Chapter Seventy-Six Nobody Bows to a Hood

Sixthday, 14 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Free Territory of Floodline — Sovereign House, Western Rooms

10:12 A.M.

44°F / 7°C — steady rain, low clouds, southwest wind

Roman Maraux Duvall

Vaelora was wearing eyeliner.

Roman stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Looked.

Looked again.

Vaelora sat at his vanity with the posture of somebody attending negotiations with an enemy state.

Sera stood behind her.

Nyxara leaned against the dresser.

Three open cosmetic cases covered half Roman's vanity.

Roman:

“What the fuck?”

Vaelora looked at him through the mirror.

“Don't.”

Roman:

“I ain't say nothing.”

“You were going to.”

Sera:

“He absolutely was.”

Roman walked closer.

Vesper sat on top of the mirror.

Near-black feathers.

Gold-edged wings tucked close.

Seven long tail plumes hanging down the side.

She watched Sera's makeup brush with predatory interest.

Roman pointed.

“Ves. No.”

Vesper clicked.

Sera moved the brush away from her.

“She's already stolen one.”

Roman:

“Where?”

“No idea.”

Roman looked toward Vesper.

Vesper looked away.

Criminal.

Nyxara crossed her arms.

“Vaelora wants to know how ordinary girls do their faces.”

Vaelora's green eyes sharpened.

“That is not what I said.”

Roman:

“What you say?”

Vaelora:

“I said I wanted to know why people put things around their eyes when their eyes already function.”

Roman smiled.

“That's worse.”

Vaelora turned in the chair.

Sera had done very little.

Dark liner around Vaelora's green eyes.

Something soft across her lips.

A little correction where metallic-gold strands framed her face.

No ridiculous glamour.

No transformation.

Still Vaelora.

Just—

Roman stopped.

Vaelora caught it.

“What?”

Roman:

“Nothing.”

Sera grinned.

Nyxara smiled.

Vaelora:

“Roman.”

“You look good.”

Her expression changed.

Only slightly.

Roman had known her too long not to see it.

“Oh.”

Sera:

“That's all?”

Roman looked.

“What you want?”

“Detail.”

Roman:

“She pretty.”

Vaelora's eyes narrowed at Sera as if Sera had personally created this situation.

Nyxara laughed.

Roman walked behind Vaelora and looked at the mirror again.

“You trying go somewhere?”

Vaelora looked at herself.

“Maybe.”

“Where?”

She hesitated.

“I wanted to see if people stare less.”

That wiped Roman's joke away.

Not sad.

Not some giant insecurity speech.

Just information.

Vaelora's human presentation was good.

Very good.

But metallic-gold hair.

Green dragon eyes.

The way she carried herself.

Anybody who followed Roman's circle recognized her.

Anybody who didn't still usually looked twice.

Roman leaned against the vanity.

“People still gonna stare.”

Vaelora frowned.

Sera:

“Roman.”

“What?”

Vaelora:

“Why?”

Roman shrugged.

“You still look like you.”

She stared at him.

“That defeats the purpose.”

“Nah.”

He looked at the makeup.

“You look more normal.”

“Normal?”

“Like... rich girl trying not to look like she could eat somebody.”

Nyxara covered her mouth.

Sera laughed.

Vaelora stared.

Roman:

“Compliment.”

“Bad compliment.”

“Still true.”

Vaelora turned back toward the mirror.

A second passed.

Then:

“I like it.”

Sera looked triumphant.

Roman smiled.

“See?”

Vaelora looked at him through the glass.

“You still have to race.”

Roman's smile got bigger.

“There.”

Nyxara groaned.

“Don't start.”

Roman:

“Race day.”

“We know.”

“Rain too.”

“We can hear it.”

The rain hit the balcony glass harder as if agreeing.

Roman walked toward the windows.

West Floodgate would be soaked.

Perfect.

His communicator chimed on the bed.

Roman looked.

Mireya.

DO NOT ABSORB SPECTATOR LEAKAGE DURING THE RACE.

Roman frowned.

He typed:

why

Immediate response.

Because external mana is outside-resource assistance.

Roman:

free air

Mireya:

NO.

Roman showed Nyxara.

Nyxara:

“She is correct.”

“Everybody hate innovation.”

Eirene entered carrying tea.

Roman looked at her.

“Tell them.”

She read the exchange.

“No.”

Roman:

“Wow.”

Eirene sat beside the window.

Not attached to him.

Not occupying the bed.

Simply there.

Astraea entered behind her carrying Roman's racing gloves.

She tossed them.

Roman caught.

“Garage?”

“Xyra says ready.”

Roman looked at clock.

Ten fourteen.

“Could drive now.”

Everybody:

“No.”

Roman stared.

Vesper clicked.

“You too?”

Vesper flew down and landed directly on his head.

Roman:

“Ves.”

Vaelora smiled at herself once more in the mirror.

Then stood.

“Do I look ordinary?”

Roman looked.

“Not really.”

She frowned.

“You look good though.”

Better.

Vaelora's mouth curved.

Sera:

“See?”

Roman:

“Stop acting like you invented makeup.”

“I improved it.”

Nyxara:

“You put eyeliner on a dragon.”

Sera:

“Exactly.”

The communicator chimed again.

Cassiel this time.

Race handle: 4.8 million crowns.

Roman:

“Damn.”

Then:

Broadcast starts 8:10. Start at 8:30. Oren and Tessa calling.

Roman:

“They doing my race?”

Cassiel:

Yes.

Roman smiled.

Then another message.

Crownless applications: 19,441.

And below it:

Three additional Horizon-state entries cleared neutral screening overnight.

The smile stayed.

Everything moving.

Tournament.

War.

Race.

Nyxara's lab.

Delphine's cousins trying to invent themselves into royalty.

Somebody trying to poison him with blood chemistry.

Kei learning how not to run into walls.

Roman looked out through the rain.

Good.

He was bored yesterday.

Not anymore.

Sixthday, 14 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Free Territory of Floodline — West Floodgate Maintenance Ring

7:52 P.M.

42°F / 6°C — heavy rain, road temperature 41°F / 5°C, southwest wind 19 mph

Tin Voss's motorcar looked like it belonged to somebody who actually fixed his own shit.

Gray.

Older.

No dramatic bodywork.

No unnecessary lights.

No expensive badge.

One dent on the rear quarter Tin apparently considered spiritually important because he'd refused to repair it.

Roman's Gravesend R9 Vanta sat opposite.

Gloss-black.

Burgundy stitching.

Muted gold.

Black wheels.

Left mirror beautifully alive again.

Roman touched it.

Xyra:

“Stop touching.”

“Checking.”

“With fingerprints?”

Roman wiped it with his sleeve.

Xyra stared.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Your face.”

Roman:

“Fuck that phrase.”

The staging area had gotten bigger than Gideon promised.

Not giant.

Still too many people for something everybody kept calling a local race.

Temporary barriers ran along the open sections.

Security stood at every pedestrian access.

Two fixed broadcast towers.

One chase drone.

Betting staff.

Medical crew.

Road maintenance.

A portable null-safety team because apparently Roman couldn't participate in anything anymore without Iven convincing somebody magic might fail.

Good.

Vesper perched on the Gravesend roof.

Roman looked at her.

“Inside before start.”

She clicked.

“Not chasing car.”

Click.

“Ves.”

Vesper spread her wings.

Roman looked at Nyxara.

Nyxara:

“She is not going to listen.”

“Helpful.”

Céleste sat on a barrier under an umbrella.

Eirene beside her.

Astraea standing.

Vaelora had kept the eyeliner.

Roman noticed.

Didn't say.

Sera wore an oversized raincoat over clothes that absolutely did not belong near industrial flood equipment.

Mireya stood beside the telemetry station.

Ren looked at her screen.

Layla looked at the tires.

Kei leaned against the outer barrier wearing a hood.

Ordinary form.

Long dark-brown hare ears exposed because hiding them would have looked more suspicious than not.

Dare and Tavian had somehow ended up near the bookmakers.

Roman suspected corruption.

Gideon did nothing to disprove it.

Cassiel walked through with three recording crystals.

Roman:

“No close-up before race.”

Cassiel:

“Why?”

“Hair wet.”

Cassiel stared.

Roman:

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tin walked over.

Helmet under his arm.

“Ready?”

Roman:

“Yeah.”

Tin:

“Scared?”

“No.”

Tin looked at the rain.

Roman looked too.

“Perfect.”

Tin smiled.

“That's why you're still dangerous.”

Roman:

“You nervous now?”

“No.”

“Little.”

“No.”

Roman:

“Your face.”

Tin:

“You're becoming annoying.”

“Becoming?”

Kei laughed behind them.

An official approached.

“Reminder. No intentional magical propulsion. No attack magic. No gravity correction. No external mana intake.”

Roman:

“Why that one sound targeted?”

Everyone looked at him.

Roman:

“Fine.”

Mireya:

“Your passive consumption threshold is still active.”

Roman:

“I can control.”

“I know. Do it.”

Roman nodded.

Actually serious.

The hunger around leaked mana had gotten easier to feel.

That didn't mean it got to drive.

He slid into the R9.

Door sealed.

Rain became a muted roar against the glass.

Black leather.

Burgundy stitching.

Mechanical controls exactly where he wanted them.

Mireya's telemetry appeared along the lower dash.

Ren's grip prediction stayed observational.

No steering.

No braking.

No bullshit.

Roman started the engine.

The motorcar came alive beneath him.

Combustion first.

Aether system second.

No giant magical scream.

Just power.

Xyra leaned through the window before it sealed fully.

“Turn Three?”

“Brake early.”

“Descent Two?”

“Don't chase correction.”

“Tunnel Seven?”

“Watch runoff.”

“Tin?”

Stolen novel; please report.

Roman smiled.

“Beat.”

Xyra:

“Wrong answer.”

Roman:

“Drive my road.”

“Better.”

She slapped the roof.

Vesper immediately screamed at her from above.

Xyra looked up.

“Move, bird.”

Roman:

“Good luck.”

Vesper glared.

Then launched.

Black-and-gold wings disappeared into rain.

Roman watched her climb toward the floodlights.

Good.

Official pointed forward.

“Staging.”

Roman rolled out.

West Floodgate — Starting Grid

8:28 P.M.

Oren Pell's voice came through the public broadcast system.

Too large for the weather.

“West Floodgate. Six point eight miles of maintenance concrete never designed for motorsport and certainly never designed for teenagers with something to prove.”

Tessa Brann:

“One teenager.”

Oren:

“Tin Voss would appreciate the distinction.”

Roman smiled inside helmet.

Tin's motorcar lined beside him.

Tessa:

“Conditions are worse than yesterday's forecast. Standing water has been cleared where possible, but the road remains wet, cold and polished through several service turns.”

Oren:

“Which should favor experience.”

Tessa:

“And annoy Roman.”

Roman:

“Fuck you.”

Mireya over private comm:

“They cannot hear you.”

“Good.”

Ren:

“I can.”

“Why you on channel?”

“Telemetry.”

Layla:

“He insisted.”

Roman:

“Mute him.”

Ren:

“You cannot mute engineering.”

Xyra:

“I can.”

Ren disappeared.

Roman laughed.

Starting light.

Red.

The crowd beyond the barriers pushed mana outward.

Not everybody.

Enough.

Heat.

Cold.

Earth weight.

Water pressure.

Excitement.

Trying to feel big.

Roman tasted all of it.

His hunger opened.

He closed it.

Not tonight.

Red.

Yellow.

Roman breathed.

Tin's engine settled.

Green.

Both launched.

Tin won the first fifty yards.

Roman hated that.

His foot pressed harder.

The Gravesend pulled.

Power advantage.

Tin stayed ahead into Turn One because Tin was not stupid enough to race Roman in a straight line.

Brake marker.

Roman's body screamed later.

Xyra's voice lived in memory.

Earlier.

Roman braked.

The R9 loaded forward.

Turn.

Tin exited half a car ahead.

Roman:

“Okay.”

No panic.

Second turn.

Tin made it boring.

Perfect line.

Roman carried more speed.

Too much.

He felt rear lighten.

Old Roman would've corrected immediately.

He waited.

Half a heartbeat.

Car settled.

One correction.

Clean.

He lost almost nothing.

Tessa's voice faint over ambient broadcast:

“That's different.”

Oren:

“Roman's correction was considerably calmer than what we saw in his first run against Voss.”

Roman smiled.

“Damn right.”

Tunnel One.

Sound doubled.

Tin still ahead.

Roman gained on power.

Close enough to see water peel from Tin's rear tires.

Don't chase.

Don't chase.

Don't—

Roman wanted the inside.

There wasn't one.

Tin occupied it.

Roman stayed behind.

Good.

He hated good.

They shot out toward Turn Three.

Polished concrete.

Rain.

Roman braked earlier.

Tin did too.

Difference—

Tin entered slightly slower.

Roman had expected that.

He let the Gravesend rotate.

No gravity.

No magical cheating.

Just steering.

Throttle.

R9 bit.

Roman exited alongside Tin.

Crowd beyond barrier exploded.

Their mana pressure rolled over the road.

Roman's hunger snapped toward it.

No.

He shut it.

Tin looked across.

Roman couldn't see his face through rain and glass.

Didn't need to.

Next straight.

Roman's R9 pulled.

Half car.

One.

Then the descent.

Roman lifted.

Tin didn't.

Tin retook half.

Roman:

“Motherfucker.”

Mireya:

“Don't race the telemetry.”

“I know.”

“You're looking at delta.”

Roman stopped looking at delta.

Good call.

Downhill.

Water crossing.

R9 moved.

Not much.

Rear stepped.

Roman waited.

One correction.

Caught.

Tin's rear stepped too.

Tin caught faster.

He gained.

Experience.

Roman felt frustration rise.

With it—

gravity.

Tiny.

Barely.

The steering wheel felt heavier.

Roman noticed.

Immediately pulled it back.

No.

Not winning like that.

His mana stayed inside him.

Tunnel Seven.

Tin entered first.

Roman three-quarters behind.

Engine noise became violent.

Water sprayed off walls.

Roman knew this tunnel now.

Kei had run it yesterday.

The inner curve tightened later than it looked.

Tin braked.

Roman did too.

Tin's brake lights reflected across wet wall.

Roman remembered Tin's first lesson.

Don't stare at the thing in front of you.

Look where road goes.

Roman looked through the exit.

Turned.

The Gravesend followed.

Tin went slightly wider.

Not mistake.

Safe.

Roman took the tighter line.

Not reckless.

Calculated.

For one beautiful second—

they were even.

Then Roman was ahead.

Barely.

His heart hit harder.

“YES.”

Mireya:

“Drive.”

Roman:

“I AM.”

Tin stayed there.

Right behind.

No room.

Next section opened along floodwall.

Wind shoved rain sideways.

Roman's wipers fought.

He couldn't see the crowd.

Good.

Only road.

The world narrowed.

Black concrete.

White markers.

Red warning lights.

The car.

His hands.

His breathing.

Tin's headlights.

Roman's first life had taught him attention through cameras.

Second life through fights.

Driving demanded something different.

No performance.

Road didn't care who he was.

Good.

Final descent.

Roman entered first.

Too fast.

He knew before Xyra would've said it.

Lift.

Not brake.

Car settled.

Tin closed.

Roman could feel him.

Not magic.

Mirrors.

Sound.

Pressure.

Last two turns.

Roman's hunger twitched again.

Someone in crowd leaked enormous fire pressure.

Heat crossed barrier.

Free power.

Roman could eat it.

He didn't.

Turn.

Brake.

Rotate.

Tin appeared on outside.

Roman:

“Fuck.”

They exited side by side.

Final straight.

Now power mattered.

The R9 answered.

Tin's older motorcar fought.

Roman gained inches.

Half a hood.

One wheel.

Finish lights.

Roman didn't breathe.

They crossed.

Silence inside helmet.

Then the board changed.

ROMAN DUVALL — 6:41.882

TIN VOSS — 6:42.716

Difference:

0.834 seconds

Roman stared.

Then screamed.

“LET'S FUCKING GO!”

Mireya immediately disconnected herself from his volume.

West Floodgate — Finish Service Bay

8:44 P.M.

Roman got out before the door had fully risen.

Tin did too.

Rain soaked both within seconds.

Roman:

“POINT EIGHT!”

Tin:

“Yes.”

“POINT EIGHT!”

“I can read.”

Roman:

“YOU LOST.”

Tin removed helmet.

“You're loud.”

“You lost loud.”

Roman held out his hand.

Tin looked at it.

Then shook.

“Better drive.”

That meant more than Roman expected.

His grin changed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Tin looked toward R9.

“Still overcommitted descent.”

“Little.”

“Would've put you into barrier if runoff was worse.”

Roman:

“But didn't.”

Tin:

“There he is.”

Roman laughed.

Vesper dropped from darkness.

Straight onto Roman's head.

Wet.

Very wet.

Roman froze.

“Ves.”

She shook herself.

Rainwater went everywhere.

Tin turned away laughing.

Roman:

“YOU GOT FEATHERS FOR REASON.”

Vesper clicked proudly.

Xyra reached them.

Checked Roman first.

Then car.

Mostly car.

“Mirror?”

Roman:

“Alive.”

She looked.

“Good.”

Nyxara arrived next.

Roman opened his arms.

She walked straight into him despite both being wet.

He hugged her.

“Won.”

“I saw.”

“Point eight.”

“I heard.”

Roman kissed her cheek.

She laughed.

Céleste reached them.

“You were loud on finish comm.”

“Everybody know now.”

Eirene came after, holding Roman's dry coat.

Astraea beside her.

No giant romantic pile.

Eirene simply handed him the coat.

“Good drive.”

Roman smiled.

“Thanks.”

Vaelora:

“You were still too slow.”

Roman turned.

“What?”

“I have flown faster.”

Roman:

“That don't count!”

Vaelora's eyeliner was slightly smudged from rain.

She smiled.

“Then congratulations.”

Better.

Kei vaulted the barrier.

Roman:

“You can't—”

Kei:

“Security let me.”

Security officer behind him:

“I did not.”

Kei:

“Too late.”

Dare followed through gate legally.

“Rabbit got issues.”

Kei:

“Hare.”

“Bunny.”

Kei looked ready to fight.

Roman laughed.

Then he saw the Nadar delivery rider standing behind Dare.

Young.

Maybe twenty.

Split lip.

Wet jacket.

One sleeve torn.

Roman stopped.

Kei saw the change.

His ears dropped.

“What happened?”

The courier looked at Kei.

Then Roman.

“Nothin'.”

Kei:

“Don't.”

“Handled.”

Dare:

“No, you didn't.”

The celebration around Roman kept going.

People shouting.

Oren closing broadcast.

Bet slips paying.

Cassiel moving cameras.

But inside Roman's little circle, sound changed.

Roman:

“Who?”

Courier glanced around.

Too many people.

Roman understood.

“Service room.”

West Floodgate — Pump Control Room Three

9:02 P.M.

The courier's name was Tomas Pell.

No relation to Oren.

Probably.

He delivered nights between Founding Line and west Nevermorning.

Three men had stopped him near Brickwater Cut.

Not robbery exactly.

Tax.

“Night road fee.”

Kei's ears went rigid.

Roman leaned against an old pump console.

“What fee?”

Tomas wiped blood from his lip.

“They said everybody running commercial routes pays now.”

“To who?”

Tomas hesitated.

Then:

“Floodline Nine.”

Silence.

Roman's expression went blank.

Dare:

“Say again.”

“They had IX marks.”

Roman:

“What color?”

“Black-gold.”

Kei swore.

Roman's IX was not a gang tax brand.

Floodline Nine had been his people before it was government and after.

Nobody got to use it like that.

“How much?”

“Fifty crowns per route. Hundred if after midnight.”

Roman:

“You pay?”

“First time.”

“Why?”

Tomas looked embarrassed.

“One guy leaked.”

Roman waited.

“Mana?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

“Earth or gravity. Don't know. Felt like floor was trying to put me through itself.”

Roman's jaw tightened.

There it was again.

People learning mana pressure made excellent theater.

Roman:

“Second time?”

“I didn't.”

Hence lip.

Kei:

“Why nobody told me?”

Tomas:

“You almost died.”

“That ain't answer.”

“Your mom would've killed us if we brought you street shit while you were healing.”

Kei considered.

“Fair.”

Corvan Ash entered.

Nobody had called him in front of Roman.

Which meant Dare had.

Good.

Corvan took one look at Tomas.

“Brickwater?”

“Yes.”

“Three?”

“Tonight.”

Corvan sighed.

Roman:

“You know.”

“I know complaints.”

“And?”

“Marked patrol goes through, nobody there.”

Roman:

“Plainclothes?”

“Same. Crews got eyes.”

“Cameras?”

“Several mysteriously fail.”

Roman:

“Ward logs?”

“Clean enough.”

Roman hated clean enough.

“Why ain't crush?”

Corvan looked at him.

“Because little predators hide when they see the big one.”

Roman went still.

That landed.

Corvan:

“You walk through Nevermorning as yourself, people straighten up.”

Roman:

“I know.”

“Security coat enters, shutters close.”

Roman looked through the tiny rain-streaked control-room window.

Below—

his race.

His road.

His security.

His country.

All very visible.

Tomas hadn't gotten punched here.

He got punched somewhere Roman wasn't looking.

Roman:

“Show me.”

Corvan's eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“Brickwater.”

“No.”

Roman stared.

Corvan:

“You show up, they disappear.”

Roman:

“Then I don't show up.”

Kei's ears shifted.

Dare smiled slowly.

Corvan did not.

“That sentence worries me.”

Roman:

“Why?”

“Because I know you.”

Roman thought about it.

Then smiled.

“Good.”

Corvan:

“No.”

Roman:

“You just said problem is me being me.”

“I said criminals hide from visible authority.”

“Exactly.”

Corvan:

“I did not recommend teenage masked crime fighting.”

Roman:

“You thinking too specific.”

“Because I can see your face.”

Roman looked at Kei.

Kei smiled.

Dare:

“No.”

Roman:

“You too?”

Dare:

“I work nights. I know what stupid looks like.”

Roman:

“You vampire.”

“Independent vampire.”

Roman:

“Come.”

“No.”

Roman looked at Tomas.

“How they know patrol?”

“Spotters.”

“Where?”

“Roof. Shop fronts. Maybe hacked street ward.”

Roman smiled less.

That wasn't three idiots.

Still small.

Organized enough.

Corvan:

“Let me work.”

Roman:

“You are.”

Roman pushed away from console.

“So am I.”

Corvan:

“Roman.”

Roman stopped at door.

Corvan:

“If you do this, you do not wear a crest.”

Roman turned.

Corvan's expression remained flat.

“No state motorcar. No entourage. No executive orders. You see something, you record it. You don't turn every asshole in the district into a constitutional question.”

Roman:

“That's yes?”

“No.”

“Sound yes.”

“It is me acknowledging you won't listen.”

Roman smiled.

“Gangsta.”

Corvan:

“And you don't go alone.”

Kei:

“I'm in.”

Dare:

“Of course you are.”

Roman looked at Dare.

Dare:

“No.”

Roman:

“I ain't ask.”

“Good.”

Corvan rubbed his face.

“Midnight. Brickwater only. Observe first.”

Roman:

“Fight if needed.”

“Observe.”

Roman:

“Fight if needed.”

Corvan stared.

Roman stared back.

“Fine. Needed means actually needed.”

Roman smiled.

There.

Vigilante diplomacy.

Sixthday, 14 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Sovereign House — Western Rooms

10:41 P.M.

41°F / 5°C — rain easing to drizzle, low cloud over river

Roman discovered being anonymous required more work than being famous.

This offended him.

Sera sat on his bathroom counter holding a cosmetic brush.

Nyxara held a small bottle of temporary hair wash.

Céleste held smoked ocular films.

Vaelora sat at Roman's vanity again.

Still wearing some of the makeup from earlier.

Astraea stood behind Roman with an old charcoal weather cloak.

Eirene sat on the sofa.

Mireya occupied the table with a handful of tiny recording wafers.

Xyra had brought masks.

Roman looked around.

“How everybody know?”

Nyxara:

“Kei told me.”

Céleste:

“Nyxara told me.”

Sera:

“I knew spiritually.”

Mireya:

“Cassiel intercepted nothing.”

Roman looked.

Mireya:

“That means Cassiel does not know.”

“Good.”

Sera:

“He'll find out.”

“Later.”

Vesper perched on the wardrobe.

Roman pointed at her.

“You can't come close.”

Vesper's feathers lifted.

“You are literally most recognizable bird in country.”

Click.

“No fire.”

Click.

“High roof.”

Click.

Nyxara:

“She isn't agreeing.”

Roman:

“I know.”

Astraea dropped the charcoal cloak over Roman's shoulders.

No Duvall crest.

No IX.

No gold.

Plain waxed fabric.

Roman looked in mirror.

Still Roman.

Bleach-blonde hair.

Honey-beige skin.

Icy-blue eyes.

Short obsidian horns with burgundy tips.

Famous face.

“Yeah, this don't work.”

Nyxara uncapped the bottle.

Roman:

“No permanent.”

“Temporary.”

“Color?”

“Dark brown.”

Roman stared.

Sera:

“Scared?”

“No.”

Nyxara poured.

Twenty minutes later Roman looked wrong.

His long hair had gone deep brown.

Not black.

No ribbons.

Pulled loose beneath the hood.

Smoked ocular films dulled his blue eyes toward gray.

Sera had added subtle shadow around his cheekbones and jaw, not to make him prettier—

to make photographs disagree.

The lower half of his face disappeared behind a soft black mask.

His horns tucked beneath a reinforced hood.

Roman stared.

“Weird.”

Nyxara:

“Good.”

Céleste tilted her head.

“You still stand like you.”

Roman:

“What mean?”

“Like everybody should move.”

Roman frowned.

Eirene:

“She is correct.”

“Then how normal stand?”

Eirene stood.

Slouched slightly.

Shoulders less square.

Head not turning every time somebody entered.

Roman stared.

“You look broke.”

Eirene:

“Thank you?”

Astraea laughed quietly.

Roman copied.

Céleste:

“Worse.”

“Fuck.”

Vaelora was still looking at herself.

Roman noticed.

Her metallic-gold hair strands had been dulled with temporary cosmetic powder.

Dark hood.

Green eyes softened behind ordinary clear lenses.

No Drakov/dragon jewelry.

Simple black jacket.

Roman:

“You coming?”

“Yes.”

Nyxara looked at her.

“We said observation.”

Vaelora:

“I can observe.”

Roman:

“You bought armored truck first day you learned cars.”

“That is unrelated.”

Sera:

“She's terrible at normal.”

Vaelora:

“You entered his bedroom through a wall.”

“Exactly. Different skill.”

Roman looked toward Nyxara.

She had disguised herself more simply.

Hair under hood.

Horn caps matching dark hair.

Minimal makeup changing the shape the eye noticed first.

Ordinary charcoal coat.

No royal or Nhal-Moran insignia.

Roman:

“You look normal.”

Nyxara:

“Rude.”

“You know what mean.”

She smiled.

Mireya approached Roman.

Pinned a black bead inside his collar.

“Recorder.”

“No tracker.”

“Recorder.”

“Mireya.”

“Also tracker.”

Roman stared.

She stared back.

“If you vanish during an active assassination investigation, I'm tracking you.”

Roman:

“Fair.”

She clipped another sensor under his cuff.

“This logs environmental mana pressure. I want data on what you're absorbing.”

Roman:

“I thought crime.”

“You can commit science simultaneously.”

Nyxara:

“See why I like her?”

Mireya looked away before anybody could make something of that.

Eirene approached Roman.

Looked at disguise.

Reached up.

Pulled one strand of darkened hair loose over his cheek.

“Better.”

Roman:

“Why?”

“Too neat.”

Roman looked at her.

“You not coming?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Too many.”

Good answer.

Astraea:

“We'll remain here.”

Roman nodded.

No hurt.

No weird ownership.

People had choices.

Céleste slid into a dark hood.

Roman:

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“People lie loudly.”

Fair.

Sera hopped off counter.

“I am coming.”

Roman:

“Why?”

“Doors.”

Also fair.

Kei was already downstairs.

Corvan had said four.

Roman counted.

Roman.

Kei.

Nyxara.

Céleste.

Vaelora.

Sera.

“That's six.”

Sera:

“Counting good.”

Roman:

“Corvan said four.”

Nyxara:

“He'll survive.”

Eirene:

“Probably.”

Roman:

“Support.”

She smiled.

Vesper dropped from wardrobe onto Roman's shoulder.

Roman:

“No.”

Vesper dug in.

“Ves.”

Nyxara:

“Good luck.”

Roman looked at phoenix.

“You stay above.”

Vesper clicked.

“Dark.”

Click.

“No flame.”

Click.

“If camera see seven tails, whole disguise cooked.”

Vesper stared.

Then deliberately flared all seven.

Roman:

“Asshole bird.”

She pecked his hood.

Sixthday, 14 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Nevermorning — Brickwater Cut

11:53 P.M.

40°F / 4°C — light drizzle, wet pavement, river fog beginning

Nobody bowed.

Roman noticed immediately.

A woman shoved past him outside a noodle stall.

“Move.”

Roman moved.

Then stood there.

Kei, beside him in ordinary form, whispered:

“You good?”

Roman:

“She told me move.”

“Yes.”

“She ain't know.”

“That's the point.”

Roman smiled.

“Oh.”

He liked this.

Brickwater Cut sat low between two old freight viaducts.

Not slum.

Not rich.

Working district.

Repair shops.

Food windows.

Late laundries.

Courier lockers.

Small apartments above industrial storefronts.

Half the businesses stayed open after midnight because half Nevermorning worked after midnight.

Roman had been through here before.

Official motorcar.

Security.

People waving.

Kids recording him.

Very different street.

Tonight an old woman at a soup stand looked at him once and forgot him.

Amazing.

Nyxara walked three steps behind with Céleste.

Sera had disappeared into a laundromat because she wanted candy.

Vaelora walked across the street trying extremely hard to look ordinary.

She failed because her idea of ordinary still involved scanning rooftops like military terrain.

Roman crossed closer.

“Relax.”

“I am.”

“No.”

“You said observe.”

“That don't mean look like predator.”

Vaelora frowned.

“Humans look around.”

“Not like you deciding where to land.”

She deliberately put both hands in jacket pockets.

Roman:

“Better.”

“Uncomfortable.”

“Normal.”

“Normal is poorly designed.”

Roman laughed.

Céleste suddenly touched his elbow.

Roman looked.

Her ears were hidden inside the deep shape of her hood as much as possible.

“Three behind us.”

Roman didn't turn.

“Threat?”

“Watching.”

“Emotion?”

“Interested. Greedy.”

Kei's ear twitched underneath his hood.

“I hear roof.”

Corvan had been right.

Spotters.

Roman kept walking.

A storefront television played without sound behind glass.

Delphine stood before an Ardenmere council chamber.

Text beneath:

DRELLE PETITION HEARING DELAYED AFTER DOCUMENT AUTHENTICITY CHALLENGE

Background.

Still alive.

Roman passed.

Next shop.

Closed pharmacy.

Graffiti on shutter.

IX.

Black-gold.

Wrong.

Roman stopped.

Not his IX.

Close enough.

The nine had been drawn with an extra lower hook.

Somebody mimicking.

Nyxara came beside him.

“That?”

“Yeah.”

She took a picture through her communicator without raising it.

Roman's jaw tightened.

Céleste:

“Don't leak.”

Roman realized gravity had begun pressing against pavement around his boots.

He pulled it in.

Good catch.

They continued.

At midnight—

one man stepped out of an alley.

Then another.

Then a third.

No masks.

Confidence did that.

The first wore black-gold armband.

Wrong IX.

Roman's anger sharpened.

Man One:

“Road closed.”

Roman made his voice flatter.

“Why?”

“Night access.”

Kei looked down.

Probably hiding smile.

Roman:

“Public road.”

“Not after midnight.”

“Since when?”

The man's mana opened.

Earth.

Heavy.

Pressure rolled over pavement.

A bottle on a nearby crate rattled.

The old soup vendor down the street looked away immediately.

There.

Not new.

Routine.

Man:

“Since you're asking too many questions.”

Roman felt the pressure.

His hunger opened.

He let it.

Just a little.

Earth leakage tasted strange.

Dust.

Stone.

Metal.

Weight without gravity.

He pulled.

The pressure around the man's shoulders began sliding away.

Into Roman.

The thug's expression changed.

He pushed more.

Roman drank more.

Weight vanished from the alley.

The bottle stopped rattling.

Man looked around.

“What the fuck?”

Roman smiled behind mask.

“You wasting it.”

The second man stepped forward.

Fire pressure.

Heat.

Roman's hunger reached automatically.

Nyxara touched his back.

“Slow.”

Right.

Don't gorge.

Don't reveal too much.

Roman took the edge.

Enough to flatten the display.

Second man:

“Who are you?”

Roman:

“Nobody.”

Sera's voice whispered from an alley door that hadn't been open before:

“Corny.”

Roman looked.

“You supposed hide.”

“I am hidden.”

She disappeared.

The first thug raised his fist.

Active mana condensed around it.

Different.

Roman felt the line immediately.

Leakage was loose.

This wasn't.

Bound.

Owned.

A spell.

He couldn't simply drink it.

Good.

The man swung.

Roman slipped left.

Fist hit brick.

Stone cracked.

Roman:

“There you go.”

He drove a short punch into ribs.

No Crusnik claw.

No blood.

Just enough reinforcement to hurt.

Man folded.

Second came in hot.

Literal.

Fire wrapped forearm.

Roman backed.

Heat leakage around spell tasted available.

The spell itself didn't.

Interesting.

Roman stripped the wasted halo away.

Then caught the wrist with gravity-assisted weight—

stopped.

No gravity.

Not competition anymore.

Different rules.

Still didn't need much.

He twisted.

Thug hit ground.

Third ran.

Kei:

“Mine.”

He transformed while moving.

Not wolf.

Not giant monster.

His body rose into the lean Blackwarren hare form in three running steps.

Dark-brown fur deepened toward black.

Long ears swept backward.

Short rabbit tail.

Silver route markings flashed.

Powerful legs compressed.

Then released.

Kei cleared a parked delivery cart.

Touched one wall.

Changed direction in the air.

The runner looked back.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Kei crossed his route.

Cut the Line.

Runner hit brakes.

Kei was simply there.

“Go somewhere?”

Runner turned again.

Vaelora stepped out of fog.

Still human-shaped.

Mostly.

Black-gold scales had appeared over her knuckles.

Runner stopped.

“No.”

Vaelora smiled.

Good answer.

A window above them opened.

Someone shouted:

“Beat his ass!”

Another voice:

“SHUT UP, MARLEN.”

Real city.

The first thug recovered.

Reached inside coat.

Céleste:

“Weapon.”

Roman moved.

Not fast enough.

Nyxara was.

A narrow black-red alchemical cord snapped from her fingers around the man's wrist.

Not blood control.

Prepared reagent.

Sticky as hell.

His hand stopped six inches from hidden pistol.

Nyxara:

“No.”

He yanked.

Cord held.

“What is this shit?”

“Expensive.”

Roman took weapon.

Physical line-caster.

Illegal.

Loaded.

His mood changed.

“You pull this on couriers?”

Thug spat.

“Fuck you.”

Roman's gravity leaked.

Hard.

Street dipped under invisible weight.

Every nearby window rattled.

Céleste:

“Roman.”

He inhaled.

Contained.

The pressure vanished.

Better.

Then another pressure hit from the rooftop.

Strong.

Water.

Drowning.

Not one of three.

Spotter.

Roman's lungs tightened.

Céleste looked up.

“Roof!”

A silhouette moved.

Vesper dropped out of darkness.

No violet fire.

No bright flare.

Just near-black feathers and gold edges appearing for one vicious second.

She hit the spotter's shoulder.

Not claws through flesh.

Impact.

The man yelped.

His communicator flew from his hand.

Vesper caught it in her beak.

Roman stared.

“Good girl.”

Vesper disappeared back into fog carrying evidence.

Spotter ran.

Sera opened a Palace Door directly in front of him.

He entered involuntarily.

The door closed.

Roman:

“Where?”

Sera looked thoughtful.

“Laundry.”

A crash came from the laundromat beside them.

Woman inside:

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Sera:

“There.”

Roman:

“Maybe warn.”

“Less fun.”

Kei dragged his runner back.

“Got him.”

Vaelora followed.

“Mine surrendered.”

Runner:

“I DID.”

Roman looked around.

Four.

Céleste was already moving toward the rear of the noodle shop.

“Someone inside.”

Roman's attention snapped.

They entered.

Back room.

A teenage worker sat on floor behind flour sacks.

Maybe seventeen.

Hands tied.

Not badly injured.

Terrified.

Céleste crouched.

“Hey.”

The kid flinched.

Céleste slowed.

“I'm not with them.”

Roman stayed at door.

No title.

No public face.

Kid stared at masks.

Fair.

Roman:

“We're cutting you loose.”

“Who are you?”

Roman looked at Céleste.

Then Kei.

Nyxara.

Nobody had an answer.

Roman:

“People who don't like them.”

The kid:

“That sounds fake.”

Roman smiled.

“Yeah.”

Céleste cut bindings.

Kid rubbed wrists.

“They make my uncle pay.”

“How long?”

“Three weeks.”

Roman's smile disappeared.

“What happens if not?”

Kid looked toward shattered front brick.

“That.”

Three weeks.

While Roman raced.

Built laboratories.

Ran tournaments.

Argued about scarves.

Three weeks.

Not guilt.

Information.

This was exactly why he was here.

Roman:

“Names?”

The kid nodded.

“Some.”

Nyxara handed him a clean recording slate.

“Only what you know.”

No leading.

Good.

Outside, Vesper returned.

Dropped stolen communicator directly into a puddle.

Roman:

“VES.”

Nyxara:

“Water-resistant.”

Roman:

“Oh.”

Good bird.

Seventhday, 15 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Nevermorning — Brickwater Cut

12:24 A.M.

39°F / 4°C — drizzle ending, river fog thickening

The ledger was under the driver's seat of a parked utility motorcar.

The criminals had been intelligent enough to watch patrol schedules.

Not intelligent enough to stop writing down money.

Roman crouched in alley while Nyxara photographed pages.

Shop names.

Route numbers.

Amounts.

Names.

Not one mastermind.

Several small crews.

Different initials.

Different blocks.

Some paying up chain.

One recurring name:

SIXER

Roman:

“Fake blood dude?”

Nyxara:

“Possible.”

Another line:

BELL THREAD MEDICAL — COLD LOAD

Nyxara stopped.

Roman saw.

“What?”

She pointed.

“Could be reagents.”

“Wreckway?”

“Could be anything.”

Good.

No instant answer.

Another entry:

OLD RED SUPPLY / NIGHT ONLY

Nyxara:

“That one I know.”

Roman:

“What?”

“Old vampire distributor.”

There.

Crimson thread.

Not proof.

Thread.

Kei looked over Roman's shoulder.

“Why extortion idiots moving vampire supply?”

Roman:

“Money.”

Nyxara:

“Or they don't know what they're moving.”

Roman:

“Also money.”

Céleste came from shop.

“The kid says Sixer isn't boss.”

“Who?”

“Never met boss.”

Of course.

Vaelora had removed the fake IX armbands from all four men and stacked them on hood.

She stared at them.

“They used your mark badly.”

Roman:

“I know.”

She looked more offended than Roman.

Good.

Sera emerged from laundromat carrying candy.

Roman:

“You steal?”

“No.”

Woman behind her shouted:

“SHE PAID.”

Roman:

“Okay.”

Sera:

“I possess money.”

Everyone always needed reminding.

Mireya's recorder blinked on Roman's collar.

Evidence captured.

Good.

Roman opened communicator.

Not executive channel.

Anonymous public safety upload.

Photos.

Audio.

Weapons.

Ledger.

Locations.

Suspects restrained.

No names for witnesses.

He sent.

Kei:

“We leaving?”

Roman looked down street.

Blue-white patrol lights were already reflecting through fog.

“Yeah.”

The old soup vendor watched from under awning.

She had seen too much.

Roman met her eyes.

She narrowed hers.

He wondered if disguise worked.

She pointed at his shoes.

Roman looked down.

Expensive.

Fuck.

Vendor:

“Those ain't neighborhood.”

Roman:

“Gift.”

She looked at Nyxara.

Then Vaelora.

Then Kei's very obvious full rabbit body.

Then Vesper circling above.

Her eyebrow rose.

Roman:

“Please don't.”

The old woman smiled.

“Didn't see shit.”

Roman smiled back.

“Appreciate you.”

They moved.

No heroic rooftop pose.

At first.

Kei ruined that.

He vaulted onto awning.

Roman:

“Why?”

Kei:

“Faster.”

Sera opened a door to roof.

Roman:

“Okay, that's faster.”

They climbed.

Vaelora jumped without assistance.

Céleste used stairs because she possessed common sense.

Nyxara followed Roman through Sera's door.

Vesper landed on a chimney.

They reached roof just as public safety entered alley below.

Officers.

Real ones.

No fake IX.

Roman watched them secure scene.

One medic went straight to the teenager.

One officer checked suspects.

Another recovered ledger.

Nobody needed Roman's title.

Good.

Kei crouched on roof edge in full Blackwarren form.

Long ears above silhouette.

Roman:

“You look extremely identifiable.”

Kei:

“You got six wings.”

“Not out.”

“You got phoenix.”

Roman looked at Vesper.

Vesper clicked.

Fair.

Vaelora sat on an old ventilation housing.

Her makeup had survived surprisingly well.

Roman looked.

She caught him.

“What?”

“Still look good.”

Vaelora rolled her eyes.

But smiled.

Nyxara came beside Roman.

“Your hair is awful.”

“Rain.”

“Disguise.”

“You did.”

“I regret.”

Céleste:

“You still stand like you.”

Roman slouched.

Céleste:

“Now you look injured.”

Roman:

“Fuck.”

Sera ate candy.

“Need name.”

Roman:

“No.”

Kei:

“For what?”

Sera:

“This.”

Roman looked at her.

“We ain't making team.”

Sera gestured around rooftop.

Six disguised teenagers and an adult rabbit man—

Kei was eighteen—

plus a phoenix.

Roman:

“Shut up.”

Nyxara:

“She has a point.”

Roman:

“No name.”

Vaelora:

“Why?”

“Names make shit official.”

Céleste:

“You are government.”

“Exactly.”

Kei laughed.

Roman's communicator vibrated.

Corvan.

Four detained. Evidence good.

Then:

You were supposed to observe.

Roman typed:

observed crime

Corvan:

And?

Roman:

stopped observing

Long pause.

Then:

Of course.

Another message.

Sixer moved twenty minutes ago. Somebody warned him.

Roman's smile disappeared.

“Damn.”

Nyxara looked.

Roman showed her.

Kei:

“Where?”

“Don't know.”

Céleste:

“So not finished.”

Roman looked across Floodline.

Fog.

Wet roofs.

Late freight.

Neon signs.

Motorcars moving along elevated roads.

A hospital transport in the distance.

People eating.

People stealing.

People working.

People lying.

People going on dates.

People getting extorted while their sovereign drove in circles for money less than a mile away.

Roman didn't suddenly hate himself for that.

That would've been stupid.

He couldn't personally catch everything.

That was why Floodline had government.

But—

Corvan had been right too.

There were things Roman could only see when nobody knew they were performing for Roman.

Nyxara:

“You're thinking.”

“Yeah.”

“Dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

Vesper stepped along chimney.

Roman looked at her.

Black feathers disappeared almost completely against wet night.

Only gold edges gave her away when light caught.

He smiled.

Kei:

“What?”

Roman:

“Nothing.”

Sera:

“Team name.”

“No.”

Vaelora:

“Uniforms?”

“No.”

Nyxara:

“Better masks.”

Roman paused.

“Maybe.”

Sera pointed.

“See?”

Roman:

“That's equipment.”

Céleste:

“Costumes.”

“Equipment.”

Kei:

“Vigilantes.”

Roman looked.

Kei smiled.

“That's what this is.”

Roman:

“Nah.”

Below them, one captured extortionist shouted at an officer:

“You can't prove shit!”

The officer held up the ledger.

“Sir.”

The criminal stopped.

Roman laughed.

Okay.

Maybe a little.

Seventhday, 15 Thawwane, 427 F.C.

Sovereign House — Western Rooms

1:36 A.M.

38°F / 3°C — fog, wet roofs, wind nearly calm

Roman washed dark dye out of his hair.

Mostly.

One brown streak remained near his temple.

Nyxara laughed when she saw.

“You missed.”

Roman:

“Fix.”

“No.”

“Nyx.”

“I like it.”

Roman looked into mirror.

“Looks stupid.”

Sera:

“Looks mysterious.”

“You think everything mysterious.”

“Yes.”

Vaelora sat at vanity removing eyeliner very carefully.

She had discovered she liked it.

Pretended otherwise.

Céleste was already in bed.

Eirene sat in lounge reading the evidence summary.

Astraea beside her.

Mireya had taken Roman's recorder and immediately disappeared into the technical data.

Xyra had asked whether vigilante masks needed mechanical quick-release.

Roman had said no.

She had said they did.

Probably getting them tomorrow.

Vesper sat in the sink.

Roman:

“Why?”

Vesper splashed water with one foot.

Roman:

“You phoenix.”

She clicked.

Nyxara:

“She can still bathe.”

Roman:

“In sink?”

Vesper splashed him.

“Okay.”

Eirene called from lounge.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“Sixer's name appears in an old Freeblood clinic complaint.”

Roman stopped drying hair.

“Which?”

“Tavian filed it.”

Roman came out.

Eirene handed him slate.

Six weeks ago.

Before Crownless.

Before Wreckway.

A supplier had attempted selling counterfeit vitae stabilizer outside Night Clinic One.

Street contact:

SIXER

No arrest.

Seller disappeared before security arrived.

Roman:

“Same guy.”

Eirene:

“Probably.”

Astraea:

“Not proven.”

Roman nodded.

Good correction.

Another note.

Distributor used:

Old Red Supply Cooperative

Roman looked at Nyxara.

She had come out behind him.

“That the vampire one?”

“Yes.”

“Crimson?”

“Previously owned through three Regency-linked holding companies.”

Not proof.

Thread.

Again.

Roman leaned over table.

Race high was gone.

Different energy now.

Kei's communicator message arrived.

you going again tomorrow

Roman smiled.

Typed:

maybe

Kei:

thats yes

Roman:

everybody use my shit

A second message.

Cassiel.

Roman froze.

Why are there six masked people trending on local feeds?

Roman stared.

Nyxara leaned over his shoulder.

“Oh.”

Roman:

“Who filmed?”

Sera looked away.

Roman:

“Sera.”

“I did not.”

Céleste from bedroom:

“Street camera.”

Right.

Of course.

Cassiel:

One appears to be a giant rabbit.

Kei sent separately:

fuck

Roman started laughing.

Cassiel:

Another appears to have a phoenix.

Roman stopped laughing.

“Vesper.”

Vesper clicked from bathroom.

Cassiel:

Do you have anything you would like to tell me?

Roman typed:

no

Cassiel:

Fine.

Roman relaxed.

Then:

I have already requested footage rights.

Roman:

“THIS MOTHERFUCKER.”

Eirene laughed.

Nyxara dropped onto sofa beside Roman.

Not ladylike.

Tired.

Happy.

Roman sat.

She immediately leaned into him.

He let her.

Vaelora came from bathroom with all makeup removed except the liner.

Roman noticed.

Didn't say.

She sat on the other chair.

Astraea read.

Eirene kept scrolling.

Céleste shouted that everyone was loud.

Sera tried naming the masked group again.

Mireya sent:

Your absorbed leakage totaled approximately 8.4% of one normal mana-pool recovery cycle. Stop eating random street mana until I test contamination risk.

Roman typed:

free

Mireya:

THAT DOES NOT MEAN CLEAN.

Roman paused.

Fair.

Another world alert crossed the wall feed.

Karsov.

Another rail withdrawal.

Then Ardenmere.

Drelle hearing suspended pending genealogical verification.

Then Crownless.

APPLICATIONS: 21,003

Then local.

A shaky nighttime image.

Brickwater.

A hooded figure.

Dark rabbit shape mid-jump.

Black-gold phoenix blur above.

Headline:

MASKED CREW BREAKS UP ALLEGED BRICKWATER EXTORTION RACKET

Roman sat up.

“No.”

Sera:

“Yes.”

Reporter:

“Witnesses disagree on whether the group represents Floodline Nine, private security, independent adventurers, or an unknown vigilante organization.”

Roman:

“Unknown what?”

Nyxara smiled.

“Vigilante.”

Roman looked around.

“No organization.”

Vaelora:

“We were organized.”

“Barely.”

Sera:

“We had matching darkness.”

Roman:

“That ain't uniform.”

Eirene:

“It is more coordination than many governments manage.”

Roman stared.

“Why you encouraging?”

“I am observing.”

Céleste shouted from bedroom:

“Too loud!”

Roman lowered volume.

The reporter continued.

“One witness described the apparent leader as, quote, ‘some skinny rich kid trying extremely hard to look poor.’”

Silence.

Then everyone broke.

Roman stared at screen.

“WHO SAID THAT?”

Nyxara collapsed against him laughing.

Eirene covered her mouth.

Vaelora bent forward.

Even Astraea made a sound.

Sera fell sideways across the chair.

Roman:

“I WAS DISGUISED.”

Eirene:

“Your shoes.”

Roman looked down.

Still expensive.

Fuck.

Vesper flew out of bathroom.

Soaked.

Landed on Roman's head.

Roman:

“Not now.”

The screen replayed blurry footage.

A dark hood.

A rabbit leaping over a motorcar.

A woman with barely hidden dragon posture.

A fox-eared silhouette.

A door appearing where no door belonged.

A phoenix crossing fog.

Nothing clear enough to identify anyone.

Yet.

Roman stopped complaining.

Watched.

Something in his stomach shifted.

Not hunger.

This was stupid.

Reckless.

Probably complicated.

Definitely going to become a problem.

He smiled anyway.

Nyxara saw.

“No.”

Roman:

“What?”

“That face.”

Roman:

“We going again.”

Nyxara:

“I knew it.”

Vaelora:

“When?”

Sera:

“Tomorrow.”

Eirene:

“You have Crownless work tomorrow.”

Roman:

“Night.”

Céleste from bedroom:

“I am sleeping next time.”

Roman:

“Bet.”

Céleste:

“That's not what bet means.”

Roman leaned back.

Nyxara against him.

Vesper dripping onto his hair.

Twenty-one thousand tournament applicants.

One missing street broker.

Old vampire money.

An assassination supply chain.

Delphine's family inventing heirs.

A war chewing westward.

And now apparently masked vigilantes in his own city.

Roman looked at the blurred figure on screen.

Nobody bowed to him.

Nobody moved because of his name.

Nobody knew they were supposed to be impressed.

For twenty minutes in Brickwater, Roman had gotten to see what people did when Roman Duvall wasn't there.

That—

more than beating the shit out of extortionists—

was what made him want to go back.

Roman smiled.

“Need cheaper shoes.”

Eirene laughed again.

Good start.