Crimson Intel and Broken Sigils

Nocturne Spire rose like a lie wrapped in glass—slick edges and neon stretched tight as chains around a dream that never quite came true. The tower stabbed skyward with arrogance, as if reaching higher might wash away the grime and rot lurking in the city's veins below. 

Below, the city was choking on smog and busted promises, but Nocturne Spire? It stood smug and untouchable. Like it'd bought itself a get-out-of-jail card, no matter how deep the shitstorm was down there.

Lucien Blackmoore stepped from the lift, crimson coat flaring behind him—a bright slash against the cold luxury. The guards gave him the once-over, quick and sharp, eyes narrowing in practiced suspicion. Fingers hovered near triggers, muscle twitching as if the guns might decide on their own. Lucien didn't bother pretending he wasn't a threat. He let a grin curl, the kind that said this coat wasn't for warmth. It was a warning, a bloody sigil of who he was and what he brought. They parted without further fuss, but Lucien caught the tension in their shoulders. They were ready to pull, but knew better. For now.

The Ledger pulsed cold beneath his ribs, a slow, deliberate heartbeat separate from his own. A whisper of runes slid along his skin, reading the room's pulse alongside his own: "Crimson Market contracts tally: 43 active, 7 pending. Souls collected: 118. Boon progress: 64%. Your empire burns souls." The glyphs flickered faintly, an undercurrent of promise and danger coiling inside him.

The lounge at the top was a slow pulse of synth—the kind of beat that felt bored with itself, as if it knew something better was coming but was too tired to care. Black marble counters gleamed with gold veins, cold and shiny, like the night sky had been hollowed out and filled with poison. Glass walls wrapped around the room, exposing Valthara's bleeding skyline—a bruise of clouds roiling under distant flashes of lightning. The air smelled like old money and ghostwater perfume: rich, fading, and a little sickly.

And there, like a blade carved from midnight, was Rhea Solis. She lounged across a crescent sofa, cool and sharp. Angles so precise they looked like they could draw blood if you weren't careful. Her dress caught the light, an oil-slick blue that slipped and shifted like water over broken glass. The slit ran high, flashing steel beneath. One gloved hand toyed with a crystal flute, twisting it like a weapon, the other hand empty—but Lucien had learned never to trust empty hands.

"Rhea, lovely," Lucien said, sliding closer, voice roughened smooth by too many nights and worse deals. "Nocturne's a glitter-trap, but I'm the ace. Slip me that intel, and I owe you a dance."

She didn't meet his eyes right away. Instead, she studied her reflection in the curve of the flute, like watching a ghost she didn't want to remember. "Lucien Blackmoore," she said, voice soft but sharp—silk cutting through skin. "You're either brave or stupid, showing your face here. Know how many syndicate eyes are on this floor tonight?"

Lucien shrugged and dropped down beside her without asking. The couch creaked low like it didn't approve. The Ledger glowed a faint pulse, sending a cold note: "Syndicate presence high. Cassian proxies active: 6 confirmed, 4 unknown. Cipher network integrity: degrading."

"Enough to make it interesting," he said, voice casual but with a knife's edge. "Not enough to keep me out."

"Bold," she said, finally turning, eyes rimmed in silver—cold and calculating. "Or suicidal."

"Some might call it charming," Lucien said, fishing a small obsidian chip from his coat and setting it on the table with a clink like a gunshot in the quiet. "Courier's mark from the lower stacks. Voiceprint encoded, blood-locked. Worth a listen."

Rhea arched one brow, tapping the chip. A flicker of projection flared—a distorted voice, shapes flickering in the haze. Numbers, coordinates, schedules sliding like shadows.

Syndicate supply lines.

When it ended, she said nothing. Just stared at the empty space where the projection died.

Lucien leaned in, voice dropping low enough to thread through the music like smoke. "Your people have rats in the pantry. You're about to lose two carriages full of hexsteel and bonded ether. This leak didn't come cheap."

Her jaw clenched tight. Not enough to crack the mask, but enough to tell him he'd hit where it hurt. "And you just... brought this? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

Lucien grinned, teeth sharp, a little crooked. "I'm a broker, not a priest. But I'm choosy. You've got better taste than most syndicate royalty."

She gave a short, cold laugh, not quite reaching her eyes. "Trying to get in my good graces? What's the angle?"

"I'm already there, Rhea. I just want to stay a while."

Her silence stretched thin before she slid a small drive across the table, fingernail catching the edge like a hook. The Ledger buzzed a warning: "Drive contains high-risk data. Cipher network exposed. Cassian hunting. Immediate counter-strategy recommended."

"This is what I know about Cassian's new proxies," she said low. "Names scrubbed clean. But ghost channels are picking up their trail. Someone's trying to bait you."

Lucien's fingers closed around the drive like a prize. "Someone always is."

The Ledger twitched, glyphs crawling with data only he could parse: "Proxy movements clustered in Ash Lanes and Iron Depths. Communications compromised. Recommend disruption through layered counter-ciphers."

Something shifted in the air—not sound or breath, but a pressure deep in his ribs where the Ledger thudded beneath the coat. It twitched, warning of something foul crawling close. He didn't turn. Just lifted his glass and caught the reflection of two armored figures stepping onto the mezzanine behind him. Polished masks lit up with combat runes. Steps careful, too quiet for routine patrol.

"Looks like the fun's started," he said, voice smooth, sipping something sharp and peachy. "You wouldn't happen to have a back door, would you?"

Rhea's smile was tight, dangerous. "Lucien, dear. I don't run. I make other people disappear."

"Romantic," he said, standing up.

He moved with purpose, cutting a lazy arc through the room, making the guards second-guess their angles. When they reached the table, he was gone. Just Rhea, bored and beautiful and deadly, left behind.

The first Iron Crow lunged just as Lucien slipped past a stunned server, sending trays clattering in a mess of glass and citrus. He dodged a swipe, flicked a curse-token into the nearest boot. A sharp hiss of cursed heat flared up the leg joint.

"Bit slow for enforcers," he called over his shoulder. "You boys skipping drills?"

No answer. One fired a stun bolt, grazing his coat, static biting through fabric, twitching his left arm, but he was already sliding under a console table, flipping the linen off like a pro. A drink cart exploded behind him when another bolt hit its spine.

He ducked behind a pillar, sucking air. That sigil was crawling in the back of his mind, like a cockroach wearing a face. Not his. Cassian's.

The Ledger pulsed warnings in time with ragged breath: "Cipher pattern detected. Proxy node closing. Risk of capture elevated. Plan countermeasures."

Tapping his watch, blue flickers mapped exits in his vision. One corner blinked red. Another sigil. Fresh, sloppy.

Lucien ground his teeth. "No flair at all," he muttered. "Just piss and smudge."

He charged down the staff hallway, pushing past a startled bartender dropping a crate of glasses.

"Watch it!" the man shouted.

Lucien tossed back a grin. "I'm allergic to detention!"

The hallway ended at a half-lit stairwell where two more Crows waited, arms crossed, eyes cold. Lucien didn't slow. Pulled an etched bone shard from his sleeve and snapped it. The ward flared like a beast, shaking the stairwell hard. One Crow hit his knees, stunned. The other tried to aim, but Lucien was past him, heel catching the edge of the rail.

He vaulted through a broken window, glass scraping his cheek.

Five floors down he landed hard on an awning, rolling over torn fabric. Pain bit sharp up his leg. Not broken, but bruised enough to remind him this was real.

Lucien limped into the alley behind the Spire, chest heaving.

Above, the city moaned—a ragged wind clawing through neon like searching fingers. Cassian's sigil flickered faint on the rooftop behind him, drawn in clumsy hex-chalk bleeding into stone like a bad tattoo.

The Ledger pulsed again, heavy with something almost like regret: "Proxy network active. Threat escalating. Counter-strategy must be precise."

Lucien clenched his jaw.

"This again," he whispered. "Always the flairless ones."

His earpiece crackled. Zara's voice.

"Bazaar's clear. Something's stirring in the Ash Lanes. You good?"

"Define good," Lucien said, wiping blood from his cheek.

"I'll take that as yes. Got eyes on Cassian's glyphwork—he's not hiding anymore."

"He wants a reaction," Lucien said. "Wants the city foaming at the mouth."

"Then give him one."

Lucien smiled, cracked lips bleeding faint. "Oh, I will. But slow. Like a debt that festers."

He clicked off, slipped down the alley, letting the coat fall heavy around him.

The Ledger pulsed one last time, a slow sure beat: "You're bound to me. This game's breaking you. Plan sting. Outmaneuver. Survive."

Tonight, he'd walked into a glitter-trap and danced out before jaws snapped shut. Rhea had slipped him more than just intel—she'd marked him. Given him visibility, weight.

Cassian's sigils might keep popping up, loud and crooked and wrong.

But so would Lucien. Louder. Sharper. Smiling.

One day soon, someone would stop mistaking that grin for mercy.