stool, the worn leather creaking beneath her. The bar was quiet now, the only sounds the distant hum of the neon sign and the soft scrape of Silas’s chair as he pushed it back slightly , creating a small, intimate space between them.
“You look… different,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in the hoodie, the hair, the scar. “More… settled. Or perhaps just more… hidden.”
“Settled,” she agreed, her eyes fixed on the condensation beading on the glass of amber liquid Silas pushed towards her. “I deliver dumplings. I live above a bar. It’s… stable.” The word tasted bitter on her tongue. Stable was a luxury she’d fought for, a fortress against the chaos she’d fled. “What about you? Still running the Nest? Still the Spymaster?”
He took a slow sip of his own drink, the amber liquid disappearing into the depths of his glass. “The Nest is still here. The Spymaster title is retired, like my knee.” He tapped the side of his leg, the slight limp momentarily forgotten in the gesture. “Prague took its toll. But the contacts… they’re still there. The need for… information, persists.”
“Information,” she echoed , the word tasting like dust. “Or just… shadows?” She looked away, staring at the green neon sign flickering above the door. “You built this place as a front. A place for secrets. Is that what you are now? Just a shadow?”
He didn’t flinch. “A man adapts, Rory. We all do. The boy who taught you lock-picking doesn’t exist anymore. The man who walked into Prague didn’t come out the same.” His voice was quiet, intense, holding a weight that made the air in the small space feel thick. “What about you? The girl who fled Cardiff? The woman who delivers dumplings? Who is Rory Carter now?”
The question hung between them, sharp and undeniable. The Rory she’d been – the quick-witted, fearless girl who’d trusted him implicitly – was buried under layers of caution, of survival. The woman she’d become was defined by the absence of her past, by the need to be invisible. “I’m Rory,” she said, the name feeling hollow . “The woman who delivers dumplings. The woman who lives above a bar. The woman who… doesn’t look back.”
“Doesn’t look back,” he repeated, the ghost of a smile returning . “But you’re here. You came back. Why? To see the bar? To see me?”
She didn’t answer immediately. She took a long drink of her own drink, the cool liquid a brief respite from the heat of his gaze. “I was in the area,” she finally said, the lie thin and transparent. “Just passing through. Needed a drink.” The truth was simpler, more painful: she’d seen his name in a ledger, a contact list she’d stumbled upon while delivering to a regular. She’d come to confirm he was still alive, still breathing, still a part of the world she’d left behind. But seeing him, seeing the limp, seeing the lines of age and experience etched deep into his face, it shattered the illusion of distance she’d carefully maintained. He was real, and he was here, and the years hadn’t just stolen his youth; they’d stolen the easy camaraderie they’d once shared.
“Passing through,” he murmured, understanding dawning in his eyes . “Or running from something?” The question wasn’t accusatory, just… knowing. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the way she kept her shoulders tense, the slight tremor in her hand as she held the glass. He saw the woman she’d become, the fortress she’d built around herself.
“Running,” she admitted, the word a whisper . “Always running.” She looked at him, really looked at him, the man who’d been her mentor, her friend, the man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable and still chosen to guide her. “I ran from Evan. I ran from Cardiff. I ran from… everything that felt too much.” She gestured vaguely around the bar, the familiar surroundings suddenly feeling alien. “This,” she said, her voice thick with emotion she couldn’t quite name , “this is my fortress. My quiet.”
“And the fortress has walls,” he said softly , his gaze never leaving hers. “Walls that keep things out… and things in.” He paused, choosing his words carefully . “You left a part of yourself behind in Cardiff, Rory. A part that trusted, that was… open. That part is still here, sitting across from me, looking at the man who broke your trust once.” He leaned forward slightly , the signet ring catching the light. “The scar on your wrist… it’s a reminder . A reminder of the past you’re trying so hard to outrun.”
The memory of Evan’s hands, the pain of the scar, flooded her. She clenched her fist under the table, the knuckles white. “It’s just a scar,” she said, her voice tight . “A reminder of a mistake. Of a life I don’t want anymore.”
“A mistake,” he echoed, his voice gentle but insistent . “Or a wound that never truly healed? You built this fortress, Rory, but the walls are high, and the gates are locked tight. You’ve changed, yes. You’re smarter, more guarded. But the core… the core is still the same girl who trusted me, who believed in the possibility of a different path.” He took another sip, the silence stretching between them, filled only by the low murmur of the bar and the distant, mournful chime of the neon sign. “The weight of time, Rory. It doesn’t just steal years; it steals innocence, it steals easy answers. It leaves scars, both visible and invisible. It forces us to become people we never thought we’d be.”
She looked down at her hands, the knuckles still white. The fortress felt suddenly cold, the walls closing in. The Rory she’d been, the girl who’d believed in easy answers and trusted her mentor implicitly, was buried beneath layers of caution and survival. The Rory she’d become was defined by the absence of that trust, by the need to be invisible. And seeing Silas, seeing the man he’d become, forced her to confront the ghost of who she’d been, the ghost of the trust she’d lost. The unspoken regret wasn’t just about the past; it was about the distance she’d put between them, the walls she’d built that even Silas couldn’t breach anymore. The years hadn’t just changed them; they’d changed the very nature of their connection, leaving a silence thick with what could have been, what was lost, and the heavy, undeniable weight of time itself.