It happens almost too fast to be real.

  One moment there is nothing, and the next, Clarence stands beneath the bruised glow of emergency lights, red and white flashing like the world’s slowest heartbeat. The hospital rises in front of him—cold, sharp-edged, unfeeling. The kind of place built to repair bodies, not souls.

  He’s still holding her.

  Maggie.

  He sets her down, carefully, as if she might crack. She sways on bare feet, legs trembling under the weight of exhaustion and fear.

  Then he looks at her and sees it all.

  Cuts, bruises, the haunted look pooling in her eyes like rainwater in a grave. And the blood that blooms on the pavement from her soles, raw and torn from the woods.

  And something inside him knots.

  A familiar feeling, that claws up his throat before he can swallow it—concern. He bit the inside of his lip to tell himself to stop.

  He needs to kill it.

  Whatever it is inside him that still dares to care, he wants to stab it dead and leave it bleeding on the pavement.

  Because he loathes her.

  No—not her.

  The girl she looks like.

  But the line between the two is blurring fast.

  And then, the stupid human thing reaches out. Her fingers close around his wrist, featherlight but desperate. Her voice is a whisper, as if too much sound might shatter the moment. “I don’t know what you are...but thank you. For taking me away from that place.”

  Her hand is trembling.

  So is his.

  Clarence tears his hand away from her. It is sudden as though burned, shaking off her touch like it’s poison.

  "Don’t touch me.” His voice cuts like a blade.

  Maggie flinches, retreating into herself, confusion flickering across her battered face. He sees the hurt—and hates that he sees it. Hates that it stirs something soft, something dangerous.

  “I didn’t save you,” he snaps, eyes trained anywhere but her. “I shouldn’t have brought you. I shouldn’t have interfered...in case this is your punishment.”

  Her breath hitches. The words knock the air from her lungs.

  “My...what?”

  Maggie’s voice is smaller now, like a child who’s just realized they’re not safe.

  And Clarence?

  He’s furious.

  Furious that she doesn’t remember. Furious that she does look like her. Furious that after everything—after what she did—someone like her gets the chance to reincarnate.

  A chance she doesn’t deserve.

  She should have burned.

  She should have been in Hell.

  And as the lights whirl around them, slicing the dark into fragments, his blade appears. He is thinking it. It would be so easy. One swing, one second, and the universe would right itself.

  Walkaway, Clarence. Walkaway.

  He tries to tell himself, but the blade remains in his hand.

  “Do you know Matthew?” Maggie asks as she eyes the familiar steel. It looks exactly like the one she pulled out of that man’s coat.

  His heart stumbles.

  They’ve met.

  The name cuts cleaner than any blade. And just like that, the murderous haze lifts.

  “Please thank him for saving me. When he said that help is coming, he must have meant you. Can you make sure he’s all right?” She looks afraid of Clarence, but a tone of sincerity still paints her face as she inquires about Matthew.

  He is certain, nothing bad happened. It’s Matthew. He can handle anything.

  “It does not matter. You won’t remember anything anyway.” His hand brushes the side of her head, fingers ghosting over her temple like a benediction he never meant to give.

  And then—he’s gone.

  Maggie stays frozen, as if his absence has stolen the very air from her surroundings. The tears slip out before she even knows they’re there.

  “Why am I...crying?” she touches her wet face then looks around as if seeing the place for the first time.

  A nurse steps out of her car, parked close to where she stands. She spots her and seeing how distraught she looks, she calls out. “Miss? Are you alright?”

  Maggie’s voice falters, the words dragging out from somewhere hollow as she turns toward the woman. “I...I was kidnapped. I don’t know how I got here.”

  The nurse sees the blood, the bruises, the bare feet. Horror scrawls across her face as she shouts for help. Then, hands close around Maggie and carry her toward the sterile, bright, unfeeling world.

  —

  Clarence is so close.

  So close to losing it.

  The moment he steps back into the Veil, he’s already searching—hunting for the only face that matters.

  Hers.

  Anya walks in from the break room and stops almost spilling her coffee when she sees him.

  “Captain?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she watches him draw heavy breaths and tug at his tie.

  “Clark, where is she?”

  “She’s gone down. To escort the rogue.” Anya sets her coffee aside and takes a cautious step toward him. “Captain, are you—”

  He vanishes before she can finish asking if he is okay.

  That look on his face—it feels foreign to her. She’s never seen him that way. Like he’s going to shatter at the thought of...Clark being in Hell.

  —

  At the gates of damnation, he reappears.

  The black iron looms cold and unwelcoming. But they no longer have the power to intimidate him.

  His gaze drops to the figure moving across the arid land. She drags the rogue behind, like dead weight, one hand locked around its collar as if it’s nothing more than a stray dog.

  Clarence doesn’t call out. Quietly, he moves—his hand finding her wrist before his mind can object.

  The pull from behind stops Clark in her tracks.

  She turns, fire sparking in her eyes, “Look who finally decided to show up.”

  Clarence does not answer back. He isn’t looking for a fight. Not tonight.

  He doesn’t let go.

  Too afraid that she will disappear if he does.

  He just holds her there, fingers tightening as if the contact is the only thing keeping him upright.

  “Don’t go,” he says. Low. Raw. A confession wearing the shape of a command.

  “You leave in the middle of a case, and now you want to take credit for the catch?” Clark’s voice unrelenting at his sheer audacity.

  He’s glad she doesn’t see it—the real reason for holding her back.

  She doesn’t have to know, Clarence.

  Doesn’t need to hear the truth—that the thought of her stepping into Hell again makes something inside of you break. That it’ll destroy both of you if she finds out.

  "Take the night off. You can do your report tomorrow. I’ll escort the rogue.”

  “Pfft.” she snorts, “You see one human girl and now you’re feeling generous? She must be goddamn amazing to make you nice.”

  No, Clark.

  No.

  He is trying to hold himself down. Even if all the cells in his body are telling him to just pull her close and wrap her in his arms to make her shut up.

  Instead, his thumb brushes the inside of her wrist, slow and soft. A quiet, desperate gesture.

  For a second—just a second—the world forgets to spin.

  Clark stares at him. She feels it—that tender brush of leather against her skin—and it somehow makes her even more furious. She jerks her hand back like he’s branded her.

  “Fine,” she mutters. “Take your prize.”

  She turns, but her hand stays at her wrist, fingers brushing the place where his touch still lingers like a phantom.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she whispers to herself, then disappears.

  —

  Clarence is left standing in the space where she was, the ghost of her, the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He stays unmoved for a minute, trying to collect himself. But the rogue starts writhing on the floor, breaking the solitude.

  He silences it with one blow to the neck before dragging it to the receiving office.

  It is a dreary place. Flickering lanterns, stacks of moldy paperwork, the faint, acrid scent of old blood. The demon at the front desk is chewing on a bone, idly flipping through documents. His name tag reads: Ralph.

  Ralph didn’t look up. “Got a soul to drop off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paperwork?”

  He pulls out his phone, opens something and lets the demon scan the barcode on the screen.

  “I was expecting Red to come by. The security camera shows her outside, instead I got you.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The demon sighs like this is all terribly boring. “Captain, why do I have the feeling that you are hogging our rookie? You won’t even let her visit her old pals.”

  “She’s a reaper of the Veil now. She’s not your rookie.”

  Ralph grins, entertained. “I heard you are a bit obsessive; I had no idea it was this much. She’ll come back, you’ll see. Saints who've tasted sin, always return for seconds.”

  Clarence pushes the rogue too hard, stumbling on the stack of paper. “We’re done here.”

  The demon snarls at the mess; the reaper has set him back a month of paperwork.

  ****************************

  A thousand years past—a time so steeped in blood and shadow that even the scribes of the Citadel dared not ink its truths upon the page. An age they called The Black Century, though few now remember why. Perhaps it was because power then reeked of rot, and the hands that held it were always stained red.

  In those days, the monarchy ruled unchallenged, and a single kingdom stood above all others. Proud. Feared. Unyielding. Its banners cast long shadows over the lesser realms, and its name was spoken with both reverence and dread.

  It was during this age of iron and ambition that they met—the Black Duke and the Red Lily of the Capital.

  They had known one another since the cradle, their houses bound not by oath, but by familiarity and proximity. There had long been whispers of betrothal, of uniting the blood of two ancient lines:

  The Royal House of Charterborough and House Cardall.

  Margaret was of royal blood, the firstborn daughter of the crown prince and his highborn lady. But the realm had little use for daughters, save as pieces on the board. She would not inherit the throne, only the burden of being traded like coin—for swords, for banners, for power.

  Clarence, heir to the Duchy of Lansforth, was the only son of the old Duke of Cardall. A boy forged in steel and silence, as his father had been. His house was one of the First Families—the Eight who had stood by the crown since the founding. Their loyalty was as old as the kingdom itself, and nearly as cruel.

  As the years passed and the age of marriage drew near, the talk returned—low murmurs in high halls. The king had issued a decree: the First Families were to wed and breed heirs, to preserve the line and stability of the realm. War brewed in the north, rebellion in the south. Sons and daughters must be born before swords cut down their sires.

  With the death of his father, Clarence became Duke of Cardall. But like his father before him, he lived more on the battlefield than in his own hall. He fought the king’s wars with a zeal that bordered on doom. And knowing death could take him with the next swing of a blade, he obeyed the royal decree. A wife must be taken. An heir must be named.

  They all thought it would be her.

  She thought it would be her.

  Every glance, every word, every tradition told Margaret she was born for this. To wear the black of Cardall, to stand at Clarence’s side not as friend, but as Duchess.

  Then she came—Marion Highcourt, sister to the lowly Baron of Highcourt.

  It should not have been a contest. Margaret was a royal princess, daughter of the blood. Marion was a lady, yes, and her house one of the Eight, but poor in coin and poorer in influence. No one had spoken her name in the same breath as the Duke’s—until they did.

  They said it was divine providence. That the stars had turned for Marion. That God himself had chosen her.

  Worse, Clarence had chosen her too.

  The man who had once scoffed at the very idea of marriage, who nearly renounced the right to wed at all, bent the knee and took Marion’s hand.

  Margaret Charterborough had never been denied anything. Not a ribbon, not a ride, not a room in the palace itself. But this—this one thing she had believed was hers by right, by destiny—was ripped from her hands.

  And if even a saint can fall when tempted, imagine what a princess might do when scorned.

  —

  There were no tears.

  Margaret did not weep when the banns were read. She did not scream when the letters arrived bearing the Highcourt seal and the Crown’s blessing. She did not beg.

  She watched.

  Like her mother had taught her—chin high, voice level, spine straight as a sword. “A lioness does not howl,” the queen had once told her. “She waits in tall grass. Then she strikes.”

  So, Margaret waited.

  She stood at the wedding, draped in crimson and gold, and offered Marion Highcourt a smile honed sharper than any blade Clarence had ever wielded. The bride looked small beside her—smaller still beneath the weight of borrowed jewels and stolen fate.

  Margaret knew how to play the courtly games. She knew how to dance while drawing blood. And though they had named Marion Duchess of Lansforth, no one could look at Margaret without remembering who she had almost been.

  Who she still could be.

  Because the tides of kingdoms shift. Thrones tremble. Alliances fracture.

  And marriage, after all, is a frail little thing.

  Clarence had chosen Marion, yes. But choices were often made in haste. In weariness. In weakness. And Clarence Cardall had many—though he would never name them. But Margaret knew. She had seen him in the quiet hours, long before the war carved him into something cold.

  He was not immune to longing. To doubt.

  And love—real love—was a fantasy reserved for bards and drunkards. Power was the only truth that endured.

  So she smiled. She curtsied. She offered gifts.

  And she began to plan.

  There were allies yet loyal to her blood. Courtiers who resented the sudden rise of a no-name duchess. Whispers began to curl through the marble halls—soft as silk, sharp as serpents.

  Marion is stubborn and acts like a lord more than a lady.

  It is a scandal to unite the two houses.

  Wouldn’t it have been better, had he married the princess?

  No one dared say it aloud. Not in the open. Not yet.

  But fire does not announce itself before it burns a kingdom down.

  And Margaret had waited her whole life to set something aflame.

  —

  Clarence loved her.

  There was no pretending otherwise. Not even Margaret—crowned in courtly training, swaddled in dignity—could deny it.

  She saw it in the way he looked at Marion Highcourt. That sharp, unguarded thing in his gaze. As if the world quieted when Marion stepped into it. As if his breath belonged to her, and her alone.

  He never looked at Margaret that way.

  Not once.

  But he should have.

  And that bitter truth nestled itself in Margaret’s chest like a shard of ice, slow and cruel. She was everything the kingdom demanded—graceful, intelligent, loyal. A daughter of royal blood. A woman forged not of fire, but of starlight and snow. The kind of wife bards wrote of when they sang of golden ages.

  Marion, by contrast, was tempest and thorn.

  Beautiful, yes—but not in the way Margaret was. Marion’s beauty was wild and deliberate, sharp-eyed and swift-handed. There was nothing soft about her save her voice when she spoke to Clarence, and even that carried the weight of command. She bowed to no one. Not even Margaret.

  And when she smiled, it was only for him.

  Margaret would have pitied her, if she didn’t resent her so much.

  Still, she played her part. She remained near. A friend to the Duke. An ally to the Duchy. Her presence was never unwelcome. Clarence, after all, had known her since childhood. She spoke his language—duty, legacy, lineage. Things Marion often dismissed as chains. But Margaret... Margaret understood.

  And she began with silence.

  No harsh words. No jilted tears. Just soft eyes, thoughtful questions, gentle company when Marion was away—on a hunt, at council, training with the house knights, always wrapped in the scent of steel and rebellion.

  “You were never meant to be a soldier,” Margaret said once, her tone light as silk, as they walked the frost-tipped gardens.

  Clarence said nothing. But his brow had furrowed, just slightly.

  That was enough.

  She never pressed. She never spoke ill of Marion. She didn’t need to.

  Instead, she offered what Marion could not—peace. Elegance. The subtle, quiet understanding of what it meant to be noble.

  A Duchess was not meant to carry blades or argue in council chambers. She was meant to carry kingdoms in the curve of her smile.

  And Margaret did, effortlessly.

  Clarence began to linger longer in her company. At first, with the stiff posture of a man caught between past and present. But over time...he relaxed. Allowed her to speak freely. Smiled at her wit. Once, she even made him laugh—really laugh. The sound so rare it made her fingers twitch with hunger.

  She never touched him. Never reached for his hand. But one night, as he poured her a cup of wine, their fingers brushed.

  He did not pull away.

  That night, she could not sleep.

  He loved Marion. That truth remained fixed, unshaken. But love, Margaret had learned, was not always enough. Kingdoms were heavy things. And even the strongest hands grow weary.

  And Margaret Charterborough was not fire.

  She was gravity.

  ****************************

  Maggie wakes up. It’s the kind of waking that leaves you hollow, like you’ve fallen back into your body from somewhere much higher, or lower, and the landing wasn’t soft. Her skin is slick with sweat, and for a moment she stares at the ceiling—white, indifferent, perfectly blank. A canvas that doesn’t care about the stories scrawled behind her eyes.

  It’s a dream, but the kind that doesn’t let go just because her eyes are open. She sees herself—silk shoes whispering against marble floors, gowns stitched from centuries long buried under dust and history. A life that doesn’t belong to her, can’t belong to her. The monarchy’s been sent packing ages ago, replaced by republics, constitutions, and public scandals. She isn’t royalty, at least not in that sense.

  Her phone lights up. The name flashing across the screen is one of those charmingly modern euphemisms for bad decisions: Playboy.

  “Hey—” she answers, voice still half-lost in the dream.

  “Mags, where the hell are you?!” His voice is sharp, the kind of sharp that can slice through an evening suit.

  "Francis—”

  “I just saw your casting director on the news,” he snaps. “The guy’s a bloody serial killer! Tracy told the police you were with her when she was kidnapped — are you alright? I’m sending security. Where are you?”

  Right. She forgets to call him the moment they bring her in. Humans are always forgetting the important bits—like breathing, or warning people about homicidal lunatics lurking in their professional circle.

  “What happened to the audition?” she asks, softer, but not by much. “Please tell me you didn’t cancel it.”

  “Of course I cancelled it,” he says, which is true, but the truth doesn’t make either of them feel any better. “I only did this for you as a favor. And now the Feds are already involved, but that’s not the point—where are you?”

  She hangs up without answering. Words are wasted currency now. Instead, she texts him the address: the hospital, where the walls watch you more carefully than the staff.

  Across town, Francis stares at his phone. For a second, just a second, his thumb hovers over the screen like it’s a detonator. Then the call cuts out, and for a man who has built his life around getting exactly what he wants, being cut off mid-sentence feels like heresy.

  He’s parked outside his hotel—Halcyon Crown, a hotel that smells like old money and the occasional body buried under the metaphorical rug. His legal team—has just managed to sweep a few recent “disappearances” under the collective public rug, marking it as a bad coincidence.

  But now one of the casting directors is hauled off by the police, the kind of arrest warrant in hand that suggests the words ”kidnapping" and ”murder" have turned up on the same guest list.

  The address pings in. Francis forwards it to his secretary, who is about two sips of coffee away from a full-scale breakdown.

  "Get her,” Francis says. “I don’t want any reporter within ten meters of her. And bring one of the lawyers.”

  The secretary doesn’t argue, just vanishes with two of the security team, the kind who know exactly how many bones a human body has and which ones break the quietest.

  Francis steps into the car just as the press starts to circle like gulls, and for once, he feels their hunger. The driver slides behind the wheel. The engine hums to life, the kind of purr that promises escape.

  And that’s when he sees her.

  She’s standing by the hotel entrance, one hand tucked into the pocket of a suit too sharp for office hours, too sinful for church, and far too tailored for someone who’s wandered here by accident.

  The police are busy, weaving their yellow caution tapes across the entrance like some grim, urban maypole. Murder has a way of making even the finest establishments feel like cheap motels.

  She radiates beneath the pale city moonlight, soaking in the kind of glow that warns both angels and devils alike: This one’s trouble. And she knows it.

  He wonders if she’s here for the audition. Because if she is, she’ll get it. The panel won’t need a second glance. They’ll call her the next face of the brand, slap her onto billboards, and have a contract couriered over before she even finishes her first complimentary espresso.

  She turns. A flick of her head that could launch a thousand ad campaigns. But the car’s already pulling away, and Francis disappears from view before her eyes can catch him.

  She lets out a sound suspiciously like mischief stretched thin.

  “Well,” she muses aloud to nobody in particular, “since I’m free...maybe I’ll take a suite.”

  And with the sound of wings, she’s gone.

  —

  If anyone’s looking—which they aren’t—they might catch a shadow flicker at the top of the Halcyon Crown, where the air grows thinner and the rooms start charging you for the privilege of existing. Clark is already there, standing against the cold bite of the glass railings, the city sprawling below her like an open casket.

  Alive, she wouldn’t have made it past the velvet ropes—not without selling her kidneys, her pride, or her soul. And the last two, well—those are already spoken for.

  First-years like her don’t earn much in the Veil. Not enough for this kind of view, not even close. But reapers don’t knock. They don’t ask. And money’s for mortals. She comes and goes as she pleases, slipping through the world like a note left unread.

  She hops down from the railing, boots soundless against the balcony floor. The penthouse stretches out, dark and untouched, a museum of rich man’s taste: too clean, too quiet, too empty. No one’s home. No one ever really is.

  The walls are dressed in their best, bastions on either side of the balcony—old stones weathered by time and money, plucked from some castle ruin. She wanders to one, running her fingers across the chisel marks, and there it is: a single letter, worn but unmistakable.

  M.

  A signature of sorts. The kind that sticks in your mind, long after your body’s gone.

  She lingers. The room, the city, the night—all of it waits for her to move. But she stays.

  “I bet Clarence stays at a place like this,” she murmurs, and the name—Clarence—tastes different in her mouth now. Like a secret you weren’t supposed to know you’d kept.

  The heat from Hell crawls back under her skin, uninvited and unwelcome. Her wrist still remembers the brush of his thumb—cold and precise—and for a moment, she can almost feel it, like some ghost of a ghost. She presses her hand to the spot, as if that can stop the memory from seeping deeper.

  But before her thoughts can wander further, the phone rings.

  Anya’s name blinks on the screen.

  "I found her,” comes the voice, bright as ever. Like finding a human is as simple as checking under the sofa cushions.

  “Who?” Clark asks, though the answer’s already waiting in the back of her mind.

  “The girl.”

  Of course. The girl. The human. The one the Captain has rather dramatically swept away like a prince from a very grim fairytale. The one that makes Clark feel something she doesn’t have the words for.

  “Do you want the deets?”

  “Send it to me.”

  A few seconds later, the profile blooms across the screen.

  Maggie Juilliard. The kind of name that comes pre-packaged with wealth and polished shoes.

  “Get this,” Anya chimes, “ballerina, violinist, family owns half the bloody fashion industry. She came to Halcyon to head the model search for their brand. Even though she’s not auditioning, the rogue seems to like her. Guess she looks the part.”

  Clark’s eyes scan the profile, lips pulling into something caught between admiration and disdain. Perfect. The girl’s perfect. The world always makes room for perfection.

  “What is she, a princess?” Clark mutters.

  “Maybe the next best thing,” Anya answers. “She’s the type every mother-in-law wants.”

  Clark huffs. “Do they like princesses better than saints?”

  There is a pause on the line, like Anya has to think about it. Like the universe has to think about it.

  "Definitely the one with the crown.”