The carriage creaked to a halt, and Evelyn Blackwood stepped onto the glistening cobblestones, her boots clicking against the wet stone. The fog clung to her coat as if it had been waiting for her arrival, swirling in slow, ghostly eddies. Overhead, the wrought-iron streetlamp buzzed faintly, its yellow light barely managing to cut through the dense haze. She adjusted her collar, green eyes darting over the damp, uneven street with a practiced wariness.

Her hand found the pocket of her coat, fishing out a battered cigarette case. The snap of its lid echoed louder than it should have, and she struck a match with a scrape that split the night. The flame flickered weakly before catching, casting a brief glow over her face—angular, lined with shadows that came more from her expression than the poor lighting. She lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily from her lips. The street was empty save for the occasional creak of machinery or hiss of steam rising from the grates. A strange, uneasy peace, but not a comfort. Nothing in Eldermist was comforting.

She blew out a plume of smoke and muttered under her breath, “One good thing about this city—nobody’s watching when you need to think.”

Her eyes scanned the street again, lingering on patches of deeper shadow between the gas lamps. Sometimes the dark held secrets even she couldn’t pull out. A flicker of movement caught her attention, but it was only a stray cat slipping into the gloom. She smirked. “Relax, Blackwood. Not everything in the dark wants to kill you.”

With the cigarette perched on her lips, she turned down a side street, the sharp echo of her boots cutting the heavy silence. Here, the cobblestones gave way to a narrow alley, its walls crowded with the layered history of the city. Ancient runes, etched deep into the stone, whispered faintly of forgotten enchantments; beside them, modern graffiti shouted in neon colors, their fluorescent paint glowing faintly in the mist. One rune caught her eye—a curling script that looked older than the walls themselves. She ran a gloved finger over it, muttering under her breath. “Wonder how long you’ve been here.”

The silence broke behind her. A faint scuffle, too quick to be a rat. Her spine stiffened as she reached for the knife tucked at her side. She kept walking, slower now, her ears pricked for any hint of pursuit. Another scuffle, this time ahead, and she froze, cigarette smoke curling around her like a veil.

“Alright,” she called, voice steady, carrying the weight of someone who had spent years sizing up threats in the dark. “If you’re looking to mug me, I’d suggest a better mark. And a bigger knife.”

No answer. Just the fog pressing closer, thick enough to taste. Her simultaneously popping the clasp and unsheathing the knife in one experienced motion, the blade whispering against its sheath as she drew it.

Then she saw him—or rather, the faint outline of someone—slipping deeper into the mist, the shape quick and fluid. She didn’t follow. Something about the way he moved told her he wasn’t desperate enough to risk a fight. Probably just another thief casing the alleys for easier prey. Or something worse. In Eldermist, "something worse" was usually the safer bet.

Evelyn stepped back, leaning against the wall and slipping the knife away. She took another drag, the ember flaring like an eye in the dark. The figure disappeared entirely, swallowed by the fog. No sounds followed. No danger pressed closer.

“Smart,” she muttered to the empty street, her voice low and dry.

She stood there for a moment longer, letting the quiet fill her lungs along with the smoke. Pulling out her pocket watch from her waist pocket as her thumb depressing the latch before letting the small gold and silver pocket watch come to rest in the palm of her gloved hand. Taking a final pull of her cigarette she criticized the time, *late again.* Adjusting her coat, she stepped out of the alley, continuing down the dark winding streets.

Evelyn stepped into the shadowed nook by the side of the old train yard, the fog curling thick around her boots like smoke rising from the city’s grates. The faint glow of a charm etched into the brickwork caught her eye—subtle magic to ward off unwanted guests. She muttered her thanks to the unseen caster, slipping inside The Rusted Chalice through the weathered wooden door.

The bar’s interior unfolded like an exhale. Warm light spilled from strings of vintage bulbs, brushing against the brick walls and pooling in the dark wood paneling. The faint hum of jazz floated above the low murmur of conversation. Evelyn made a beeline to the far corner, her green eyes narrowing as they picked Isabella out of the dim crowd.

Isabella sat tucked into a booth beneath the massive river-facing window, her head bent over something small and mechanical in her hands. The steady click of gears filled the gap between jazz notes, her nimble fingers adjusting a tiny cog here, winding a spring there. Evelyn paused at the edge of the table, watching for a second longer than she should have. A wisp of chestnut hair had slipped loose, framing Isabella’s furrowed brow. Evelyn swallowed, brushing the moment off like lint from her coat, and slid into the seat opposite.

“You’re late,” Isabella said without looking up. Her voice was soft, teasing more than accusatory.

“City traffic,” Evelyn replied dryly, lighting a cigarette. The ember glowed briefly, casting shadows across her face. “What’re you working on this time?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Isabella glanced up, her green eyes meeting Evelyn’s. They were warmer than the glow of the Chalice’s lights, but there was a tension there too, like a string pulled taut. She held up the clockwork toy—a tiny automaton bird, its wings poised mid-flutter. “Just keeping my hands busy. You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you?”

Evelyn smirked around the cigarette, shaking her head. “Cute.”

For a moment, the bar’s cozy noise seemed distant. Isabella reached across the table, her hand brushing Evelyn’s knuckles before curling around them. The motion was quick, almost furtive, but Evelyn didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her palm over, threading their fingers together.

“I worry about you,” Isabella said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Every time you’re late, I think—”

Evelyn squeezed her hand, cutting her off. “Don’t.” The word came sharp, but her eyes softened as they searched Isabella’s face. “I’m here. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not,” Isabella countered, leaning closer. The glow from the window outlined her profile, making her look like something drawn from a dream. “You’re in danger every day, Evelyn. This city—this work—it doesn’t give second chances.”

Evelyn pulled her cigarette from her lips, exhaling a thin stream of smoke to the side. “And what am I supposed to do, Bella? Hang up the coat? Start tending bar here with Drake and his fireproof mugs?”

Isabella bit her lip, her free hand toying absently with the bird on the table. “Maybe,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of hope and more than a little fear.

Evelyn laughed softly, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t last two weeks watching me sling drinks for rowdy lizard folk and drunks with bad charmwork.”

“You’d look good doing it,” Isabella murmured. The comment was quiet, almost absentminded, but it was enough to pull a rare smile from Evelyn.

The smile faded as Evelyn leaned back, withdrawing her hand slowly but leaving a trace of warmth behind. “I can’t quit, Bella. You know that as well as I do.”

Isabella looked down at her empty glasses. She nodded, though it was reluctant. “I just don’t want you to end up another name on a charm wall somewhere.”

Evelyn tilted her head, studying her with an intensity that had made more than a few criminals crack. “That’s why I’ve got you,” she said after a moment. “To keep me from getting sloppy.”

Isabella didn’t smile, not fully, but her lips curved just enough to be noticed. “Then you’d better listen when I tell you to be careful.”

Evelyn stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, her expression unreadable. “Always do.”

A ghostly laugh drifted from behind the bar—Elara, no doubt—but the two women stayed locked in their quiet bubble. 

Evelyn leaned back in the worn leather booth, her eyes half-closed as she savored the last drag of her cigarette. The smoke curled lazily upward, catching the low glow of the magic bulbs strung across the ceiling like constellations. To her left, Isabella tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, her hands restless as they cradled the stem of her glass. The faint jazz from the band mingled with murmured conversations, the kind of ambiance that begged you to stay just a little longer.

But Evelyn had never been one to linger.

"You're not listening," Isabella said, lightly bumping her head into Evelyn's shoulder, her voice light but her brows pulling together.

Evelyn smirked, flicking ash into the ash tray. "I am. You were on about…some endangered sea slug?"

“Sea grass,” Isabella corrected with a sigh, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile. “And it’s vital for coastal ecosystems. Honestly, you’d love it if you gave it half a chance.”

“Sure,” Evelyn drawled, tilting her head down to look her in the eyes, teasing. “Sea grass. My new favorite thing. Right after shadow hopping and chain-smoking.”

Isabella shook her head but let the moment hang. The quiet between them was easy—comfortably worn like an old coat. Evelyn glanced at the giant window across from them. The river outside glistened under the moonlight, the kind of scene poets wrote about and cynics ignored. For a second, Evelyn thought maybe she could stay a little longer after all.

Then the stone in her pocket began to hum.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she dug it out, the smooth, black surface faintly warm in her palm. Before Isabella could ask, the stone rolled itself out of her hand and hovered in midair. With a faint shimmer, it spat out a neatly wrapped parchment onto the table.

The bar around them didn’t flinch. It was that kind of place—magic dropped in like an uninvited guest, but no one raised an eyebrow.

Evelyn stared at the seal on the parchment, the emblem of Eldermist’s law enforcement unmistakable in its intricacy. The faint curl of her smirk evaporated. Isabella set her glass down carefully.

“You’re not going to like this, are you?” Isabella asked softly.

“Never do,” Evelyn muttered, breaking the seal with her thumb. She unfolded the note with deliberate slowness, as though savoring a last second of denial. The words, written in elegant black ink, were succinct but heavy.

Urgent summons. Alaric Thornwood. Incident at the workshop.

Her jaw tightened as she folded the parchment back into thirds. Alaric Thornwood wasn’t just another alchemist; he was the alchemist—brilliant, infuriating, and untouchable. Or at least he had been.

Isabella’s hand brushed hers, fingers warm against her own cool, calloused ones. When Evelyn looked back, Isabella was watching her with that soft, searching gaze that always managed to unsettle her.

“You’ll handle it,” Isabella said. Her voice was steady, but Evelyn caught the flicker of worry beneath it.

“I always do.” Evelyn squeezed her fingers briefly before pulling away. She reached for her coat draped over the booth’s edge, the worn leather familiar against her fingertips. Shrugging it on, she felt the weight of her responsibilities settle on her shoulders like an old habit.

“Don’t wait up,” she said, trying for casual, but her voice fell flat.

“I won’t,” Isabella lied, a faint smile touching her lips.

Evelyn didn’t have a reply for that. She glanced back as she stepped toward the door, catching Isabella watching her. The glow of the bulbs softened the edges of her face, but her eyes stayed sharp—pride and worry, threaded so tightly together they were indistinguishable.

The cold hit Evelyn as soon as she stepped outside. Fog crept in off the river, coiling around her boots as she disappeared into the shadows. She didn’t look back.