Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRAN8KRMQ5B82CCFEDCQ8E

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a slow heartbeat against the damp London night, casting jagged shadows across the bar’s worn wood. Aurora Carter wiped her hands on her apron, the golden embroidery of the Golden Empress still clinging to her fingers despite the clatter of dishes. The delivery van had just pulled away, leaving her with a quiet ache in her chest—not from exhaustion, but from the way the air felt thicker here, heavier than usual. She hadn’t come for the usual crowd. The Nest wasn’t her usual haunt, not anymore. But the sign had been lit when she passed, the green glow stubborn against the rain-slicked pavement. She’d seen Silas’s name on the menu once, years ago, when she’d been younger and lighter. Now, the thought of him made her stomach twist. The door creaked open. Aurora didn’t look up. She knew the moment he stepped inside by the way the air shifted, the way the flickering lights seemed to dim just a fraction. Silas Blackwood moved through the bar like a man who hadn’t aged at all—tall, limping slightly, his auburn hair streaked with silver catching the light like polished bronze. He wore a dark coat, the kind that swallowed the years, and his hands were steady on the bar stool she’d saved for him. “You’re late,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “The usual place was empty.” Aurora finally turned, her bright blue eyes sharp with something that wasn’t quite anger. “I don’t come here anymore.” Silas didn’t answer right away. He just watched her, the way he used to when they were younger, when they were still the kind of friends who could sit for hours without saying much. The scar on her wrist—small, crescent-shaped—pulsed faintly under her skin. She didn’t reach for it. “You look different,” Silas said finally, his voice rough. “Like you’ve been carrying something.” Aurora exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp. “I’ve been everywhere.” Silas leaned back, his signet ring catching the light as he tapped it against the bar. “You still work at the restaurant?” “Part-time. It’s not the same.” “It’s a job.” “It’s what’s left.” A beat of silence. The kind that hung between them like a question no one dared voice. Silas reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured two fingers in a glass, then slid it toward her. “Drink.” Aurora didn’t move. “You shouldn’t have.” “You’re not the one who’s been drinking.” She took a breath, the whiskey burning on her tongue before she even knew it was there. “I’m not the same person who used to come here.” Silas didn’t flinch. “No. You’re not.” The bar’s patrons—blurred figures in the dim light—stirred around them. A couple laughing, a group debating something no one else could hear. The weight of the past pressed down, thick and suffocating. Aurora set the glass down. “Why are you here?” Silas’s gaze flicked to the back room, where the hidden door was always just out of sight. “I needed to see you.” She should’ve walked away. Should’ve left him standing there, the way he’d always left her before—unfinished, unfinished. But the bar felt too small, the world too loud. She sat. “You’re not the same person who left Cardiff,” Silas said softly. “You’re not the same person who came back.” Aurora’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I’m not.” Silas didn’t press. He just watched her, his expression unreadable. The kind of watchfulness that had always made her uneasy, the kind that made her wonder what he was thinking, what he’d seen in her that she couldn’t see in herself. The door creaked again. A woman in a leather jacket stepped inside, her dark eyes sharp. “Silas?” He turned. “Eva. What are you doing here?” Eva didn’t smile. “I saw your sign. Thought I’d check in.” Silas nodded to Aurora. “Eva, this is Rory.” Aurora stood abruptly. “I don’t know why you’re here.” Eva’s expression didn’t change. “Because you’re Rory. And because you’re not what you used to be.” Silas’s voice was quiet. “She’s not what she was.” Aurora’s jaw clenched. “I don’t owe you anything.” Eva’s gaze flicked between them, sharp as a blade. “You owe yourself.” The bar felt too small. The air too thick. And for the first time in years, Aurora Carter felt the weight of everything she’d left behind pressing down on her, heavy and inescapable.