Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, thin and blue, catching the dim hotel light before dissolving into nothing. Oscar leaned back against the chipped headboard, one hand resting loose at his side, the other holding the blunt between two fingers as if it were a peace offering made to the universe.
"Next time," he said, voice low and rough but steady, "remind me not to steal from syndicates, punch nobles, and bleed out all in the same week."
Stephanie snorted softly from where she knelt beside the bed, fingers careful as she worked fresh bandages around his shoulder. "You're the one who keeps saying chaos builds character."
"Yeah," Oscar replied, exhaling slowly as the smoke drifted between them, "but I was thinking more emotional chaos, not 'almost lose an arm in a palace courtyard' chaos."
She shook her head, lips twitching despite herself, then tightened the wrap just enough to make him hiss. Her hands paused immediately, guilt flickering across her face.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I'm still not great at this."
"You're doing fine," he said, glancing down at her. "Better than the alley surgeon with the needle the size of a knitting hook."
That earned him a dry laugh.
The room around them was small but clean, the kind of place that had learned to survive by never pretending to be more than it was. Pale stone walls bore hairline cracks that spoke of age rather than neglect. A single window looked out onto the lower streets of Virelux, where lanterns glowed amber against brick and iron. Somewhere below, music thumped faintly, distant but alive, as if the city itself had a pulse that refused to slow.
Stephanie finished tying the bandage and leaned back on her heels, studying her work with a critical eye. "It still looks like a patchwork mess."
"So do I," Oscar said, flashing a crooked grin. "We match."
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary, her expression softening before she stood and moved toward the window. The blunt passed back to her, and she took a cautious drag, coughing lightly before settling into the rhythm of it.
Outside, Virelux stretched endlessly in every direction, a living mosaic of light, stone, and motion.
By day, the capital of Eboren Concord was relentless in its energy. Streets filled with merchants calling out prices in three languages. Rune-powered trams glided along etched rails, humming with contained magic. Office towers of glass-veined stone reflected the sky, while older brick districts stood their ground with quiet dignity. Tourists wandered in loose clusters, eyes wide, mouths half-open, clutching guide pamphlets enchanted to whisper facts and warnings.
People worked, laughed, argued, and loved without fear of tomorrow collapsing beneath them.
Queen Marrowayne Eboren had built a kingdom that felt secure not because it was gentle, but because it was honest about what it was. The laws were clear. The taxes visible. The punishments consistent. She ruled from the Crown Bastion with a steady hand and an unflinching gaze, and the people returned that steadiness with loyalty rather than obedience.
Life under her crown felt balanced, like a scale that never tipped too far in either direction.
When night came, Virelux did not rest.
It transformed.
Restaurants flared with warmth and spice, their open windows spilling laughter into the streets. Taverns filled with dockworkers and clerks alike, mugs clinking beneath hanging lights. Clubs throbbed with basslines enchanted to vibrate through bone, bodies moving as if the city itself were guiding them. Rooftop lounges bloomed with conversation and neon sigils, overlooking a skyline that glittered like a field of fallen stars.
Eboren Concord lived fully, without apology.
And beneath it all, flowing unseen but deeply felt, was the Velarium Consortium.
They were not spoken of loudly, nor were they denied. Their presence existed in the careful spacing between words, in the way certain doors opened faster, in how certain problems never escalated into chaos. They dominated the black market with a precision that bordered on artistry.
Their signature sativa strains, Velvet Static and Crownfall Bloom, were legendary. Velvet Static sharpened thought, lifting the mind without tipping it into frenzy, while Crownfall Bloom softened the weight of grief, easing sorrow without stealing ambition. Weed itself existed in a legal limbo within Eboren Concord, neither sanctioned nor forbidden, a gray space wide enough for an entire underground economy to thrive.
Civilians went about their lives unbothered. The black market did not intrude, and in return, it was tolerated. Secretive, efficient, and disturbingly harmonious.
No one spoke of the Consortium's leader. Not because they feared the name, but because there was no name to speak.
Only results.
Stephanie exhaled another thin stream of smoke and leaned against the windowframe, the city's glow painting her in soft gold. She had changed since San Cordellion, and not just in the ways that mattered most.
Her hair, once a cascade that brushed her thighs, now framed her face in a sharp, elegant hime cut. The shorter style exposed her neck and sharpened her features, golden strands catching the light as they framed her vivid green eyes. She looked less like a princess now and more like a woman who had chosen herself.
Oscar watched her quietly.
His black dreads hung loose around his shoulders, untied and wild, a mirror to the exhaustion etched into his face. Bruises shadowed his jaw. His eyes, sharp and dark, held too much awareness for someone who should have been sleeping.
"You still thinking about it?" he asked.
She nodded without turning. "About all of it."
"Yeah," he said softly. "Same."
They had reached Eboren Concord the hard way.
After Sold, the Luxmotor had been dismantled piece by piece and hidden inside mundane freight, its runes masked, its presence muted. They traveled under false names, slipping through lesser-known trade routes and avoiding noble checkpoints entirely. Bribes changed hands. Papers were forged. A man with too many scars and not enough curiosity had arranged their passage across the straits.
Selling the Luxmotor had been the real gamble.
They couldn't move it openly, not without drawing eyes that would never look away. Instead, they had sought out a criminal noble, a minor house whose public reputation was spotless and whose private dealings were anything but. The exchange took place beneath an opera house, in a gallery sealed with soundproof wards and lined with priceless art that had seen more crimes than confessions.
The noble never asked where it came from.
Only whether it still worked.
Payment came in layered currencies, coin, untraceable favors, false writs of passage, and silence. Enough to disappear into Virelux's lower districts without immediately raising alarms.
Not enough to stay invisible forever.
Stephanie turned from the window and crossed the room, sitting beside Oscar on the bed. She passed the blunt back, her fingers brushing his as she did, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For not asking me to turn back," she replied. "For not treating me like something that needed to be returned."
Oscar took a slow drag before answering. "You're not a thing," he said. "You're just… someone who wanted out."
She smiled at that, small and real.
Outside, the city of Virelux continued to hum, unaware of the forces converging within its streets. The Velarium Consortium moved unseen. Syndicates whispered across borders. Kings plotted. Lords raged.
And in a modest hotel room in the lower district, two fugitives shared smoke, silence, and the fragile peace of having survived long enough to breathe.
For tonight, that was enough.