AI The green neon sign flickered above the door to The Raven's Nest, casting erratic shadows on the wet Soho pavement. Rain slicked the streets, turning the evening into a blur of umbrellas and hurried footsteps . Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy wooden door, shaking droplets from her black hair. The bar's warmth enveloped her immediately—dim lights hung low over scarred oak tables, and the air carried the sharp tang of whiskey mixed with aged leather from the walls' black-and-white photographs. Old maps curled at the edges, pinned haphazardly, as if someone had tacked up forgotten journeys.
She hadn't planned on stopping here tonight. Her shift at Golden Empress had dragged, deliveries through the downpour leaving her soaked and irritable. But her flat upstairs called, and the bar below offered a shortcut, a place to dry off before facing the empty rooms. Rory scanned the room out of habit, her bright blue eyes catching the sparse crowd: a couple in the corner, murmuring over gin; a lone figure nursing a pint at the end of the bar.
Then she saw him.
Silas Blackwood stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the light, the neatly trimmed beard framing a face etched deeper than she remembered. He moved with that same deliberate grace, but the slight limp in his left leg betrayed the years. The silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he set the glass down. He looked up, hazel eyes locking onto hers, and for a split second, the rag froze in his grip.
"Rory?" His voice cut through the low hum of the jukebox, low and rough like gravel underfoot.
She froze midway to the stairs at the back. The bar's familiar creak seemed to amplify the silence stretching between them. Five years. Maybe six. Last time she'd seen him, she'd been a ghost of herself, fresh from Cardiff, bruises hidden under long sleeves. He'd given her a key to the flat upstairs without a word, just a nod and a spare set of linens. They'd shared stories over late-night pours back then—his tales of shadows in Prague, her rants about law lectures and that bastard Evan. Friends, in the fractured way exiles become friends.
Now, he looked... smaller, somehow. The quiet authority still clung to him, but the spark in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something resigned, like a map folded one too many times.
"Silas." She crossed the room, boots leaving wet prints on the floorboards. The counter separated them, a polished barrier scarred from countless elbows. "Didn't expect to find you slinging drinks."
He set the rag aside, leaning forward on his elbows. The limp meant he favored his right side, a subtle shift she noticed immediately. "World turns. I own the place now. Full circle." His gaze flicked to her wrist, where the small crescent scar peeked from her sleeve cuff. "You look... steady."
Steady. The word hung, loaded. She pulled out a stool, the wood groaning as she sat. "Steady's one word for it. Pour me something strong. It's been a night."
He nodded, reaching for a bottle of single malt without asking. The liquid glugged into a tumbler, amber catching the light. He slid it across, his ring tapping the wood. "Delivery run? Yu-Fei's still got you hauling chow mein through monsoons?"
She took the glass, the warmth seeping into her palm. "Pays the rent. Beats Pre-Law debates." A sip burned down her throat, sharp and grounding. "What about you? Last I heard, you were untangling knots for the Crown. Not hiding behind a bar rag."
Silas poured himself a measure, clinking his glass against hers before drinking. The motion pulled at his beard, silver threads more prominent now. "Knots got too tight. Prague, '09. Knee never healed right." He tapped his left leg under the counter, a faint echo . "Retired. Opened this hole to keep busy. Contacts trickle in, but mostly it's locals drowning regrets."
Regrets. The word landed like rain on the windowpane beside them. Rory traced the rim of her glass, watching the condensation bead. Back then, he'd been the Spymaster to her—sharp, unyielding, the man who saw through her fleeing from Evan like it was a mission brief. She'd crashed in the flat for months, listening to his war stories, feeling less like a runaway. But life pulled her away: a string of odd jobs, Eva's calls from Cardiff fading, the city swallowing her whole. She hadn't come down much after the first year, too tangled in her own mess to face his knowing eyes.
"You changed the sign?" She nodded toward the wall, where a faded photograph of a raven mid-flight hung crooked.
He followed her gaze, a ghost of a smile tugging his lips. "Eva's doing. Said the old one looked like a dive. She's got an eye for that."
Eva. The name twisted in her gut. Childhood anchor, the one who'd shoved her toward London. "Still in touch with her?"
"Letters. Postcards from wherever she's wandered." He leaned back, crossing his arms. The signet ring caught the light again, engraved with a crest she couldn't quite place . "What brings you back? Flat's been empty six months. Thought you'd ghosted for good."
Rory set her glass down harder than intended, the thunk echoing . "Work dried up in the suburbs. Needed a reset. Didn't know you'd still be here, propping up the bar like some relic."
"Relic." He chuckled, low and dry, but his eyes sharpened. "That's rich, coming from you. Last time, you were all fire—ranting about injustice, that scar fresh from whatever playground scrap. Now? You walk in like the rain owns you."
She met his stare, the blue of her eyes clashing with his hazel. Fire. Yeah, she'd had that once. Cardiff grit, mixed with her da's courtroom bluster and her mum's quiet steel. But Evan had chipped it away, and London finished the job—deliveries in the fog, nights staring at ceilings, wondering if she'd ever outrun the quiet. "Life wears you down, Si. You know that better than most."
He poured another round, the bottle glugging slower now. "Prague taught me that. Botched drop—asset turned, bullets flying. Woke up in a safe house with a leg that clicks like a bad lock." His voice dropped, the words spilling like he'd held them too long . "Came back to nothing. No parades, just a pension and echoes . This place? It's my cover now. No more shadows."
The jukebox clicked over, a slow jazz number filling the gaps. Rory watched his hands, steady despite the limp, the ring a constant. He'd been her anchor once, the man who'd slipped her a burner phone "just in case." But she'd drifted, letters unanswered, visits forgotten. Regret coiled in her chest, unspoken , like the maps on the wall hiding routes to nowhere.
"You ever think about going back?" She swirled her drink, ice clinking. "The game. Not this."
Silas's jaw tightened, beard shadowing the line. "Every damn night. But the knee says no. And the mirrors." He gestured vaguely at his reflection in the bottle's curve. "Time carves deeper than knives."
She laughed, short and bitter, pushing hair from her face. The scar on her wrist itched, a phantom pull. "Tell me about it. I wanted the bar, the bench—da's dream. Now I'm dodging traffic with takeout bags. Evan's a memory, but the weight sticks."
He leaned closer, the counter's edge digging into his arms. "Evan was a fool. You outran him. That's more than most."
Outran. The word stung. She'd run from Cardiff, from Eva's worried calls, from Silas's quiet offers of work in his "network." Feared dragging him into her chaos. Now, sitting here, the years gaped like the secret room behind the bookshelf—hidden, full of dust and what-ifs.
"Why didn't you call?" His question sliced clean, no preamble. "After you vanished upstairs. I kept the flat for you. Figured you'd circle back."
Rory's fingers tightened on the glass. "Called? On what, your ghost line? You were the one who taught me to cut ties clean." She paused, the jazz saxophone wailing softly . "Truth? I was ashamed. Showed up broken, left half-fixed. Didn't want you seeing the rest."
Silas's eyes narrowed , the hazel flecked with something raw. "Broken's a state, Rory. Not a sentence. I carried my own from Prague—nights replaying the drop, the blood." He tapped the ring, a rhythmic clink. "Family crest. Reminder of debts unpaid."
She glanced at it, the engraving sharp under the light. "Debts. Like the flat rent I never paid?"
"Like the stories we traded." He drained his glass, setting it down with finality. "You were the kid with out-of-the-box fire. Law school dropout with a scar and a stare that saw through bullshit. I envied that."
Envy. From the Spymaster. She snorted, but it caught in her throat. The bar's door swung open, letting in a gust of rain-scented air, but they ignored it. The newcomer ordered at the far end, voice muffled.
"And you?" She countered, voice steadying . "The untouchable agent, limping through pints. What happened to the man who wired London like a web?"
He shrugged, but the motion pulled at his shoulder, age showing in the stiffness. "Web frayed. Contacts retired or buried. Now it's this—pouring for souls like ours." His gaze held hers, probing. "But you. London chewed you up?"
"Spit me out." She finished her drink, the burn fading to warmth . "Eva writes about Cardiff like it's paradise. Da's cases, Mum's lessons. I read them and feel... adrift."
Silence stretched, broken only by the ice melting in their glasses. Silas reached under the counter, pulling out a small tin of matches. He struck one, the flare illuminating the lines on his face—crow's feet from squinting at shadows, perhaps. "Adrift's where the real changes hit. I thought retirement meant peace. Turns out it's just waiting."
Waiting. For what? Her to return? Him to reclaim the field? The tension hummed between them, thick as the smoke from the match dying out.
Rory stood, stool scraping back. But she didn't move toward the stairs. "One more round. For old times."
He nodded, already reaching for the bottle. The pour filled the air with promise and ache, the weight of years settling like dust on the photographs. They clinked glasses again, the sound a bridge over the gap, but the unspoken regrets lingered in the dim light, heavy as the rain outside.