Chapter 10: For Flames Beckoneth

Anne adjusted the strap of her bag as she stepped out of the factory, her arms aching from another long shift. The air outside was thick with the scent of oil, rust, and distant rain, but even that couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting elsewhere.

Her brothers.

Elric and Tomas would have finished their own little adventures by now. Maybe Elric had conned another group of street kids into playing one of his rigged dice games. Maybe Tomas had found some weird insect and was trying to convince Elric it could talk. Either way, they'd be home, warm and safe.

She smiled.

It was the thought of home that made her stomach twist—not in dread, but in a deep, aching hunger.

Gods, she could eat.

She imagined something warm, thick stew with hunks of bread soft enough to tear apart with her hands. Or maybe something roasted, spiced—something that made her tongue burn just enough to crave more.

And wine.

She could practically taste it already.

Not the cheap stuff they gave to workers when the bosses wanted them compliant. No, a real bottle. Something rich, something that lingered on the tongue, something with that perfect sweet-spiced aroma that wrapped around her senses like a warm scarf.

And maybe, just maybe, she'd let herself enjoy it slowly this time.

She turned down the next street, heading toward a small wine shop tucked between two larger buildings. The owner, a tired-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes, barely glanced at her before sliding a bottle across the counter.

Anne picked it up, weighed it in her hands. The deep red liquid sloshed within, catching the dim light of the store.

This would do.

She made her way home, bottle secured in her bag, boots clicking against the uneven cobblestones.

Blackmire stretched around her in its usual dull glow—lamplights flickering, figures moving in alleyways, the city exhaling the filth of another day. But tonight, she didn't feel like looking over her shoulder.

She was tired.

She wanted warmth. A quiet night. A meal that wasn't rationed or stolen or eaten in a rush.

Maybe she'd even call Valentine.

She was still thinking about him.

Valentine Fontaine.

A man who had strolled into her life, kicked it sideways, and then made himself comfortable in the wreckage. A man who had cooked in her kitchen, made her brothers laugh, filled her home with something dangerously close to warmth.

A man who had—

Torn another man's scalp from his skull like he was plucking a weed.

Her stomach twisted, and it wasn't hunger this time.

It had been weeks, and yet that moment still clung to her.

The wet sound. The ragged shriek. The way Valentine had sighed afterward—not in horror, not in anger, but in mild disgust, like he had just stepped in something unpleasant.

"That was disgusting."

That was disgusting?

Not, "I regret doing that."Not, "Gods, what have I done?"Just disgusting.

Like it was an inconvenience.

She should be afraid of him.

And yet, here she was, standing at her own doorstep, debating whether or not to invite him over for wine.

Anne clenched the bottle tighter.

What was wrong with her?

She wasn't naïve. She knew men like Valentine existed—she had worked in factories where the foremen's hands lingered too long, had walked through streets where the wrong glance could earn you a scar, had been cornered in an alley by a laughing man who thought she was just another nobody who wouldn't be missed.

That man had been wrong.

Because Valentine Fontaine had been there.

Because the worse monster had found her first.

Her breath caught.

She should hate him.

She should be afraid.

She should feel sick remembering what he did, how he smiled at her afterward, how he wiped the blood from his hands so effortlessly before offering her his name like they had just met at a garden party.

And yet…

Her brothers liked him.

And she had never seen them warm up to anyone like that before.

And she had slept peacefully the night he had stayed.

And she was standing here now, debating calling him, because the thought of drinking alone suddenly felt unbearably quiet.

Anne exhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Gods," she muttered. "I need to stop thinking about this man."

She pushed open the door and stepped inside, ignoring the nagging thought in the back of her head.

Because no matter how much she tried to rationalize it, no matter how much she reminded herself that Valentine Fontaine was dangerous, unpredictable, violent—

She had never felt safer than when he was near.

***

The room smelled of old stone and damp air, with a faint trace of something acrid beneath it—something burnt, something chemical.

Markov sat at the lone table in the center, the dim overhead light casting sharp shadows along his gaunt features. He was thin, his sharp cheekbones hollowed further by the angle of the light, his fingers stained faintly yellow as they tapped rhythmically against the table's surface. The scent of bad and evil clung to him, as it always did.

Across from him, the man listened in silence. His name was unspoken, unnecessary. He was one of the many hands that moved through Blackmire's undercurrent—faceless to most, but not to Markov.

"It won't happen again," Markov said, voice low, even. "The next parcel will arrive on time."

The man exhaled slowly through his nose. He had the look of someone who'd spent too many years in this line of work—eyes dull, mouth set in an unreadable line, fingers drumming against his own knee. He wasn't convinced.

"I had to explain to people," the man finally said. His voice was sandpaper, worn down and rough. "You understand how that makes me feel?"

Markov smiled thinly. It didn't reach his eyes. "Uncomfortable, I imagine."

"That's one word for it." The man leaned back in his chair. "This can't happen again."

"It won't."

The man didn't press further.

A pause. The air between them settled, heavy with unspoken tension.

Then, as if shifting topics was as natural as breathing, the man said, "And the girl?"

Markov didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, studying the way the dim light flickered against the man's expression, the way his fingers curled absentmindedly against his knee.

Then, with that same thin smile, he said, "She's being handled."

The man lifted a brow. "She was useful, wasn't she?"

Markov shrugged. "She was convenient."

"Dead weight now?"

"Not yet."

The man made a sound in his throat—something between amusement and disinterest. "So what's the plan?"

Markov tapped his fingers again, a steady, thoughtful rhythm.

"He will make sure she realises the consequences of her defiance."

A beat. The man let out a soft huff. "Don't tell me?"

"There's no need for that. He is trustworthy."

"He is a fucking experiment."

Markov's smile widened, just a fraction.

Silence stretched between them again. The man watched him, waiting, but Markov didn't elaborate.

Eventually, the man sighed. "Fine. But if she becomes a problem—"

"She won't."

Another pause. Then the man nodded once, sharp and final, and pushed himself up from his chair.

Markov watched him go, his fingers never ceasing their rhythmic tap against the table.

***

Anne's fingers tightened around the bottle of wine as soon as she stepped inside. The air felt wrong.

Her home was small, cramped, familiar—there was never a time she walked in and didn't know exactly where everything was. And yet, tonight, it felt different. Off. Occupied.

And then she saw him.

A man in a long black coat, his back straight as a blade, a polished cane resting against his knee. He sat between her brothers, Elric and Tomas, as if he belonged there, as if he had been invited.

But he hadn't.

Her brothers—smart, quick-witted little things—sat still, not frozen, not trembling, just... waiting. Their eyes flicked to her, carefully. Not pleading. Not panicked. Just sharp. They were holding him here. For her.

She let the door swing shut behind her.

The man turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate, his face half-lit by the weak glow of the room's single oil lamp. He was older, not by much, but enough for the edges of his youth to be worn down, leaving something more angular, more defined. The smirk that curled his lips was precise, almost rehearsed.

"Ah," he said, his voice rich, smooth. "The lady of the house has arrived."

Anne said nothing. She didn't move, didn't set the bottle down.

The man chuckled softly. "Your brothers were such excellent company while you were away. Bright boys, well-mannered." He glanced between them. "A little too well-mannered."

Elric and Tomas smiled. But it was the smile of children in the presence of a wild animal—tight, calculated, barely holding.

Anne finally spoke. "Who are you?"

The man sighed, tilting his head slightly. "Does that really matter?"

"Considering you're in my house," she said, her voice steady, "yes, it does."

The man exhaled through his nose, amused. He tapped a gloved finger against the head of his cane. "Well then, let's say I'm a man of many names and none at all."

"That's not an answer."

"It's more of an answer than you deserve."

Anne's grip on the bottle remained firm. Her brothers were still watching, still waiting.

The man leaned back in his seat. "We were discussing something interesting before you came in. Morality. Ethics. Faith." His smirk returned, languid and self-satisfied. "I find them all to be rather tedious concepts, don't you?"

Anne didn't respond.

He took this as an invitation to continue. "People like to think there are rules. Universal truths. But it's all lies, isn't it? Good and bad, right and wrong—constructs. Convenient illusions for those too weak to accept reality." He sighed, shaking his head as if genuinely disappointed. "And faith—ah, faith is the worst of them all. A desperate man's final gamble. People cling to it like rats on a sinking ship, hoping it will save them from the truth: that nothing means anything. That we are all rotting."

He turned his gaze back to her, dark and sharp. "Tell me, Anne. Do you still believe?"

She met his gaze, unmoving.

The man stood, slow, deliberate. He was taller than her, just slightly, and as he walked toward her, her brothers sat even stiller. She saw the tension in their little shoulders, the way their hands curled at their sides, ready. Ready to grab, ready to strike.

He stopped a foot away from her.

Then, with a soft smile, he extended a clean, gloved hand.

Anne stared at it.

Her brothers were smiling. But they were ready.

The man's smile didn't falter. "Come now. A gesture of goodwill."

Anne looked at him, then at his outstretched hand.

And then, quietly, she recited a verse.

A verse from The Lord of Truth's Myth.

"Light knows no master, no chain, no end.""What is given freely cannot be taken.""What is seen clearly cannot be undone.""Let the blind pretend. The stars remain."

A slow, creeping disappointment spread across the man's face. His hand withdrew.

And then, he laughed.

Not loud, not cruel—just amused.

"Well," he said, turning his back on her, "isn't that just charming?"

Anne froze.

Her breath caught in her throat as an unbearable pressure closed around her chest—hands. Too many hands. Clutching, grasping, sinking into her ribs as if trying to dig through flesh and bone to reach her heart. Her skin prickled, burned, like thousands of invisible needles piercing through every inch of her body.

She gasped, staggering back, hands flying to her arms, her stomach, her throat. But there was nothing there.

Her brothers—where were they?

She turned. Elric? Tomas? They had been sitting there, smiling, waiting. Holding that strange man long enough for her to arrive.

But now—

They weren't here.

They were never here.

Anne's blood turned cold.

Her stomach twisted as she looked around, hands shaking. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her coat, into her own arms, grounding herself. She wasn't home. She wasn't in her cramped little apartment.

She was still in the wine shop.

The shopkeeper stood behind the counter, looking at her with mild confusion, the woman's lips forming some question she couldn't hear. Shelves of dark glass bottles lined the walls, a slow drip of burgundy spilling from one, forming a small pool on the wooden floor.

Anne's heart slammed against her ribs.

Her brothers.

She felt it.

She didn't know how, but she felt it.

They were in danger.

The fear slithered up her spine like ice, but she didn't freeze this time.

She turned on her heel and ran.

She didn't take the bottle. Didn't look back.

Her legs burned as she tore through the streets, the wind whipping past her ears, her vision tunneling, narrowing until nothing existed except the pounding of her feet against the stone, the sound of her breath—ragged, uneven—her pulse hammering like war drums in her ears.

She sprinted past vendors shutting down their stalls, past carriages rattling over uneven cobblestones, past the twisted alleys and the looming silhouettes of Blackmire's crumbling buildings.

Her apartment.

Home.

She turned the last corner—

—and stopped.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Flames raged.

They curled and twisted, licking at the night sky, hungry and furious, devouring everything in their path. Thick, black smoke billowed into the air, swallowing the stars.

Anne's legs locked. Her mind emptied.

Her home.

Her apartment.

A crowd had gathered, murmuring, shouting. The fire cast wild shadows across their faces, warping their expressions into something monstrous. The heat licked at her skin, searing, suffocating, a dry, burning force that made her eyes sting.

She stepped forward—stumbled, really.

Someone grabbed her arm. "Stay back!" a voice barked. "It's too late!"

Anne didn't hear them.

Elric. Tomas.

They were in there.

They were in there.

Her body moved on instinct, pushing through the people, her breath shallow, her heart a wild, caged thing slamming against her ribs.

The fire roared.

And in the chaos, in the deafening crackle of burning wood and collapsing walls, she thought she heard something else.

A laugh.

Soft.

Amused.

Somewhere in the flames.