The tent was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of Raven’s breath — shallow, strained, but steady. A single candle flickered beside his bedroll, its flame guttering in the draft. Outside, the Carnival whispered its secrets into the night, but inside the communal tent, time seemed to hold its breath.

Raven’s back bore fresh wounds — precise, spiraling brands carved with sacred purpose, ritual rescarification done by Bex’s hand. It was magic born of pain, devotion, and old oaths sworn to infernal powers. His body could bear it, but not without cost. His strength had bled into the cotton sheets. His voice had quieted. He was healing, but only just.

And then he was gone.

No flash. No scream. No warning.

One moment he was there, the next — he wasn’t.

The candle went out.

Rainer’s patrol took him past the stalls of the Litwick Market just after the seventh bell. He hated this place, it reeked of wax, wet moss, and bargains that never ended well. But he came often, walking the edges with purpose. Outside his gleaming breastplate he displayed his holy symbol with conviction. A reminder to the vendors that not all prey wandered blind.

The fey merchants watched him with languid amusement, their too-long fingers toying with strings of bone or caged whispers. He ignored them.

Then he saw her.

Bex.

The imp was a red streak in the night, wings buzzing erratically, eyes wild with panic and fury. Her usual smugness was gone, replaced by something raw and vicious. She dove between stalls, tail lashing behind her, clawed fingers sparking infernal energy in warning.

She looked like she was ready to burn the Market down.

Rainer stiffened, instinct flaring. If Bex was here, something was wrong.

But she didn’t call to him. Didn’t even look at him.

That was more suspicious than any scream.

He crossed the boundary into the Market proper and made his way toward her, passing merchants who whispered with gleeful anticipation. Something was happening.

She didn’t see him until he was almost beside her.

“Bex!” he said sharply.

She whirled midair, fangs bared, fire already dancing in her hands. When she recognized him, the fire died — but the fury in her eyes did not.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re hunting something. Or someone.”

She hesitated for a moment, then finally, her shoulders slumped.

“They took him.” she muttered.

“Took who?”

“Raven.”

That stopped him.

He blinked. “What?”

“He was asleep. Recovering. Vulnerable. And now he’s gone. No signs, no scent, nothing. Just a cold candle and a whisper in the tent.” Her voice broke, but she swallowed it fast. “It was them. The fey.

Rainer frowned. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t have time to convince you,” she snapped. “I’m finding him, with or without you.”

She turned.

“Wait.”

She stopped, midair, back tense.

“I’ll help.”

She turned halfway toward him, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because he’s my friend. And if the fey took him, he’s in danger. And so is anyone who goes after him alone.” He met her eyes. “Even you.”

For a long moment, Bex didn’t speak. She was trembling, barely hiding it, but her wings did not falter.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t start preaching.”

Rainer allowed himself a grim smile. “Wouldn’t dare.”

The Litwick Market was a maze of crooked stalls that shifted slightly when unobserved. Lanterns flickered with colors that had no names. The forest floor beneath Rainer’s boots was thick with moss and scattered leaves, springy and silent as a held breath. Occasionally, something just beneath the surface stirred — like a sleeper shifting beneath a skin of dreams.

Rainer’s holy symbol shone faintly in the lantern light. The divine did not belong here. Not entirely.

Bex flitted just ahead, her eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. “These bastards love collecting things they shouldn’t have. Don’t ask what’s in the bottles unless you want to know what your scream sounds like distilled.”

Rainer said nothing, only pressed forward.

The crowd of fey vendors had taken note of them now. They whispered with smiles stitched from mirth and malice, calling out wares in singsong riddles.

“A kiss stolen under a hanging moon.”

“The name your mother almost gave you.”

“A shortcut through grief.”

One figure detached from a circle of dancing shadows and drifted lazily toward them. It was tall and androgynous, with silver hair that flowed upward like candle smoke. Dozens of eyes blinked across the fabric of their cloak, none where they should be.

It tilted its head, amused.

“Looking for something, priest?”

Rainer stopped dead. His jaw tightened.

“What did you say?” he growled.

The fey smiled, baring teeth too even, too white.

“I said, are you looking for something?” The voice was laced with play, but underneath it was the suggestion of teeth under silk. “Or someone? Your posture has all the subtlety of a storm, and your anger smells delicious.”

Rainer stepped forward, scales bristling, his free hand curling around the handle of his mace. “If you’ve harmed him—”

“Oh, dear,” the fey purred, pulling back slightly. “No need for threats. I haven’t touched your precious hell-scarred mortal. I wouldn’t. Too much damnation already etched into his skin.”

Bex darted between them, eyes narrowed. “Then what do you know?”

The fey gave a slow shrug, as if unbothered. “Only that someone with a taste for rare magic came through not long ago. They didn’t linger — just bartered for a map made of sinew and vanished through the southern veil. Took a candle I rather liked, too. Shame.”

Rainer took a slow breath. “Then you’re wasting our time.”

“Time is always wasted here,” the fey said brightly. “That’s part of the charm.”

It turned away in a swirl of shifting fabric and faded into the shadows.

Bex growled. “I hate them.”

Rainer nodded once. “Me too.”

Then, softer: “But it gave us a direction.”

She glanced at him.

“Southern veil,” he said, already turning. “Lets go.”

They weaved past stalls selling bottled names and jars filled with laughter. A vendor hawked shadow-draped mirrors that reflected not your face, but your death. Rainer stepped carefully, heart pounding with divine warning.

Then they found it.

A stall shrouded in smoke and black wax, where candles flickered with voices, some sobbing, some laughing, some whispering secrets too quiet to hear.

And in the largest candle, suspended in amber wax, was Raven.

Bex’s breath caught. “No.”

A voice purred from the shadows behind the stall. “A rare treasure. So hard to find unclaimed magic these days.”

The vendor slithered forward, a fey draped in shimmering veils, her face shifting between old and young, beautiful and crumbling.

“Would you like him back? I’m feeling generous today. I’ll take you in trade, little imp.”

Bex didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“No!” Rainer said, stepping between them.

“How dare you, lizard! He matters more to me than you’ll ever  know!”

Rainer turned to her, voice low. “You matter to him.”

That made her flinch.

He looked at the fey. “Take something from me.”

The veiled one smiled. “A soul wrapped in scales. What do you offer?”

Rainer didn’t flinch. His voice was quiet, but firm. “What do you want?” 

The merchant smiled wide. “Only what is fair. A drop of virtue. A truth unspoken. A fragment of loyalty.

Bex hissed. “You’re not bartering with her! These bastards twist every word!”

“I know.”

Rainer drew his holy symbol. “A prayer. For Zybeksia.”

Bex blinked. “What?”

“Let that be the price. A truth. Spoken freely.”

The fey considered. “Acceptable. Begin.”

Rainer bowed his head.

“To the fire that forged her,

to the shadow that shaped her,

I see what you cast aside.

Not a servant. Not a curse.

A soul with fury, with loyalty, with worth.

If my words have weight — let Zybeksia be free.”

The candle flames around the stall pulsed. The amber wax cracked. Then shattered.

Raven fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Bex rushed to his side and held him tightly, fiercely, like a heart she had almost lost.

The veiled fey hissed. “Truth is costly, priest. Perhaps more than you know.”

Rainer met her gaze. “Then we’re even.”

Later, back in the communal tent, Raven slept in his bedroll. The Carnival had quieted.

Rainer sat nearby, sharpening his dagger. Bex floated beside him in silence.

“You prayed for me.” she said, eventually.

“Yes.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I thought I did.”

She looked down at the sleeping Raven. “You still think I’m evil?”

He considered his words carefully. “You are what you were made to be. But you choose who you are. Today, you chose well.”

Bex was quiet. Then: “If you tell anyone I got misty-eyed, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

He smiled faintly. “Noted.”

She landed gently on his shoulder. “We’re not friends,” he muttered.

“Of course not.” she agreed.

But neither of them moved.