Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYS41AQ7FVWA36SD34DSP4

The Raven’s Nest smelled like old wood polish and spilled beer, the kind of place where time settled into the grooves of the bar like sediment. Aurora Carter pushed open the heavy oak door, the green neon sign flickering above her like a watchful eye. She’d been here a thousand times, but never as Rory, the delivery person for Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress, not as the woman who’d fled Cardiff five years ago. She scanned the low-ceilinged room, the dim light catching the dust motes dancing in the air. There, near the back, slumped on a stool, was Silas Blackwood. His grey-streaked auburn hair was neatly trimmed, the same salt-and-pepper beard framing his face, but the slight limp in his left leg was more pronounced, a familiar rhythm she’d last seen in his father’s study. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted under the bar’s single pendant light. “Silas?” Her voice was a low murmur, cutting through the muffled jazz. He didn’t look up, but his head tilted slightly, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his hazel eyes. He pushed his glasses up his nose, the action precise, almost mechanical. “Rory?” The name rolled off his tongue, not quite a question, more like a statement of fact. “Long time.” She slid onto the stool beside him, the worn leather creaking. “Five years. You look… different.” The words felt clumsy, but she couldn’t find a better way to start. He didn’t flinch. “Age does that to everyone, Rory.” He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid disappearing into the dark depths of the glass. “You look… well. Busy.” His gaze drifted to her shoulder, lingering on the plain black jacket of her delivery uniform. “Still delivering for the Empress?” “Part-time,” she admitted, pushing her glasses up again. “Between shifts, I help out at the bar.” She gestured vaguely towards the door above. “Silas’s place.” A small, tight smile touched her lips. “Same old haunt.” He nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his own lips. “Never changed, did it? The Nest.” He tapped the signet ring. “Still wearing that?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. She looked down, her fingers brushing the smooth silver. “It’s… a reminder.” A reminder of who I used to be, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. “And you?” she countered, her voice softer now. “Still running the nest?” “Retired,” he said, the word tasting bitter. “Field work’s done. The Prague thing…” He trailed off, the memory of that botched op in the Czech capital a shadow in his eyes. “The limp’s a souvenir.” He shifted slightly, the movement careful. “But the bar… it’s still here. Still a front.” He met her gaze, the hazel eyes sharp and assessing. “You look like you’ve been running too, Rory.” “Running?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “More like… surviving.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead, the straight black strands falling back into place. “Cardiff’s a long way from Soho, Silas. And Evan…” She stopped, the name a lump in her throat. “He’s gone. Left me for someone else.” The admission felt like tearing open a wound she’d tried to stitch shut. “Eva dragged me here. Said I needed a fresh start.” She took a deep breath, the scent of stale smoke and whiskey filling her lungs. “Working for Yu-Fei… it’s honest. The Empress feeds people. That’s something.” She looked at him, really looked at him. “You? You’re just… Silas. Still the Spymaster, even in retirement.” He didn’t deny it. “The network’s still there, Rory. The contacts. The… information.” He tapped the signet ring again. “It’s a tool. Like any other.” He studied her face, the bright blue eyes that had always been so sharp now holding a weary intelligence. “You’ve changed, Rory. Not just the uniform. You’re… calmer. Less… reactive.” His voice was gentle, almost fond. “Eva said you were brilliant, quick-thinking. Still are, I bet.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the hidden bookshelf behind the bar. “But the weight… it’s different now, isn’t it?” She didn’t answer immediately. The weight of five years, the choices she’d made, the life she’d built in London, felt like a physical thing pressing down on her shoulders. “Different,” she agreed finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Less… frantic. More… settled.” She looked at the neon sign, the green light pulsing softly. “But settled doesn’t mean easy, Silas. Not when you’re carrying ghosts.” She met his eyes again, the blue meeting the hazel. “Or secrets.” The unspoken regret hung between them, thick and palpable, a shared understanding that neither could quite articulate, but both felt deeply. The past wasn’t gone; it was just quieter now, a low hum beneath the surface of the present.