AI The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest * flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the puddles like spilled ink. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something sharper—leather, maybe, or old paper. The kind of scent that clung to a place long after the people in it had moved on.
Rory Carter paused on the threshold, her breath fogging the glass of the door. She’d been walking for hours, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders like a wet coat. The last delivery had been a disaster—she’d dropped a tray of dumplings, the owner had screamed, and now she was late for her shift at the restaurant. But the bar had looked familiar , the way it always did in her dreams.
She stepped inside.
The place was half-empty, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the low crackle of a fireplace and the occasional clink of a glass. The walls were lined with maps and yellowed photographs, the kind of things that made a place feel like it had secrets. Rory’s fingers twitched at her sides. She hadn’t been back here in years.
Then she saw him.
Silas Blackwood sat in the corner, nursing a glass of something amber and strong. His auburn hair was streaked with grey now, his beard neatly trimmed, but it was the way he held himself that stopped her cold—like a man who had spent too many years carrying things he wasn’t supposed to. His left leg gave a slight hitch as he leaned forward, his silver signet ring catching the firelight.
He looked up.
Their eyes locked.
Rory’s stomach dropped.
“Well,” Silas said, his voice rough as gravel. “If it isn’t the girl who used to steal my whiskey.”
She should have walked away. Should have turned on her heel and never looked back. But the years had a way of making old habits hard to break.
“Silas,” she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
He smirked, just a little. “Neither did I, until I saw you on the doorstep like some kind of ghost.”
Rory exhaled sharply , rubbing her temples. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You never did,” he cut in, swirling his drink. “That’s what always got you into trouble.”
She ignored the jab. “I need a job.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken . Silas studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes sharp. Then he gestured to the stool across from him. “Sit.”
She hesitated, then pulled it out and sat, her fingers brushing the worn leather. The stool creaked under her weight .
“You look like hell,” Silas said bluntly.
Rory laughed, sharp and bitter. “Thanks.”
“No, really . You used to have more… *edge * to you.” He tilted his head . “Or was that just the way you carried yourself when you were trying to look tough?”
She clenched her jaw . “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” He took a sip of his drink. “So. What’s a part-timer doing in my bar at midnight?”
“Delivery driver,” she said. “For Golden Empress.”
Silas raised an eyebrow . “Ah. The restaurant. I remember you working there once. Before you quit.”
Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the stool. “I didn’t quit.”
“No?” He leaned back, his limp more pronounced now. “Then why did you stop coming around?”
She swallowed. “Things changed.”
“They always do.” He set his glass down with a quiet *thunk *. “You look like you’ve been running from something.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t told anyone that. Not even Eva.
Silas watched her, his expression unreadable . “Or maybe you just don’t know how to stop.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. “I need a drink.”
Silas didn’t move. “I’ll get it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already pushing himself up, his limp more noticeable now. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man who had spent a lifetime knowing exactly where he was going .
Rory watched him weave through the tables, the way his coat brushed against the backs of the chairs, the way his fingers lingered on the bar before he turned back to her.
When he returned, he slid a glass of whiskey across the counter. It was neat, no ice, no water—just the way she used to take it.
She picked it up, the glass cold against her palm.
“You always were a sucker for a challenge,” Silas said, taking his own seat again.
Rory took a sip. The burn was familiar , comforting . “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re here now.”
She looked down at her hands, the scar on her wrist catching the light. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Silas studied her for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat, pulling out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the counter.
Rory picked it up. It was her—younger, laughing, her hair longer, her eyes bright. She was standing in front of *The Raven’s Nest *, her arm slung around Silas’s shoulder.
“That was the last time I saw you happy,” he said quietly.
Rory’s throat tightened. She set the photo down without looking at it again.
“You left,” she said. “Without a word.”
Silas’s expression darkened. “I had my reasons.”
“So did I.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Rory could feel the weight of all the years they’d missed, all the things they hadn’t said.
Then Silas sighed, rubbing his temples. “You look like you’ve been running from something.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t told anyone that. Not even Eva.
Silas watched her, his expression unreadable . “Or maybe you just don’t know how to stop.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. “I need a drink.”
Silas didn’t move. “I’ll get it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already pushing himself up, his limp more noticeable now. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man who had spent a lifetime knowing exactly where he was going .
Rory watched him weave through the tables, the way his coat brushed against the backs of the chairs, the way his fingers lingered on the bar before he turned back to her.
When he returned, he slid a glass of whiskey across the counter. It was neat, no ice, no water—just the way she used to take it.
She picked it up, the glass cold against her palm.
“You always were a sucker for a challenge,” Silas said, taking his own seat again.
Rory took a sip. The burn was familiar , comforting . “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re here now.”
She looked down at her hands, the scar on her wrist catching the light. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Silas studied her for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat, pulling out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the counter.
Rory picked it up. It was her—younger, laughing, her hair longer, her eyes bright. She was standing in front of *The Raven’s Nest *, her arm slung around Silas’s shoulder.
“That was the last time I saw you happy,” he said quietly.
Rory’s throat tightened. She set the photo down without looking at it again.
“You left,” she said. “Without a word.”
Silas’s expression darkened. “I had my reasons.”
“So did I.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Rory could feel the weight of all the years they’d missed, all the things they hadn’t said.
Then the door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. A woman stepped inside, her coat damp from the rain, her hair plastered to her face. She looked around, her eyes landing on Rory and Silas.
“Oh,” she said, her voice sharp with recognition . “I didn’t know you had company.”
Silas didn’t look up. “Eva.”
The name hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. Rory’s stomach twisted.
Eva’s gaze flicked between them, her expression unreadable . Then she turned to Rory, her voice low. “You look like hell.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She set her glass down, her fingers trembling.
Silas didn’t move. He didn’t look away.
Eva’s eyes narrowed . “What the hell are you doing here?”
Rory’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.
Silas finally looked up, his gaze meeting hers. “She needs a job.”
Eva’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Rory. “You’re working for Silas now?”
Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “I need a job.”
Eva exhaled sharply , her breath fogging in the cold air. “Fine. But you’re not staying here.”
Silas didn’t move. He didn’t argue.
Eva turned to leave, but paused at the door. “And Rory?”
Rory looked up, her heart pounding .
Eva’s gaze was steady. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
Silas watched her go, his expression unreadable . Then he turned back to Rory, his voice low. “She’s not wrong.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She looked down at her hands, the scar on her wrist catching the light.
Silas reached across the counter, his fingers brushing hers. “You always were good at running.”
Rory’s breath caught in her throat. She pulled her hand away, her fingers trembling.
Silas didn’t move. He didn’t look away.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Rory could feel the weight of all the years they’d missed, all the things they hadn’t said.
Then the door to the hidden room creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. A man stepped inside, his coat damp from the rain, his hair plastered to his face. He looked around, his eyes landing on Rory and Silas.
“Oh,” he said, his voice sharp with recognition . “I didn’t know you had company.”
Silas didn’t look up. “Eva.”
The name hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. Rory’s stomach twisted.
Eva’s gaze flicked between them, her expression unreadable . Then she turned to Rory, her voice low. “You look like hell.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She set her glass down, her fingers trembling.
Silas didn’t move. He didn’t look away.
Eva’s eyes narrowed . “What the hell are you doing here?”
Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “I need a job.”
Eva exhaled sharply , her breath fogging in the cold air. “Fine. But you’re not staying here.”
Silas didn’t move. He didn’t argue.
Eva turned to leave, but paused at the door. “And Rory—”