Whispers in the Dark

  The underground cells of the Lux Arcana sat cold and silent, carved deep into the stone beneath the sanctuary. Wards hummed faintly along the walls, layered protections that even the most skilled magic-users could not easily break. Here, Dorian stood, arms crossed, crimson eyes fixed on the bound figure across from him.

  The captured agent of the Whispering Court shifted uncomfortably under Dorian’s gaze. His expensive clothes now hung tattered and grimy, the polished confidence he wore in the human world stripped bare.

  Dorian stepped forward, the soft tap of his boots punctuating the heavy silence. “You know where you are,” he said, voice low and edged with something far more dangerous than anger. “There is no negotiation here. Only truth.”

  The agent sneered, lifting his chin. “You think locking me down here will change anything? The Court has resources you couldn’t imagine—”

  Dorian moved in a blur, slamming his hand against the stone beside the man’s head. The walls shook with the impact. The agent flinched, his bravado cracking just slightly.

  “I’m not here to listen to fairy tales,” Dorian said, voice dangerously soft. “You’re going to tell me why the Whispering Court smuggled glamor charms into mortal hands? You’re going to tell me who helped you. And you’re going to do it now.”

  The agent’s bravado faltered. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

  “You do not know what’s coming,” he muttered.

  Dorian leaned in closer, crimson eyes narrowing. “I know exactly what’s coming. And you’re going to help me stop it—or you’re going to disappear so thoroughly that even your court won’t remember you existed.”

  The agent’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Silence hung heavy between them until finally, words spilled out.

  “There’s a faction… inside the Court. They call themselves the Ascendants. They plan to take magic from the supernaturals. So they can ascend and rule the hidden world.”

  Dorian absorbed the information without flinching. “Names,” he demanded.

  The agent hesitated, and Dorian tilted his head slightly, a predatory smile curling at his lips. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  “Valeon Marris,” the agent choked out. “And Lady Deyna. They’re the ones funding the black market operations. They’re planning something... big. Something at the next summit.”

  Dorian stepped back, the gears already turning in his mind. The Whispering Court wasn’t just meddling—they were staging a takeover.

  “You just earned yourself a few more days of breathing,” Dorian said coolly. He turned on his heel, the door sliding open at his approach.

  As he stepped out into the corridor, Dorian didn’t even glance back. The Whispering Court had made their move.

  Now it was the Union’s turn.

  Shadows Beneath the Court

  The interrogation chamber dimmed under the weight of layered wards and tension. Dorian stood against the far wall, arms crossed, crimson gaze sharp. Across from him, the Whispering Court agent slumped in his chair, chains of spelled iron wrapped tight around his wrists.

  This time, Dorian wasn’t alone.

  Ronan stepped into the room, a quiet storm in black. His amber eyes glowed faintly in the low light, their intensity enough to make the agent shrink back against the chair.

  “You said enough to keep you breathing last night,” Dorian said, voice dry and cutting. “But you left out something important.” He flicked a glance toward Ronan. “You want to tell him, or should I?”

  The agent shifted uncomfortably, his bravado from before stripped to threads. His gaze darted between the two men before finally settling on Ronan, who hadn’t spoken a word.

  “You don’t understand,” the agent rasped. “The Ascendants aren’t the only ones moving. There’s... another.”

  Ronan raised a brow. “Name.”

  The agent’s throat bobbed. “We don’t know his real name. We only call him The Collector."

  Silence wrapped the room tighter.

  Dorian’s smile sharpened. “Charming.”

  Ronan stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each footfall measured. “Start talking.”

  The agent licked his cracked lips. “He’s not aligned with any faction—not the Court, not the humans, not the Thalrasi remnants. He moves through both worlds, gathering relics... forbidden ones. Ancient artifacts tied to the old magics—the ones predating the Council.”

  “And what does he want?” Ronan asked, voice low and dangerous.

  The agent shivered. “No one knows. He doesn’t recruit. He doesn’t threaten. He just... buys. Steals. Claims. Anything tied to phoenix fire, eclipsed power, the foundations of the Veil itself—he’s hunting it.”

  Ronan exchanged a glance with Dorian, whose mouth had tightened into a grim line.

  “And the Court?” Ronan pressed.

  The agent let out a shaky breath. “They’re terrified of him. But they can’t control him. Some even tried to sell to him to gain favor... they vanished. No trace. Just gone.”

  Dorian pushed off the wall and circled the agent like a slow-moving blade. “You’re telling us there’s a third player in this little game—and he’s been hiding under everyone’s noses?”

  The agent nodded frantically. “He’s older than any of us realized. Older than the Council. Maybe older than the Thalrasi itself.”

  Ronan’s jaw tightened, his mind already racing. Power vacuum after the war, broken factions, desperate mortals—and now, something ancient stirring in the chaos.

  Exactly the threat they hadn’t been ready for.

  “You’ve been helpful,” Ronan said at last, voice a blade sheathed in velvet. “But if you’re lying, you’ll wish you’d stayed loyal to your court.”

  The agent flinched as Dorian stepped forward, snapping the cuffs tighter.

  “Back to your cell,” Dorian said, voice crisp. “And pray your usefulness doesn’t run out.”

  As the door sealed behind them, Ronan turned toward Dorian.

  “Find out everything you can,” he said, eyes burning with new purpose. “About The Collector. And about what he’s looking for.”

  Dorian grinned, sharp and predatory.

  “I already have a few ideas.”

  Embers on the Auction Block

  The black-market auction wasn’t held in some smoky back alley or crumbling warehouse. This kind of power demanded elegance and secrecy.

  Elysia adjusted the slim black cloak over her shoulders as she and Dorian moved through the crowded lobby of the Solstice Hotel, an opulent, gilded building tucked between New York’s forgotten skyline spires. Magic shimmered faintly along the marble walls—illusion spells hiding the true nature of the gathering. Only those carrying the proper sigils passed through unnoticed.

  “You sure this is smart?” Elysia murmured under her breath.

  Walking beside her in a tailored black suit that practically screamed dangerous aristocrat, Dorian smirked without looking at her. “No,” he said dryly. “But since when has that ever stopped us?”

  She fought a smile as they entered the grand ballroom.

  The room pulsed with restrained energy. Around them, wealthy mortals, low-level sorcerers, rogue fae, and the occasional vampire milled about, sipping champagne and murmuring over velvet-draped tables showcasing arcane artifacts. None of the objects on display was ordinary.

  A blade thrummed with frozen lightning. A pendant wept liquid starlight. A mirror rippled as if alive.

  And at the center of it all, secured beneath a reinforced glass dome, sat the relic they had come for.

  Elysia’s breath hitched the moment she saw it.

  A shard of blackened crystal, jagged and raw, faintly pulsing with an inner flame. Even across the room, she could feel it. Old. Powerful. Dangerous.

  Phoenix-born.

  Dorian leaned in slightly, murmuring, “That’s it. The seller doesn’t even know what they’re holding. They listed it as a corrupted firestone.”

  She eyed the relic warily. “It’s no firestone. It’s a fragment of the Sovereign Line’s Heartfire.”

  Dorian’s smirk faded.

  “We can’t let it end up in the wrong hands,” she added, her voice grim.

  He nodded once. “Good thing you brought me, then.”

  The auctioneer—a too-thin fae with silver hair and a smile like a dagger—took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, honored beings of station and ambition... tonight’s most rare offering: Lot Sixty-Three. A fragment imbued with primeval flame, provenance unknown, potential... immeasurable.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Hands raised, coins flashed.

  Elysia scanned the faces, feeling the hum of magic in the air grow sharper, edgier.

  Too many interested parties.

  “I’ll bid,” Dorian whispered. “Stay sharp. If the Collector’s people show up, they won’t try to outbid. They’ll try to take it.”

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  The auctioneer’s gavel slammed down as the bids began.

  Dorian raised a gloved hand smoothly, tossing out numbers like they were nothing. One bidder after another dropped away—until only two remained: Dorian and a figure cloaked in heavy red velvet, face hidden.

  The air thickened.

  Elysia’s fingertips itched for flame. She fought it down. Timing mattered. Eyes mattered.

  “Ten million,” Dorian said coolly, his voice carrying just enough to snap attention back to him.

  A hush fell.

  The red-cloaked figure hesitated.

  And then dropped out.

  The auctioneer grinned and slammed the gavel down. “Sold!”

  Dorian offered a lazy bow, flashing his teeth in a smile that held zero warmth. “Let’s go,” he murmured to Elysia.

  They moved quickly, collecting the relic and tucking it into a warded satchel Dorian had prepared. No one stopped them. No one dared—yet.

  But as they exited into the chilly night, Elysia’s skin prickled.

  She glanced back once.

  The red-cloaked figure stood at the entrance, still and silent, watching them leave.

  Dorian caught her glance and muttered, “Yeah, I saw him too. Pretty sure this night’s not over.”

  They disappeared into the crowd, the stolen ember of the past tucked safely between them, for now.

  Shadows on the Wind

  The moment they stepped beyond the velvet-draped safety of the auction, Elysia felt it—danger, sharp and cold, curling around them like smoke.

  “Dorian—” she warned, fire already sparking at her fingertips.

  Too late.

  Figures cloaked in black peeled away from the alleys, blades gleaming as they closed in without a word.

  Dorian reacted instantly, pushing Elysia back and stepping between her and the attackers.

  Steel clashed against steel as he met the first blade with his own, the force of the blow vibrating up his arm.

  Another assassin lunged from the side. Dorian spun, slicing low, driving them back.

  But more kept coming—silent, relentless, coordinated.

  They weren’t going to make it out clean.

  From the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Elysia whip a fire across the nearest attacker, forcing a gap.

  It was enough.

  “Hold on,” he growled.

  He seized her wrist roughly, yanked her close, and the world around them tore apart in a burst of black mist.

  Shadow-glide.

  In an instant, the alley, the assassins, the entire crumbling street, disappeared.

  They plunged through the folds between spaces — Lux Arcana’s magic, distant but burning like a lighthouse in Dorian’s mind.

  The glide stretched him thin, the pull on his blood magic sharper than usual, made worse by the deep gash across his side, the one he didn’t have time to acknowledge.

  They crashed into reality again the next heartbeat, stumbling onto the grass behind Lux Arcana’s fortified gardens.

  The Arcana’s wards flared when they crossed the perimeter, slamming a shield into place, cutting off pursuit.

  Safe.

  Elysia stumbled, breathing hard, blinking against the sudden stillness.

  Dorian caught her elbow instinctively, steadying her before letting go like it burned.

  He straightened, forcing his posture into something easy, casual, even as blood soaked hot and sticky beneath his jacket.

  “Are you—” Elysia started, reaching for him.

  “Fine,” he cut in smoothly, a cocky smirk sliding into place. “I’ve had worse first dates.”

  Elysia snorted under her breath, tension bleeding from her shoulders as she clutched the relic tighter.

  Dorian steered them toward the hidden side entrance without waiting for her to argue.

  Every step pulled at the torn flesh along his ribs, but he didn’t let it show.

  Elysia, too keyed up from the fight, didn’t notice. She trusted him to be fine. She always did.

  And Dorian — stubborn, reckless, loyal — wouldn’t let her see otherwise.

  They disappeared into the shadowed halls of Lux Arcana, leaving the night — and the danger — behind them.

  For now.

  Cracks in the Armor

  The corridors of Lux Arcana hummed with layered wards and quiet magic, but to Ronan’s senses, something still felt wrong.

  He waited until Elysia had vanished down the hall, carrying the relic to the vault, her fire-bright presence slipping out of reach.

  Only then did Ronan step from the shadows, barring Dorian’s path.

  The vampire wore that familiar, insufferable smirk that usually meant he thought he could out-stubborn the world.

  But Ronan wasn’t fooled.

  Not tonight.

  “You’re bleeding,” Ronan said, voice low, even — almost dangerous.

  Dorian barely slowed, shoulder-checking past him. “I’m breathing. That’s the important part.”

  Ronan caught his arm, rougher than necessary, and spun him around. Dorian grunted as Ronan yanked aside the edge of his jacket.

  Blood. Dark, sluggish, stubbornly leaking from a deep gash along his ribs.

  “You call this nothing?” Ronan snarled, barely restraining the surge of fury pounding in his chest.

  Dorian shrugged, careless. Careless, because it wasn’t about pain. It never was.

  “We got the relic,” Dorian said, like that explained everything.

  “You almost didn’t make it back,” Ronan ground out.

  “And if I hadn’t pushed?” Dorian snapped, his crimson eyes flashing with something rawer than anger. “You think they would’ve stopped coming? That Collector freak is only getting started.”

  Ronan’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He wasn’t furious because Dorian fought.

  He was furious because Dorian fought as if he didn’t think he deserved to survive.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” Ronan said, his voice quieter now — the quiet that cut deeper than shouting. “Throwing yourself at every threat like you’re disposable.”

  Dorian’s smirk twitched—a tiny, visible crack in the armor.

  “I’m not—” Dorian started, defensive, automatic.

  “You are,” Ronan interrupted relentlessly. “And it ends now.”

  The corridor was filled with the humming weight of unspoken things. Lux Arcana’s walls thrummed around them — a low, steady heartbeat. Beyond the stone and magic, the ocean roared in the distance.

  Dorian’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping just enough to betray how much the night had cost him.

  How much does it cost him every night?

  Ronan released his grip, but his voice stayed iron-strong.

  “You’re not our weapon, Dorian. You’re family. You don’t have to bleed just to earn your place.”

  For a heartbeat, Dorian said nothing. Then he let out a short, brittle breath — half laugh, half surrender.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll let Selmira patch me up. Happy?”

  “Ecstatic,” Ronan deadpanned, but it had a rough edge. An edge Dorian heard — and understood — even if neither of them said it out loud.

  Dorian started down the hall toward the medical wing, his limp no longer hidden, his usual bravado dulled but not shattered.

  Ronan stayed behind a moment longer, watching.

  Because he knew — even if Dorian let them catch him tonight — he’d throw himself into the fire again one day.

  And Ronan could only pray that when that day came, Dorian would finally believe he was worth saving, too.

  Echoes Beneath the Stone

  The corridors leading to the Vault of Lux Arcana lay deep beneath the casino’s polished floors, beyond any public access, and shielded behind layered enchantments that only a handful could breach.

  Elysia moved through them alone.

  The relic—the one Dorian had nearly bled for—felt heavy in her hands. Heavier than its size justified.

  Its surface pulsed with a subtle vibration, like something inside it was trying to wake.

  The vault door loomed ahead, a massive slab of iron and obsidian engraved with runes so old they had no known language.

  Elysia pressed her hand to the central sigil. The magic in her blood answered the wards, and with a low groan of ancient gears, the door shuddered open.

  A gust of cool, dry air met her.

  Inside, relics and enchanted artifacts rested in containment fields, floating in shimmering barriers of light and spellwork. Each piece was carefully isolated and dangerous in its way.

  She crossed the threshold, heart hammering harder the closer she came to the empty pedestal prepared for the newest acquisition.

  The relic twitched against her fingers.

  She paused. Frowned.

  It shouldn’t behave like this.

  She set it down carefully.

  The pedestal’s containment glyphs activated with a flash of blue light, wrapping the object in layers of magical warding designed to suppress even the most aggressive enchantments.

  But the relic didn’t settle.

  The pulse grew stronger, darker.

  Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong.

  Elysia took a step back, instincts flaring.

  As she watched, faint shadows bled from the artifact, writhing against the barrier, testing it. The runes carved into its surface seemed to rearrange themselves when she wasn’t looking—like something trapped inside wanted out.

  She clenched her fists, struggling to tamp down the shiver running through her.

  This wasn’t just a lost trinket or minor magical device.

  It was something older. Something angry.

  And they had just brought it into the heart of their sanctuary.

  With a whispered command, she locked the vault seals again, reinforcing them with every layer of magic she could access.

  The door slammed shut, the locking runes blazing to life.

  Still, even as she turned away, she could feel it.

  Watching. Waiting.

  Breathing in the dark.

  Stitches and Secrets

  The infirmary inside Lux Arcana was tucked deep within the residential wing, far from the bustle of the casino and the council chambers.

  It smelled faintly of clean linen, old magic, and something sharp and metallic beneath it all—like the memory of blood.

  Selmira leaned over Dorian with a needle of charged silver thread, her hands sure and merciless.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out between New York and here,” she said coolly, stitching his side without so much as a warning.

  Dorian winced, but didn’t flinch. “You’re lucky I like you, or I’d be halfway to Prague right now instead of letting you jab me like a damn pin cushion.”

  Selmira gave a wicked little smile. “Oh, I know you like me. That’s why you didn’t whine like a child when you walked in here bleeding like a gutted deer.”

  Dorian huffed a breath, half amused, half pained. “Not my finest exit.”

  “No,” Selmira agreed, tying off another stitch with a sharp jerk. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

  For a moment, neither spoke. Only the crackle of the wards around the infirmary filled the silence.

  Finally, Selmira leaned back, surveying her work. Clean, neat rows of stitches, barely visible against Dorian’s pale skin.

  “You’re pushing too hard,” she said, quieter now.

  Dorian stared at the ceiling. “It’s what I do.”

  “Not anymore.” She met his eyes, and for once, he didn’t hide.

  “You’re not alone in the trenches now, Dorian,” she said, voice steady but not unkind. “You have Ronan. Elysia. Nyx. Me.”

  He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “The world’s smallest army.”

  Selmira didn’t smile. “The only one that matters.”

  She pressed her hand lightly over the bandaged wound, sealing the last threads with a shimmer of healing magic.

  “You don’t have to bleed to prove you deserve to be here,” she said, echoing the words Ronan had spoken hours before.

  Dorian closed his eyes briefly. Letting the truth of it sink in—or trying to.

  When he opened them again, some of the hard edges in his gaze had softened.

  “Thanks, Mira,” he said, voice rougher than usual.

  Selmira smirked, her usual sharpness returning. “You’re welcome. Now get the hell out of my infirmary before I decide you need a tetanus spell, too.”

  He barked a laugh and slid off the cot, careful of his side.

  As he limped toward the door, Selmira called after him:

  “And if you tear those stitches, Dorian—”

  He looked back over his shoulder, grinning. “You’ll what? Make me sit through another one of your lectures on vampiric anatomy?”

  Selmira arched a brow. “No. I’ll make you my assistant during wound cleaning day.”

  Dorian shuddered. “Cruel, Mira. Cruel."

  The door swung shut behind him, and Selmira smiled to herself in the empty room.

  Maybe they were battered. Perhaps the world was still broken.

  But together, they had a fighting chance.

  The Reluctant Warrior

  The training grounds behind Lux Arcana were slick with mist, the moon casting a silver haze over the field. Dorian moved through complex maneuvers, his sword flashing with brutal precision.

  But Elysia saw it.

  The way his steps slowed just a fraction too much. His jaw tightened every time he pivoted on his left side. The subtle grimace he tried to hide with a smirk.

  Enough.

  She dropped from the observation deck, her boots hitting the ground with a determined thud.

  “Dorian,” she called out. “You’re done.”

  He didn’t stop. Just turned slightly, blade slicing the air in another lazy arc. “Didn’t know you were running my training schedule now, Red.”

  Elysia stalked toward him, hands on her hips. “I’m not asking.”

  He grunted, finishing another strike. “I’m fine. Just loosening up.”

  “You’re bleeding through your bandages.” She pointed to the thin line of crimson seeping at his side. “That’s not fine. That’s stubborn stupidity.”

  He dropped the sword with a sigh, the tip hitting the ground. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

  “You’re not being coddled,” she snapped, planting herself before him. “You’re being valued.”

  Dorian stared at her, face unreadable.

  “You fought. You bled. You survived,” she continued, softer now. “That’s enough. You don’t have to keep proving you’re invincible. You need to heal, Dorian. For you. For us.”

  For a long moment, the only sound between them was the hush of the wind.

  Finally, Dorian exhaled, something weary in the set of his shoulders.

  “I don’t know how to stand still, Elysia,” he admitted. “I never have.”

  She smiled, but there was steel behind it. “Good. Because you’re not standing still. You’re standing with us. Big difference.”

  She held out a hand. “Come on. I’ll even let you pick the movie while you pretend to ‘rest’ and not nap like an old man.”

  He snorted, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

  “Fine, but if you make me watch some human coming-of-age drama, I’m setting the couch on fire.”

  Elysia grinned. “Deal. Now move it, vampire.”

  He sheathed his sword with exaggerated slowness and followed her off the field; the mist swallowing up their footprints behind them.

  They pushed through the side door of Lux Arcana, boots squeaking slightly on the polished floors.

  As they entered the hall, a figure lounging near the main stairs lifted her head — Nyx, sprawled with casual elegance, a book open across her lap.

  She looked at the two of them — Dorian grimacing slightly, Elysia shepherding him like a stern nurse — and smirked.

  “Well, well,” Nyx drawled. “Look who’s finally housebroken.”

  Dorian shot her a dark look. “I am not housebroken.”

  Nyx only shrugged lazily. “Sure you are. Next thing you know, you’ll be wagging your tail and wearing cozy sweaters.”

  Elysia barely laughed as Dorian flipped Nyx an exaggerated salute and kept walking, muttering under his breath.

  But for all the snark, Nyx’s gaze softened slightly as she watched Dorian limp away — a silent acknowledgment between family.

  Not broken. Not lost. Still here.