Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seeing again was… a mindfuck. Not in a poetic, stars-aligning, oh-my-Gods-the-universe-is-beautiful way. No. That wasn’t her. It was raw, overwhelming. Like waking up in someone else’s skin. Like being given back a part of yourself you’d already buried, only to find it doesn’t quite fit anymore. Post-demon — and Lyanna could see again. Just like that. No doctors. No spells. No explanations. Her sight had started creeping back like it was sneaking in after curfew. At first, just outlines. Light. Movement. Then more. Texture. Detail. The sharp glint of glass under moonlight. The grimace on someone’s face when they thought she wasn’t watching. She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Sigorn, Howland or Rhaegar. Especially not Rhaegar. Instead, she did what she always did when life threw her a flaming dagger like this: she made a list.

Things That Could Have UnFucked My Eyes:

1. Demon attack side-effects.
2. Near-death hallucination.
3. Some kind of cosmic ‘oops’.
4. A prank.

And yet… the sky was still there. Blue like bruised knuckles. Stars like puncture wounds. She hated how much she liked looking at it. Of all the places in the world to enjoy getting her sight back, she would never agree had to be his place. Top floor. Skyscraper. Enough glass to make an apocalypse prepper weep. Rhaegar’s flat was easily three times bigger than hers and had zero personality outside of vampire money meets quiet grief. But the view was something else. Snow fell over Whiteharbor like ash from some forgotten fire, and godsdamn if the bastard hadn’t chosen a perfect spot to stare at the end of the world. She stood by the window. Pretending not to enjoy it. Failing miserably.

“S’bloody much, this place,” — She muttered. — “But the sky’s dead nice.”

Rhaegar didn’t look at her. Just leaned back against the frame, arms folded like a statue that couldn’t be bothered to care. — “I love watching the sky,” — He said softly. — “It reminds me where I stand… That no matter how old I become, I’m still stardust, in the face of the universe.”

“Aye?” — She lit a cigarette. — “So what’s it look like t’ye then, batboy?”

“It’s… hard to explain,” —  He said, a strange kind of restraint in his voice. —  “I see the light. Not just the stars, everything. The whole sky lit up like it’s noon. Every color. Every shift. It’s all more vivid. Intense. I see parts of the spectrum humans can’t even imagine.”

“Reckon must be dead nice, eh,” — She muttered.

He went still. Just for a second. But she caught it. The tension. Like her words had landed too close to something he was trying not to go to. Her blindness. She didn’t look at him, but she felt the weight of his gaze shift. Could tell he wasn’t looking at her either. They were pros at this — dodging eye contact, skirting the truth like it might catch fire.

She dragged on the cigarette. — “So all it’d take’s becomin’ a vampire, aye? ta-da, I guess… New bloody eyes. Can’t lie, sounds like a damn sight less shite than bein’ a Banshee.”

“There are things you’d lose,” — Rhaegar didn’t say it like a warning. Not quite.

His voice had been quiet — low and even, like a cello string pulled just short of breaking. Not pleading, not dramatic. Just... true. Heavy with the weight of someone who’d already lost too much to speak lightly. He’d paused before the words, as if weighing whether he should say them at all, and when he finally did, they had landed soft — but final. No sharp edges, but no comfort either. It hadn’t just been about the sun or friends or family. It had been about him, and he’d known it — but he hadn’t said it. He’d just let that truth hang in the space between them, unspoken, wrapped in six quiet syllables. It was the kind of thing that haunted a room long after it had been said.

“The sun?” — She smirked. — “Ain’t like I see much of it these days, is it?”

“Your family. Your friends.” — Rhaegar replied, his voice had dropped into that low, steady place he went when the truth hurt too much to dress up.

There had been no judgement in it. No pity either. Just a quiet kind of mourning — for things already gone, or for what would be, if she chose to follow him into the dark. The words had come spaced, slow, as if naming each loss was its own little funeral. Your family. Your friends. Not hypothetical. Not abstract. He’d meant her people. The ones she still carried. He hadn’t needed to explain what it meant. He’d lived it. Every night. And for a moment, it hadn’t been a warning — it had been a confession.

That hit harder than she let on. She kept her voice casual, flicking ash off the end. — “Folk die, Fangs. Sooner or later. Some quicker than others. We don’t get t’keep no one.”

“You’d lose me,” — He said quietly.

And just like that, the air changed. She remembered that conversation. Months ago. When he’d told her what becoming a vampire really meant. The loneliness of it. The hunger. The territorial instinct. The rules that weren’t rules, just blood-coded absolutes. Vampires didn’t share cities. Or partners. Or beds for long. If she turned, she wouldn’t be herself anymore — and they sure as seven hell wouldn’t be them. Not that they were anything. Not officially. Not really. Not something she could name without flinching. But she’d let him at her back. More than once. And that? That was something. She didn’t trust anyone enough to do that. Not since everything that made her who she was now: sharp edges in soft skin. Smoke and blood and steel beneath the collarbones. Still, she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say what he meant to her. Couldn’t admit that when he was near, her pulse didn’t race out of fear. So she looked out at the night again. Let the silence grow thick between them. Let the snow fall. Her hand tightened, onto a fist.  She was already losing herself, one piece at a time. Territorial instinct. That’s what he’d called it.

Lyanna flicked ash from her cigarette and didn’t bother hiding the sneer curling her mouth. — “This territorial shite’s a right bitch, innit?” — Her voice was dry as bone. —“But in my case? I imagine I’d feel like a bloody relief. Who’d’ve thought gettin’ rid o’ ye’d be that easy.” — She didn’t mean it. Not fully. That was the trick with her, everything came with teeth, even the things that sounded like jokes. Especially those.

Rhaegar didn’t flinch. Just gave her one of those unreadable looks, half-ghost, half-poet. — “Truly an oversight on your part,” — He said mildly. — “I suppose it’s nature’s way of keeping us from turning too many friends.”

She snorted. — “No winnin’ that one. Nature’s just doin’ what it does.” — But she could feel it, like a storm low in the gut, something darker beneath his words. Not performance. Not caution. Memory. Something that had clawed through him before.

“It can,” — He said after a beat. His voice thinner now, worn at the edges. — “But it leaves you exhausted. Hollow. Eventually, walking away seems... Easier.” — Easier than what, he didn’t say. Which meant it was bad.

Lyanna leaned against the rust-cold railing, cigarette smoke coiling around her like a half-dead thought. — “An’ here I was thinkin’ I was the pessimist between us,” — She muttered. — “Howland’s dead sure on that one.”

Rhaegar gave her a glance, faintly amused. —  “I think he means that despite me being five centuries old, we’re still emotionally equivalent, in our pessimism.”

She barked a quiet laugh. It was joyless, but not unkind. —  “So we’re both proper banged up, then? Jus’ difference is, ye took yer time gettin’ bitter.”

“To be honest,” — He said, voice low and steady, — “I think it’s the curse of the century. I was born in shadow, but then came this... flicker. Light. Hope. For a while. But that only makes the fall sharper, when it came. People realise the light was never a place to rest. Just a trick that casts longer shadows.”

Lyanna’s lips twitched around a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. —  “So yer was born in the dark, didn’t know there was anythin’ better.” —  Her voice went flat. Not angry. Not even sad. Just... resigned. — “I come from the dark knowin’ better’s out there. But it’s always just outta reach. Like a sunrise ye’ll never catch, no matter how hard you bleed for it.”

She didn’t believe in fate. Said that often enough to sound convincing. But deep down, she knew better. Fate was a bastard. And it always got the last laugh. — “Free will against nature and destiny,” — Rhaegar said, quiet again.

“How fuckin’ poetic,” — She muttered.

That was the end of that. Destiny was a word people threw around like it meant something. Lyanna didn’t buy it. Never had. But, as with most things in her life, she figured she’d eventually be proven wrong. Property retrieval cases weren’t her usual racket. That was more a courier’s game — dull, dusty, full of paperwork and posh twats arguing over heirlooms. But this one came from Mister Keller. Weird little man with a knack for sniffing out stolen art and walking into trouble with both feet. Most folks wouldn’t think vintage art trafficking was a problem in Whiteharbor. They’d be wrong. Between the docks and the forgotten back-channels, more than one Essosi smuggler had passed through with high-value contraband wrapped in newspaper. During her years on the force, the bodies that washed up and had taken to know Jaosn Keller’s hadn’t been cartel hits. They were tied to paintings — abstract, modernist, mostly shite, but worth enough to kill over. Now Keller had come back into her life. Apparently still had her number. Wanted her to track down a piece he’d sent to an evaluator who’d ghosted him. And grab it back. 

Rhaegar didn’t like the place. She could tell before he even opened his mouth. —  “Hope we’re in and out,” — He muttered as they stepped into the piss-yellow lobby of the flat hotel. — “Would hate to leave smelling like this place.”

Lyanna smirked but said nothing. The stink had hit her first — cigarette ash, old bleach, wet carpet, and the kind of sour sweat that clung to desperation. The Silver Dock was all glass towers and boutique bullshit above street level, but buildings like this one festered just beneath the polish — residential-slash-hotels where city suits paid to live like rats in suits. The kind of place that caught fire from a single match and never got reported. The hallway lights flickered as they passed the unmanned reception. The concierge was whistling off-key somewhere behind the wall, and no one tried to stop them. Of course they didn’t. No one ever did. Keller scurried beside her like a damn rodent in tweed.

“Should grab your nicknack and go.” —  Rhaegar said it with that low, velvet drawl of his, quiet, deliberate, and just sharp enough to cut if you weren't paying attention. It wasn’t a threat, but it carried the weight of one. His tone was instinctive, almost offhand, like the words surfaced straight from his gut without consulting his restrain

He turned to Rhaegar, lips pursed like he’d bitten into something sour. —  “It is an ancient Valyrian artefact, hardly a nicknack,” — He sniffed, like just saying the word nicknack left a bad taste in his mouth.

“So why’d ya ship it off like some bloody takeaway?” — She asked, cigarette tucked between her teeth, voice sharp enough to peel paint.

“I’ve dealt with the bloke ten times. Never a hitch. He usually flips ‘em quick and sends payment.” — Keller said it quick, defensive, like he’d rehearsed it. Voice twitchy, words tumbling over each other, trying to sound confident, but sweating guilt just beneath the surface.

Lyanna rolled her eyes. — “Ye could reconsiderin’ that dodgy setup o’ yers.”

She walked the corridor with Keller on her left, Rhaegar flanking her right like some vampire-shaped shadow. She could feel him twitchy. Hunger or bad mood, maybe both. She didn't look his way.

“What’s this man look like?” — Rhaegar asked, voice clipped, controlled.

“Like Danny DeVito in his late forties,” —  Keller said without missing a beat.

Rhaegar gave a noise of disgust. — “Let’s just get the cursed bowl and leave before I reek of this shithole.”

“Bit snappy tonight, eh?” — She drawled. — “What’s crawled up yer arse this time?”

His hand clamped around her arm. Firm. Not hard. Not yet. — “I came when you called me, Lyanna,” — Rhaegar said it low, steady, like he was keeping something sharper locked behind his teeth, — “If I’d known this was just a retrieval, I’d have fed first.” — The kind of tone that said he was running on fumes but still showed up the second she needed him. Just truth, worn thin.

“So you’re running on low blood sugar, is that it? Your hangry.” — Lyanna replied it with that trademark smirk half-joke, half-jab, all defense. Her tone was dry as gravel, light on the surface but barbed just beneath, like she was poking at a bruise to see if it still hurt. 

The way she uttered “hangry” was pure Norchiv sarcasm, biting off the word like it offended her. She didn’t actually care if he was hungry. Not really. But she needed the jab — needed the banter — to paper over the spike of unease she felt watching him twitch like that. When Rhaegar got quiet, it meant something worse was coming. So she poked. That’s what she did. Poke before someone got too close. Before fear could show. But then he stopped walking. Went still like a dropped coin. His nostrils flared. She knew that look. Not just hunger. Something worse. His eyes went glassy — too still, too ancient — and she felt her spine go tight.

“What’s goin’ on?” — She asked, voice low now too.

“There’s something here,” — He said. — “A smell. Rancid. Old. Full of hate. Suffering’s baked into it.”

“Prettyboy, we’re in a flat hotel,” — She muttered. — “Suffering’s probably the fuckin’ Wi-Fi name.”

But he was already moving. Fast. Not human-fast, but not quite monster-speed either. Just enough to make her jog to keep up. He turned down a corridor like he knew where the devil lived. She followed. She always did. They passed a woman dropping off a towel full of what looked like curry and regret. She gave them a wide berth. The room at the end of the hall — 555 — had its door slamming open and shut like something inside was trying to get out… or wasn’t strong enough to keep it closed. Rhaegar stopped halfway down the corridor. The air turned wrong. Thick. Still. She felt it through her bones first, then in the burn that flared hot around the tattoos on her wrist. Never a good sign. She barely had time to brace before the door cracked open and something came pouring out — black and shrieking and wrong. Like a cross between a dementor and a Nazgûl. Faded. But real. It passed through Rhaegar like smoke. And then it hit her like a freight train of cold. She didn’t even scream.

— 

5:55 PM.

Lyanna shot upright like she'd surfaced from drowning. Gasped. She was on the couch in her office. Rhaegar — real, still, alive? — was sleeping on the too-small sofa, coat bunched under his head like a makeshift pillow. She blinked hard. Tried to steady her breathing. Dream? She’d had worse. But something itched at her skin. The feel of her soul getting yanked from her body didn’t fade easy. She stood, shaky, and turned in a half-circle to ground herself. Her chair, her desk, her goddamn nicotine gum — The door opened. Howland. In full Howland-mode, too: patchwork coat like a fairytale stitched itself drunk, boots shin-high and green like poison, and two clashing ties because of course he had two.

“Half hour’s gone. Ye good, or still off in dreamland?” — He asked, like he hadn’t just walked into her private purgatory.

“No,” — She said flatly. — “Had a proper weird fuckin’ dream. Rhaegar was there. Some right nasty dementor-nazgûl-lookin’ bastard tried t’do us in.”

“And?” — Howland asked it with that calm, measured patience he carried like armor, his voice soft but expectant, like a professor waiting for the clever answer that would make everything click. Not pushy, just steady, like he already knew the weight behind the word but wanted her to say it anyway.

“I died.” — Lyanna responded it like it was the most matter-of-fact thing in the world, no drama, no big reveal. Just a cold, hard fact dropped like a stone in a puddle. Her voice was flat, almost bored, but you could feel the weight behind it if you knew where to listen. 

“Ye dreamin’ ‘bout that Erik business again, then? Ye’ve been havin’ nightmares all week, haven’t ya?” — Howland said it with that easy, almost teasing tone, like he was trying to lighten the mood but knew exactly what kind of seven hells she was swimming through. He wasn’t pushing, just stating the obvious, like a doctor checking symptoms, and Lyanna wasn’t thrilled he could read her like a damn book.

“No all week, don’t be daft.” — Lyanna crossed her arms with a slow, deliberate snap, like locking herself behind a door no one was supposed to open. Her shoulders squared, a silent ‘don’t ask’ wrapped in muscle and stubbornness. The kind of stance that said, I’m done explaining. Take it or leave it.

“Well, whatever ye say, boss. Pass me that Covacs file, will ya?” — Howland said it with a dry, knowing patience, the kind that felt like a gentle nudge rather than a push. 

His tone was calm, a little amused, like he was humoring her stubbornness but thought she’d come around eventually. She nodded, still buzzing with something she didn’t want to name. Walked to the desk. Reached for the folder — and smacked her elbow against the weird gnome statue Howland had given her for Yule. It hit the ground and shattered.

“If it weren’t to yer likin’,” — Howland said, all innocent-like, like he were coaxin’ a confession out of a stubborn scholar. — “ye could’ve just said the word,”

Lyanna shrugged like she was trying to shake off a bad smell... Half embarrassed, half annoyed, —  “It weren’t nothin’ like that,” — She mumbled, quick to cut it off.

Then the door opened. Jason Keller walked in. Lyanna blinked once. What the fuck. That was her first thought. And usually, that one was bang on. She let the man in. Sat him across from her desk, boots on the floor, eyes fixed but glassy. He started talking like he was the one doing her a favour — like this was the first time he was telling the story. It wasn’t. She’d heard all of it before. Every word. Every sigh. Every twitch of his grubby little fingers. Déjà vu didn’t cover it — this was some banshee-level death-loop shit, like her soul had gone nosediving through someone else’s corpse and brought back the replay. The Valyrian bowl, the missing evaluator, the blurry timeline, all of it. Too exact. Too quiet. Too damned familiar.

And she really didn’t want this night to end the way it had in the dream. But Lyanna Stark had read a tragedy or ten. Tried to outrun fate once or twice. Lesson learned: you dodge the blade, it just cuts you somewhere worse. And deeper. He didn’t have the hotel address — of course he didn’t. What kind of art-obsessed piss-ant ever came prepared? But he did mention the courier. A middleman between him and the evaluator. That was a thread she could pull. Five calls later — burner landline, different accents, layers of bullshit so thick even she started losing track — she got what she needed. She went Dornish for this one. Breathier vowels, lazy charm, soft ‘s’ like honey. Claimed to have received Monsieur Fournier’s package by mistake, full good-samaritan routine. People always liked to think strangers cared.

“Thank you for the address, sugar,” — She purred into the receiver, rolling it like smoke off her tongue. — “Truly, I’d hate for anyone to lose somethin’ so... precious. Seven bless.”

She hung up and lit a cigarette with the same hand. Her voice slid back into its usual grit, accent snapping back like a blade she kept under the tongue. — “Ain’t pretty work, sure, but it does the trick, sugar.”

“You’re ridiculous,” — Came a voice behind her. She turned. Rhaegar. Leaning against her doorframe like he belonged there. Smirking like he’d just caught her stealing from a temple donation box.

Of course he’d heard. Of course he’d shown up uninvited… Howland probably called him, — “Dunno even open yer gob.” — She warned, dragging on the smoke.

But he was already grinning. That dry, too-knowing, too-handsome-for-his-own-good grin. — “Too late. Can you say it for me? ‘ I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.’” — Rhaegar said it with a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, half-joking, half-daring, like he already knew he was pushing his luck and didn’t care. His voice dipped into something theatrical, warm and drawling, imitating a Dornish belle but laced with dry irony. 

It wasn’t mocking, exactly — it was a challenge disguised as charm, a test to see how far he could push her before she snapped or smiled. The line came soft, smooth, like he was quoting something sacred and stupid at the same time. And underneath the teasing? A flicker of something else — fondness, maybe. Or curiosity. The kind of thing he’d never admit. Lyanna narrowed her eyes like she was sighting down the barrel of a loaded truth. The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, more like the ghost of one. She leaned back in her chair, all lazy menace, and dropped the Dornish purr like a bad habit. This time, she slipped into a rough-edged drawl — gravel low and mean. Her Clint Eastwood voice. Dry as gunpowder. No sweetness, no shine. Just that steady, slow-burn menace of someone who’s already decided they’re the last thing you’ll see.

“Only one yer gettin’ outta me is… ‘The dead can be very useful sometimes.’” — She let it hang there like smoke after a shot. A line delivered not to amuse, but to warn.

He blinked. — “Did you just quote A Fistful of Dollars to offend me?”

She shrugged. — “I can rattle off the rest o’ Eastwood’s flicks in the car, if yer keen on sufferin’ more. I ain’t much of a Blanche, anyway.”

Rhaegar let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but he caught it before it showed. —  “Honestly… never thought you were.”

She didn’t answer. Just flicked the cigarette into the trash and shrugged into her coat like she was putting the armor back on. No sharp retorts, no parting shots — just movement. Quicker that way. Cleaner. Admitting it felt good, having him there? That wasn’t gonna happen. Not out loud. Not even in her own skull if she could help it. Still, if the nightmare meant anything — and she wasn’t saying it did — then maybe sticking together gave them a better chance of not dying horribly. They made for the courier’s address — nothing glamorous, just another box in the legal quarter of White Harbor’s half-gutted high-rises. She was hoping for a quiet check-in, maybe a receptionist dumb enough to flirt with Rhaegar while she snooped around for an elevator pass.

Instead? Blue lights. Coppers already on the scene. Her gut twitched. Keller hadn’t come with them, and that usually meant her client’s were off doing something monumentally stupid. And sure enough, the moment they crossed under the yellow tape, her suspicion put on a badge and flashed it in her face. There was a body. Of course there was a body. Benoît Fournier, the evaluator himself, flatlined and cooling on the carpet. She didn’t need to look twice to see it’d been ugly — throat slit, room trashed, blood painting the rug in sickled spirals. So that was one more piece of the puzzle burned to ash. Great. Just fucking great. And then came the cherry on top of this steaming pile: Sigorn. No wonder Rhaegar stayed outside.

“Gotta stop meetin’ like this, Ly.” — Sig drawled, arms crossed like he hadn’t aged a day since the last mess they’d cleaned up together. — “What’s it this time? Ghost? Basilisk?”

Lyanna didn’t flinch. — “Nah. Jus’ here to grab a Valyrian antique me client’s never seen a penny for. Proper boring, that.”

“You got a name for it, then?” — Sigorn’s voice cut through the low hum of the room like a blade, calm, no-nonsense, but carrying that sharp edge that made you listen. His eyes locked onto her, waiting for the facts, no time for games.

“Keller. Ye member Jacob Keller, aye?” — Lyanna’s voice was rough, low, like she’d been smoking too many cigarettes and fighting off a cold that never quite left. Her eyes flicked over the grim scene, narrowing with a mix of frustration and something close to dread.

“That twitchy fellow what ID’d half the Essosi art traffickin’ we worked on?” —  Sigorn’s tone was deadpan, dry as dust, with that slow, deliberate cadence that made every word land heavier than it should. His eyes were sharp, scanning Lyanna like he was double-checking if she was even paying attention.

“That’s the one.” — Lyanna rubbed her temple, the kind of tired gesture that said she’d had enough bullshit for one day. — “Weird bastard.”

Sigorn nodded, but his eyes were scanning her face the way cops do when they think you’re leaving something out. And she was, but that was her business.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe this,” — She muttered, mostly to herself, voice rough like gravel. — “First proper case I get in weeks, an’ the bloke holdin’ the goods ends up with his throat sliced open. What the fuck happened?”

“Messy break-in. Got stabbed right in the neck. Looked like he put up a fight… but not enough, no.” —  Sigorn’s voice was rough and clipped, the kind of tone you didn’t argue with, practical and worn from years dealing with the worst of White Harbor’s gutters. He looked her dead in the eye, no sugarcoating, just straight facts like a punch to the gut.

“Alright, I’m off then.” — She was already turning. — “Need somethin’, ye know where to find me.”

“I always do.” — Sigorn’s eyes twinkled with that mix of dry humor and quiet confidence, like he was the guy who knew damn well he was the one you’d call when shit hit the fan, and he wasn’t going anywhere. His tone was easy, almost lazy, but with an edge that meant business.

She stepped outside before the room could start crawling under her skin. The air hit her like cold smoke, and her vision — fuck — her vision was starting to fog again. The kind of fog that didn’t clear when you blinked. The kind that reminded her she was still running out of time. She spotted Rhaegar leaning against her car, sitting on the hood like it owed him rent. Blurred at first, then sharpening slightly as she got closer. She hated how relieved she felt seeing him. Hated that she couldn’t see him clearly anymore, whatever had happened was wearing off. Hated needing help. But here they were.

“ Evaluator’s dead.”  — She said, not bothering to dress it up.

Rhaegar nodded, unreadable. — “Thought this was supposed to be the go-between’s place.”

“Me too.” — She looked back once, then shoved her hands in her coat pockets. —  “But it weren’t his body in there.”

He glanced down the street, eyes distant. — “So where next?”

Lyanna wanted another cigarette, but inhaled instead, and exhaled slow. —  “Got… a marginal idea.”

She didn’t say it out loud, but she’d seen this go sideways before. Not just in a bad-feeling, something’s off kind of way — no, she’d been here. Walked these same corridors. Smelled the rot in the air before it showed its face. Died, actually. Which didn’t feel like a metaphor anymore. And in her experience, déjà vu usually meant somebody was about to die for real. She didn’t want it to be them. Lyanna drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting like dead weight against her thigh. Her fingers twitched like they wanted a cigarette but knew better. She took them through the city's glittering financial district, where all the money lived on credit and lies. Sleek buildings with glass facades that gleamed like teeth, if teeth were made of corruption and overpriced sushi. The place they were after had a familiar little emblem — a lotus flower painted over cracked stone like it was trying too hard to pretend it wasn’t falling apart underneath. She parked the car hard enough to rattle the glove box. Then she got out. Inside, Rhaegar gave her that look as they walked the hallway — half suspicion, half concern wrapped in that vampire calm she hated more than she'd admit.

“I think it’s time you told me what’s going on,” —  He said. — “How do you know the bowl wasn’t in the office?”

She didn’t look at him when she replied. Just kept walking, fast. Like maybe if she moved quick enough, she wouldn’t have to explain the whole dying-in-a-hotel bit. — “Y’ever get the feelin’ ye’ve lived somethin’ already? Not a dream, like, bone-deep. Like you’re watchin’ yer own bloody murder on loop.”

Rhaegar gave her a side glance, all arched brow and cool detachment. — “I’ve lived long enough to see the same kind of day repeat a thousand times. But no, no two are ever quite the same.”

“I’ve fuckin’ been here before,” — She said, voice low. Tense.

He scoffed. — “Not the kind of place I’d frequent twice, even with a sense of déjà vu.” — Then… Because fate loved a punchline… Jacob Keller turned the corner like a cursed joke delivered on cue.

Lyanna stopped dead. — “What the fuck ye doin’ ‘ere, then?”

Rhaegar didn’t miss a beat. — “Lyanna, call me old-fashioned, but I’m fairly certain that’s not the standard greeting still.”

“Jacob Keller,” — She snapped. — “Bloke who hired me for this bloody mess.”

Keller blinked like a deer in headlights. — “I saw the bowl listed online. Thought maybe it was real, figured I’d come check. This is where the buyer said to meet.”

“Ain’t that sweet,” — She said, bone-dry. — “Seein’ as yer evaluator turned up dead. Throat slit. Found him right in his courier’s office, same place ye sent him.” — Keller paled. Shock? Guilt? Didn’t matter. She pushed past it. — “Y’know what, forget it. Think I sussed where it is. But we best keep movin’.”

As they stepped deeper into the hotel, Rhaegar muttered the same words she’d heard in her dream, like the universe was reading from a script. — “Hope we’re in and out. Would hate to leave smelling like this place. Should grab your nicknack and...” 

She cut in without missing a beat, voice flat. — “Ain’t exactly a bloody nicknack, is it…” — Then she turned, looking him up and down. —  “Ye’re hungry, ain’t ye?”

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. — “I could eat.” — Rhaegar said it quiet and measured, with just enough edge to make it sound like a warning more than a joke. His eyes didn’t blink, and his voice sat low, too casual to be casual.

“Ye ain’t eaten today, have ya?” — Lyanna said it with a sharp edge, eyes narrowing just a fraction like she was calling out something obvious but wrapped it in a tease.

“How do you know that?” — Rhaegar’s question came soft but sharp, like a knife wrapped in silk. His brow lifted just a touch, curiosity flickering behind calm, controlled eyes. They passed a woman dropping off what looked like leftover curry on a room service tray. And Lyanna’s stomach dropped. She knew what came next.

Lyanna let out a dry, tired sigh, the kind that tastes like smoke and old grudges. She rolled her eyes hard enough it looked like a reflex, half disbelief, half exhaustion, then flicked her finger like she was swatting away a fly. Her voice cut through the stale air, low and sharp, — “Not this again.” — It was the kind of phrase that carried years of ‘same shit, different day’ and it hung between them like the cold wind sneaking through the cracked window.

Rhaegar’s voice sliced through the thick, stale air, calm but taut like a bowstring pulled tight. His eyes flicked to her with a flash of something unreadable, concern wrapped in steel. The tension curled around them, his words dropped low, deliberate, like he was trying to anchor her back from wherever her mind had drifted. — “Again? Lyanna…What are you talking about?” — His presence stiffened the space beside her, a silent warning and a steadying weight all at once.

She spun toward him, chest tight.  Lyanna’s eyes narrowed, the stubborn set of her jaw telling you she wasn’t about to explain herself twice.  She gave a short, sharp nod, voice clipped and rough like gravel underfoot. — “Like I said, I’ve been here before.”

Rhaegar’s voice cut through the thick, cold air, calm, controlled, like a blade sliding out slow and smooth. His eyes, steady and sharp, didn’t flicker, but the faint tightening around his jaw said he was gearing up for whatever was next. No panic, no noise, just the quiet click of a man used to walking into trouble and expecting to come out clean. — “That should make things simple then,” — He said, his tone low but clear, almost casual, like he was tossing a line to steady a sinking boat. — “Where are we supposed to go?” — His question hung in the air, measured and deliberate, waiting for the next move in a game that had already cost too much.

Lyanna said it low, her voice rough around the edges, like gravel kicked under a boot. She didn’t look at him when she said it, eyes scanning the hallway instead, flicking from room number to room number like they might bite. Her tone wasn’t scared, exactly, but there was a weight to it, tight and coiled, like she was bracing for a hit she couldn’t dodge. — “I dunno,” — She muttered, jaw clenched. — “Last time, we’d just got here when it kicked off.” — There was a pause, the kind that came with memory bleeding into the moment, her muscles remembering the cold before it arrived. And this time, she wasn’t sure if she could outrun it.

Rhaegar’s voice was quiet but clipped, his steps precise on the threadbare carpet as they moved deeper into the dim corridor. He didn’t look at her, but she felt the weight of his gaze like a blade grazing her spine, calculating, careful. The fluorescents above buzzed like dying hornets, flickering in intervals that made everything feel a bit less real. — “And the ‘it’ is…?” — He asked, low and level, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it anyway. His tone wasn’t mocking, just… wary. Like he was bracing for blood.

She didn’t hesitate this time. —  “We fuckin’ died.” —  Lyanna said it flat, like a fact she was too tired to dress up. No drama, no flinch, just the weight of something she'd already accepted. Like she was telling him the weather. Like dying was just part of the job.

Keller… Oblivious, trailing behind them like a bad penny… Chirped up, — “Sorry, could someone please explain what’s going on?”

Rhaegar froze. His shoulders locked. His nostrils flared. He felt it too. Pain. Rage. Suffering. The stink of hell bleeding through the walls. —  “Ye feel it, don’t ya?” —  She whispered.

Rhaegar turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing like a predator catching a scent he didn’t expect. The air around him tightened, gone was the relaxed veneer he wore like a well-fitted coat. He looked at Lyanna, not startled exactly, but like someone watching a mirror crack.  His voice came low and cautious, more breath than sound, like the question had weight he wasn’t ready to name. — “…How do you know what I’m…”

He didn’t answer. Just moved, slow and deliberate, like a beast on the hunt. Like he already knew what waited ahead. “Fear, hate, agony,” — She muttered, more to herself than him now, voice rough like gravel under boot. — “That’s what y’said last time. Said ye hadn’t fed. Said y’couldn’t stand the stink of this place.”

Then she bolted, counting the door numbers. 555. Of course it was. The door was open. A man stepped out, nothing special at first glance. Medium height. But her gut clenched. It was him. She didn’t know how she knew — only that she did.

“Tha’s him,” — She hissed through her teeth. —  “He’s got it.”

Rhaegar lunged like a bolt loosed from a crossbow — fast, sharp, aimed with that cold precision he wore in his vampire skin. The suitcase hit the floor with a dull thud. The latch popped. That was the moment. The one her bones already knew was coming. The burn hit her wrists like someone’d shoved a brand against her skin — those damned demon tattoos lighting up like war drums under her sleeves. She flinched, half a second from calling out, from warning him, from doing anything that might’ve mattered — but it was already too late. Keller — fucking Keller — scrambled past her like a rat who smelled something shiny. All twitchy fingers and zero sense. He went straight for the case, eyes gleaming like he thought he’d found salvation tucked in velvet and brass. Idiot cracked it open like a child unwrapping his first bloody gift on Yule morning. And hell answered. It uncoiled slow and hungry — shadows made of teeth and spite. Wraiths. Just like the dream. The ones that didn’t stop at scaring you — they wanted something deeper. Soul-level kind of theft. They came at her, not like they were chasing, but like they’d already won. Like she was just meat on the table. She felt herself ripped open — spirit first, body second. No scream. No clever line. Just the quiet, suffocating pull of the void swallowing her whole.Then everything went black…

— 

5:55 PM.

She woke up. Again. Same shitty office. Same dim light slicing through the blinds. Same cracked silence, stale cigarette smoke clinging to the air like regret. Her wall clock blinked back at her like it was in on the joke: 5:55 PM.

“No,” — She said aloud to no one. —“No fuckin’ way.”

She shot up, chest tight, breath coming sharp. Her chair slammed back against the wall, but she barely noticed. She was already scanning the room, heart hammering a rhythm she didn’t like. The same case files. The same crumpled paper. The same déjà-vu nightmare wearing the face of reality. Then — just like before — Howland walked in. Same outfit. Same expression. Same damn line.

“Half hour’s gone. Ye good, or still off in dreamland?” — He said it easy, like he hadn’t just stepped into her private circle of hell. Lyanna’s eyes snapped to his face. Whatever he saw there wiped the grin right off his face. — “Ye a’right?” — He asked, more cautious now.

Her head snapped around like a hunted thing, eyes darting from the boy to the clock, then back to Howland like he might start melting. Her voice came out tight, raw, like it’d scraped its way up her throat. — “Where’s Keller?” — She barked, jaw clenched, breathing too fast, like she expected him to crawl out of the goddamn walls.

His brow furrowed. —  “Who?”

Lyanna’s voice came low and clipped, like she was trying to keep the panic out but couldn’t quite hide the edges. Her eyes didn’t stop moving, scanning the room, the door, the papers on her desk, like she half-expected Keller to pop out of the shadows or fall from the ceiling. — “Keller,” — She said through her teeth. — “Twitchy lad, glasses. Came in lookin’ for Benoit Fournier.” — Each word hit like a bullet, flat, sharp, no room for doubt. She wasn’t asking. She was anchoring herself to memory before it slipped again.

She didn’t wait for him to catch up. She turned back toward her desk — records, files, loose ends all over. But her eyes locked on the paper. The date. Today. Exactly the same as yesterday. Or whatever the fuck counted as ‘yesterday’ when time decided to take the piss. Her gut turned. She reached to show Howland, but her elbow knocked the stupid Yule gnome off her desk. It shattered on the floor.

Howland just said it again, like some broken marionette, — “If it weren’t to yer likin’...”

She snapped like a frayed wire finally sparking. Her hands were shaking, just a little, but enough to make Howland’s face drop. Her voice cracked, raw and worn like gravel under boot, and when it broke, it wasn’t rage that spilled out first, it was disbelief dressed as fury. —  “Howl, fuck the gnome, alright? It’s the same bloody day.” — She didn’t even look at the shattered thing on the floor. Her breath hitched, and the next words scraped their way out, low and ragged, — “Can’t be happenin’ again, not fuckin’ again.”

Not pleading. Not yet. But damn close. And then, like the universe couldn’t wait to prove her right, the office door creaked open. Keller walked in. She didn’t think — just moved. Grabbed him by the collar, slammed him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

“You bloody lied t’me,” — She growled.

Keller stammered, voice cracking under pressure like damp wood under a boot. — “I…I haven’t said anything…” — He managed, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses, hands half-raised like he couldn’t decide whether to defend himself or beg. 

Lyanna slammed him back against the wall hard enough to make the plaster crack, one forearm pressed across his throat, the other curled in a fist at her side. Her voice tore out of her low, ragged, and furious, like gravel dragged over glass. — “Exactly,” — She snapped, her breath hot against his cheek.  — “What’s in the box, eh? Why’m I stuck here like it’s some godsdamned ghost tale loopin’ on repeat?”

Her eyes burned like she could see through him — or wanted to. And maybe she didn’t know what was real anymore, but she knew one thing: if he didn’t start talking, she’d make him choke on every lie he hadn’t said yet. Keller blinked. Keller stammered, his voice thin and cracking as he shrank back against the wall. His eyes darted, wide and rattled, flicking between her face and the pressure of her arm on his throat.

“How could you know?” — He asked, barely more than a breath, like the question had been knocked out of him before he could finish it.

Lyanna’s jaw clenched tight, her eyes sharp as broken glass. She shoved him harder against the wall, the force knocking a framed photo askew beside his head. — “Don’t matter,” — She growled, low and cold, each word clipped like a knife. — “Tell me the truth. This time, aye?”

There was no room for lies in her voice, just the exhaustion of someone who'd already bled through the answers once. —  “This… this time?”

Lyanna’s snarl came from deep in her throat, raw and unfiltered. Her eyes were wide, wild with recognition and something uglier, fear she’d never name. She shoved him harder against the wall, her breath hot and ragged between clenched teeth. — “I know what it does,” — She barked, like the words were acid on her tongue. — “I know if that box opens, we’re all dead. So tell me, what the fuck is it?”

He stammered. — “It’s a piece…” — Her hand flew to his throat.

Lyanna’s hand clamped around his throat, not tight enough to choke… Yet… But with the kind of pressure that promised worse. Her voice dropped low, cold as grave dirt and twice as final. No yelling, no theatrics. Just that quiet, murderous calm that meant she’d already decided how this ended if he didn’t play nice. —  “Try that again,” — She muttered, eyes locked on his like a wolf sizing up dinner. — “And make it fuckin’ clearer this time.”

Keller stammered, his voice thin and fraying like cheap twine. Panic clung to him, eyes darting, breath catching. — “It’s…It’s something I uncovered,” — He said, swallowing hard. — “I…I sent it to my evaluator,” — His words spilled like he was trying to outrun them, but they caught up anyway, cracking in his throat.

Lyanna's voice was a low rasp, the kind that dragged gravel behind every word. She didn’t raise it, didn’t need to. Her tone hit harder than a punch, flat as a cleaver and just as final. — “Benoit Fournier,” — She said, deadpan. — “Aye, I know. You sent it, didn’t hear back, started twitchin’. Hired me t’fetch it like it were just some dusty Valyrian knick-knack. ’Cept it ain’t.” — She stepped in closer, eyes locked on his like iron sights. — “So quit pissin’ on m’shoes and tellin’ me it’s rainin’.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, cold and sharp as a butcher’s hook, daring him to lie again. Keller stared at her, stunned. — “How… How could you possibly know all this?”

She leaned in close, voice like steel wrapped in smoke. — “Been here. Done that. Bled on the fuckin’ floor for it. So unless ye fancy me crackin’ yer balls open wi’ a letter opener, I suggest ye get honest. Fast.”

He hesitated. Then, Keller’s voice wavered, like he was trying to steady himself but failing. His eyes flickered with unease as he mumbled, — “It’s… it’s said to grant health. Maybe eternal life…” — like sayin’ it out loud was already a mistake he couldn’t take back.

She scoffed. — “Whatever it is, it stinks like seven hells to me.”

Lyanna spun her back on him, yanked her coat off the chair like it owed her money. Her mind felt like a box fulla rusty nails, rattled hard and raw. Hands trembling, but hell no she’d let him see that. Snatched a scrap of paper off the cluttered desk — one of those sticky notes nobody ever bothers to throw away — and scrawled the address she could still pull from the fog. Tossed it to Howland without a word, sharp as broken glass. Words were too much right now, but the silence between them screamed enough.

Lyanna’s voice was low, sharp, no room for fuckin’ argument. She didn’t bother looking up, just spat it out quick, like throwing a live grenade into the quiet room, —  “Call Rhaegar. Tell ’im it’s urgent. Tell ’im to meet us ’ere.” —  Each word clipped, heavy with that kind of cold urgency only someone used to shit going sideways could pull off.

Keller blinked. —  “You know where he is?”

Lyanna gave him a look sharp enough to cut. —  “Aye,” —  She said, flat. —  “An’ if we don’t move, in ’bout fifteen minutes, he’s gonna be dead.”

Lyanna drove ‘em there, cold as the night air pressing against the car windows. The city’s shadows stretched long and lean, smelling like old blood and rusted iron. Inside the building, Rhaegar settled in the lobby, flipping through some ragged magazine from nearly a decade ago, legs crossed, looking like he’d just stepped outta some gangster flick from the forties. Sharp double-breasted pinstripe suit, black shirt tucked neat, dark tie whispering secrets, and those polished black shoes that made the whole outfit sing dangerous. His white hair curled loose, like it didn’t give a damn about the weight of the world pressing down on them both. Same clothes, same ghost of a man, stuck in the same endless day.

He stood, voice low and calm. — “Howland said it’s urgent.”

Lyanna followed his footsteps, boots thudding softly on the cold floor, her mind a jagged puzzle she tried not to piece together too fast. — “Man’s ‘bout to get killed. Can’t see the why jus’ yet.”

She moved through the office like a shadow, memories flickering at the edges — the kind that’d make any sane person run, but she had no choice. This wasn’t about what was happening to her now. It was about stopping another body from hitting the floor.

Keller’s voice cut through the silence. — “I don’t understand who’d kill Benoit…”

Lyanna didn’t look at him, voice sharp like broken glass. — “If you wasn’t here, I’d say it was you. Thinkin’ on it, you and yer courier’s likely doublin’ back on each other.”

Keller blinked slow. —  “You reckon he still has the box?”

Lyanna shrugged, the movement sharp but tight, — “Don’t reckon so. It’s goin’ up for auction tonight, Empire Hotel, down in the financial district.” — like she was trying to keep something in. Her gut twisted cold, a slow sinking weight that wasn’t just about the case.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. —  “Wait minute? How do you know that?” — He asked, steady but sharp, eyebrows knitting together as he glanced at her. 

She spun around quick, lips twitching with a half-lie that tasted like ash. Lyanna shrugged, flashing a quick, half-sharp smile like she was tossing off a line she didn’t believe herself. — “Gut feelin’,” — He said, voice casual but eyes flickering just enough to show she was fudging it.

He snorted, unconvinced. — “That’s well beyond a mere hunch, Lyanna. A hunch is guessing if it’ll snow tomorrow. You’re in a play-by-play territory now.” —  Rhaegar’s tone was dry, with a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head slightly, voice steady but amused. 

Lyanna’s voice dropped just a notch, softer but still edged with that raw honesty she rarely let slip. Her eyes flickered just enough to meet his before darting away, she was sharing something too close to the bone. — “Trust me. Sounds daft, I ken, but just… trust me this once.” — Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened, caught off guard by the vulnerability tucked behind her usual grit. 

For a moment, the weight of her words hung heavy between them, pulling him closer to the cracks she tried to hide. She caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes — like cigarettes burning slow in a storm — and she let him have this one. Turning on her heel, she headed for the office, heels echoing in the hallway. The door was already open. Inside, Benoit was crumpled on the floor, blood seeping slow, the stench of death heavy and thick. No guessing — he was gone. The cops got there pronto, and Sigorn stepped in, looking like he’d swallowed a live rat.

Lyanna’s voice cut through the tension, dry and tired, — “We gotta stop meetin’ like this, Sig.”

His face fell. She knew why. She laid it out for him, quick and sharp: The killer was someone close, someone double-crossing and desperate. Benoit didn’t have the box. It was listed to be sold. Someone killed him and was now hunting the courier. Sigorn looked like he’d just had his brain spun inside out by the flood of info. But that was life — raw and brutal.

Lyanna asked, voice clipped, — “Got any questions?”

Sigorn paused, his voice rough like gravel dragged over stone, the question hanging heavy in the cold air, —  “Aye… Who’s this Benoit Fournier then?”

She frowned, like talking to a kid who just didn’t get it. She pointed at the dead man without a word, then turned and walked away — because some things weren’t meant to be said out loud. She stepped outside, the cold wind cutting through the night like a blade. The city smelled like old blood and rusted iron — same as always, like it never stopped bleeding. They made a beeline for the hotel. Same tired whistle from the concierge. Same woman lingering in the corridor, eyes like she’d seen too much and wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. Rhaegar broke the silence with that clipped, grim tone.

His voice cut through the night, calm, controlled, like he was rehearsing a line he didn’t want to say but had to. Just as he started, — “Hope we’re in and out. Would hate to…” —  she clipped him off mid-sentence.

“Rhaegar,” — She snapped, cutting him off sharp as broken glass. — “I ken ye’re actin’ like ye got that proverbial stick shoved up yer arse ’cause ye ain’t fed yet. I get it. Ye don’t wanna smell like this dump. But for fuck’s sake, I’m probably havin’ the most frustratin’ day of me whole bloody life. So do me a solid… Keep that pie hole shut. I’ll take ye to McDonald’s after this. Or whatever happy meal it is vampires swallow after a long-ass day.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, lips tight, muttering something like, — “I get the feeling I shouldn’t be here for this conversation, yet something tells me you won’t be easing my doubts anytime soon.” — But his eyes didn’t lie, he was hangin’ on every word, waiting for something. Because, like always, he knew she wasn’t about to make it easy.

Lyanna’s eyes flicked sideways, voice low and dry, sharp as broken glass. — “ Yer gut’s still sharp, pretty boy.” — She kept her back straight, but the cold crawl of tiredness was settling under her ribs. The kind only silence at 3AM knows, thick and unforgiving, like iron in the blood.

She wasn’t here for answers exactly. She was just trying not to lose what little she had left. Dangerous, maybe. But maybe necessary. When they hit room 555, Rhaegar dashed at the twitchy bloke holding the suitcase. Of course, it slipped from the idiot grip’s, Keller ran for it after it thudded onto the cold street like it carried the weight of every bad decision. Lyanna sprinted after him, voice sharp as a knife, asking what the hell was going on. But no surprises here — leaving Keller alone was a mistake. The bastard lunged for the box, popped it open, and just like that, the world tilted sideways. Keller went down like a bad actor taking his final bow, game over. 

— 

5:55 PM.

And just like that — snap — she was back. Same ratty couch. Same bastard ticking clock. Same taste of iron behind her teeth. Again. The word barely formed in her mind before she was lurching upright, heart already punching her ribs like it was trying to make a break for it. Her head felt like someone had dumped a box of nails in a blender and hit purée. She didn’t wait for Howland. Didn't need his worried eyes or gentle questions. She lunged for the landline — aye, she still had one, and no, she didn’t wanna talk about it — and jabbed in Rhaegar’s number with shaking fingers. The line clicked. No hello, no explanation. Just her voice, low and clipped, she told him the address, and then…

“I know ye ain’t fed yet, but it’s life or death. I’ll meet ye there.” —  She hung up before he could reply.

The door creaked open behind her, Howland, like clockwork. Same jumper, same concerned look, like déjà vu in real-time. —  “Half an hour’s gon… Ye alright?”

She didn’t answer. Just shoved on her coat, snatched the nearest sticky note off the desk, scribbled a name on it, and handed it over. — “Covacs file’s on the desk. And do us a favour, yeah? Chuck yer gnome up on the cupboard. Thing’s a cursed wee bastard. Tell Rhaegar to meet me here.” —  She wrote the address and gave it to him.

Then she was gone, boots already thudding down the stairs, Keller’s entrance be damned. She knew where he’d be — where he always ended up. Same twisted cycle. Same outcome. Not this time. She pulled up outside the courier’s place just as Rhaegar arrived. Always on time, that one. Grim as a gravestone, sharp suit still immaculate like none of this was real. Maybe it wasn’t.

“Client of yours,” — He said as they made their way inside, — “looking for Benoit. Who’s got a box. That their courier nicked.”

“Aye.” — Her voice was flat. — “Box full o’ somethin’ rotten. If it opens, we’re dead. Simple as.”

“You don’t look dead to me.” — Rhaegar said it dryly, with that cool edge in his voice, half challenge, half curiosity. His eyes flicked over her, measuring, like he was trying to see through the bravado.

She shot him a glare sharp enough to flay. — “Can ye not? Just… Can ye not right now?” —  Her temples pounded like war drums.  —  “The demonspawn tats lit up like a bloody bonfire when it opened. That box? It ain’t some wee trinket. It’s a fuckin’ trap, is what it is.”

Rhaegar scowled, jaw tightening like a vice. His voice came low and taut, strung up with cold fury, like piano wire pulled to snapping. — “You think because some demon brushed against your soul, you can flirt with the rest of it?” —  It wasn’t just anger. It was fear, twisted sharp beneath the surface, like he’d seen what happened to people who tried. He probably had. 

Lyanna didn’t look at him when she said it. Her voice came quiet, rough, like gravel under boot. — “I dunno ken.” — And that, gods help her, was the truth. No snarl, no sarcasm. Just raw, frayed honesty dragged up from the pit of her stomach. — “Maybe it’s waitin’ t’use me. Maybe it already is.”  — She exhaled sharp through her nose, shook her head like she could clear the smoke from her thoughts.  — “But right now? I need every bloody edge I can get.” — It wasn’t defiance. It was desperation dressed in grit. A confession muttered between battlefield steps. He stopped walking. Not far from the office door now, silence thick between them.

“Don’t.” —  His voice was low, colder than usual.  — “Thinking you can control evil means you most likely don’t comprehend it,” —  Rhaegar said coldly. — “More often than not, it’s merely seeking a new puppet to wear.”

She turned to him, eyes dead serious. —  “I’ve watched us die three bloody times, Rhaegar,” — She said, low and fierce. — “I’ll do whatever it takes so we don’t end up corpses again.”

Rhaegar’s voice came out sharp but held back, like he was trying to pull her back from a ledge she wasn’t ready to step away from. — “Lyanna…” — He said, low and steady, with that careful weight that meant he wasn’t giving up, even if she was.

“I’m not gonna be fate’s bitch.” — Lyanna spat the words out like bitter smoke, low and fierce, eyes narrowed with a flash of stubborn fire. Her jaw set hard, voice rough but steady, no room for doubt, no apologies. She wasn’t about to let fate push her around, not this time.

She shoved open the door before he could stop her. And for once — thank the fucking gods — Benoit Fournier was still breathing. She stalked into the office like she owned the place, boots clacking across polished wood, eyes sweeping the clutter of papers and old books.

Lyanna’s voice cut through the cluttered air like a blade, sharp and unflinching. — “Benoit Fournier,” — She called, low but commanding, like she already knew he was guilty of something. No frills, no softness. Just the sound of a name dragged into the light, daring him to lie.

The man flinched. Medium height. Wire-rimmed glasses. Pasty as milk. Benoit turned slowly, shoulders stiff with the kind of dread that sinks in before your brain catches up. His eyes landed on her, wide and blinking behind wire-frame glasses, as if hoping she might vanish if he looked hard enough.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” — He asked, voice taut and papery, too rehearsed to sound innocent, too shaky to be convincing.

She didn’t move closer, didn’t need to. She said it like a warning more than an introduction, like she was tired of repeating herself and ten seconds from dragging him by the collar. —“Lyanna Stark,” — She said, voice clipped and grim as winter steel. — “Private investigator. Ye’ve been contacted by a Mister Jacob Keller, ring any bells, or should I draw ye a fuckin’ diagram?” — Her tone had that gravel-slick edge to it, the kind that didn’t bluff, didn’t beg. Just laid the facts out flat, like corpses on a slab.

He lied with the elegance of a drunk on stilts. — “I know no one by that name.”

Her voice cut through the office like a blade, hard and cold. She didn’t shout, didn’t have to. There was a weight behind her words, a coiled violence under the calm, like a thunderstorm holding its breath. She took a step forward, eyes narrowed, her tone low and biting.

“It’s ’bout the box,” — She snapped, words tight with fury and urgency. — “I ken ye nicked it, and I ken it ain’t with ye no more. But you’re in danger, mate, so if ye wanna keep breathin’, best get off yer arse and come with me. Now.” — There was no question in her tone. Just the cold, dead certainty of someone who’d seen the ending already, and was trying, just this once, to stop it.

Still lying. Badly. —  “As I said…”

She waved a hand, already done with him. — “Rhaegar, mind doin’ the honours?”

Like a shadow, he was beside Benoit. A flicker of something ancient in his eyes. One blink and Benoit’s face had gone slack, entranced under that vampire glamour. Lyanna watched as he murmured the command and the man obeyed, rising to follow them like a sleepwalker. They were halfway to the door when something twitched in the back of her skull. A whisper through her bones. A shift in the shadows. She didn’t wait. Just turned. Fast. Teeth clenched. The bastard came at them with a knife — nothing fancy, just a kitchen blade slick with intention. Old, twitchy, cornered. The kind of man who already knew he wasn’t walking back out of this room. Lyanna moved first. Instinct. Wrist to blade, twist the grip, lean into the pain before it sliced. She might’ve had him too — would’ve, if Rhaegar hadn’t let go of Benoit and snapped forward like a leash had broken. He had the attacker by the throat in seconds, face cold enough to frost mirrors.

Lyanna’s voice came low, steady, she’d done this dance too many times. — “Who’re ye, then?”

The man gasped, still fighting. —  “You don’t understand…”

“Go on, try me,” — She said. — “’Fore some other daft bastard opens that godsdamned box.”

His eyes locked on hers, wide, bloodshot, mad with something deeper than fear. — “You’re already in it,” — He choked. — “It’s a circle. A loop. It feeds on itself. Every living soul’d be tempted to open it, humans are stupid that way. I can’t let it happen again.”

Her jaw locked, fingers flexing at her sides. — “Then ’ow d’I stop it, eh?”

The man’s voice came out raw, like gravel dragged through his throat, desperate, fraying at the edges. His eyes flicked between Lyanna and Rhaegar, wide with a haunted kind of clarity, as if he’d already seen the end of the story and was choking on it. — “Don’t let it open,” — he rasped, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

Simple. Too simple. Always was, until you bled for it. Then came the footsteps. Heavy, purposeful, coming from the corridor they’d just come down. Sigorn. Of course it was.

“What’re ye doin’ ’ere?” — Lyanna asked, already half-dreading the answer.

Sigorn stood in the doorway like he didn’t quite want to cross the threshold, arms folded, jaw set tight. His brows drew together, concern smudged under the usual gruff. When he spoke, his voice was low and edged with something that might’ve been worry, or just the usual irritation he wore like a badge. — “Howland rang,” — He said, scratching the back of his neck. — “Said ye were here. Said ye were actin’... off.” — His tone wasn’t accusatory, yet. Just tired. Like he was bracing for Lyanna to prove Howland right.

Rhaegar glanced up from the half-conscious attacker, voice like gravel under ice. — “We just stopped a potential homicide. You’re welcome.”

“What?” — Sigorn blinked, confused, one hand still on the holster.

“He tried t’ kill him,” — Lyanna said, voice flat as a rusted blade. —  “Take ’im in. Just hold ’im, yeah?” — She paused, eyes sharp and lit like a fuse. —  “Ye’ll get yer explanation when this shite’s over.”

“So will I,” — Rhaegar muttered beside her.

She didn’t argue. No time. They left Sigorn with the knife-wielder and dragged Benoit out, the man still glazed in Rhaegar’s compulsion. Worked for now. Until Keller showed up. Big fucking mistake. He punched Benoit square in the jaw, like that’d solve anything.

Benoit sneered, his voice bitter and low as he glared at Keller. —  “So this how it is, then? You have  goons now?”

Before she could blink, Rhaegar had Benoit’s arm twisted behind his back, his tone silk-wrapped steel. —  “Be careful who you call goon.”

“Aright!” — Lyanna snapped. —  “I ken where th’ box is. Ye two, plant yer arses down, an’ if I hear one more bloody peep, I swear on every ghost in this godsdamned city I’ll let ’im drain the pair o’ ye like Capri Suns.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just stormed off, Rhaegar at her heels. Empire Hotel, same as before. Room number burned into her memory. She didn’t knock. Kicked the door clean in like the rules never applied. And just like that, she paid for it. The shot rang out and pain bloomed hot and fast along the side of her neck. Her knees hit the floor first. She didn’t scream. Banshees never screamed for themselves. Everything spun. She caught a flash — Rhaegar lunging, the attacker going down hard, gun clattering against cheap hotel carpet. And then, silence. Thick and suffocating. Rhaegar was over her in a second. His mouth was moving, but all she heard was ocean roar. Her ears were shot. Literally. Her neck burned. She knew the blood was pulsing out in thick waves. Ten, fifteen seconds, maybe. That’s all she’d have.

She felt his hand on her neck. Felt his blood — his actual blood — as he bit into his palm and pressed it to her lips. Her eyes were fogging, but she drank. Not out of trust. Out of survival. Didn’t help much. She saw his face, hovering over her — tight, pale, eyes too bright. Not fear exactly. Something worse. Something personal. Then he was gone. She wanted to scream at him, curse him for running — but she didn’t. He wasn’t running. She felt it — through her bones, through the banshee scream buried in her spine. He’d gone for the box. And she felt the burn. The tattoos on her wrists lit like fire. The box opened. And just like that, again…

— 

5:55 PM.

She woke up. Again. The curse didn’t whisper, it cackled — godsdamned smug. Same musty couch. Same stale air thick with cold sweat and yesterday’s bourbon. Her body was already moving before her brain caught up, like muscle memory forged in fire. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just breathed through her teeth, eyes hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached. If this was fate’s idea of a joke, it was gettin’ old. This time, she told herself, she'd end it. Or bleed out trying. Again. Her boots hit the floor. Office still dark, dust hanging like ghosts in the lamplight. She grabbed the phone — landline, older than half the corpses she’d put in the ground — and dialed before the front door even creaked. She didn’t need to see Howland’s face to know he’d be standing there in the same rumpled shirt, same look that said, you good, boss? No time. No explaining. It rang once.

“Figured you'd call,” — Rhaegar’s voice drawled down the line. — “Bit early this time.” 

That voice, steady, smooth, maddeningly composed… Hit her square in the chest. Bastard was alive. Relief came out as a long breath through her nose. She didn’t say she was glad. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“You alright?” — Rhaegar asked it quietly, but there was weight behind the words, like he already knew the answer and hated asking anyway. His voice was low, even, laced with that careful precision he used when something actually mattered. Not pushy. Not soft either. Just… there , like a hand held out in the dark, waiting to see if she’d take it.

She swallowed.  — “Aye. I… Look, I need yer help. Now. Please .” — She said it sharp but quiet, like she was holding back more than just words, urgent, raw, almost begging without really wanting to.

The ‘please’ scraped her throat on the way out. Not her style, sounding that raw. But she'd died in his arms a few seconds ago, even if he didn’t remember it. That kind of shit leaves an imprint. They met near Benoit’s office, picked him up like they were running a bloody carpool, and made for the Empire Hotel. The box was still in play — same cursed thing that kept dragging her back through hell on repeat. Rhaegar stood beside her, quiet but sharp-eyed, clocking everything. Room 555. She felt it before she saw it. Keller and Fournier were bickering like pensioners in the lobby, useless as ever. She and Rhaegar moved like clockwork — door cracked open, suitcase in view. He lunged. She covered. The box never left their sight. No accidents this time.

They stepped out, heads down, tension in her limbs winding tighter with each second. Keller and Fournier were already being shoved into cruisers — for public brawling, maybe just the gods doing her a solid. But it was the other man — the one with the knife, the look in his eyes like he knew too much — who watched them walk out. Watched them hand over the box like it was no big thing. And yet — for the first time since this whole fucked cycle began — Lyanna felt it. Not safety, not victory. But distance, and a bit of relief. Like maybe, just maybe, she was a step ahead. In the backseat, wind clawed at the window, and the lights of the Empire faded behind them. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at Rhaegar. Just stared out at the road, letting silence settle where the ache lived. For now, she was still breathing. And that’d have to be enough.

***

Lyanna was behaving oddly. Which, in itself, wasn’t so strange — she was a woman wrapped in barbed wire and stubbornness, stitched together with trauma and caffeine, and carried herself like she’d been born allergic to vulnerability. But this… this wasn’t her usual brand of emotionally constipated bravado. She wasn’t talking. And that — Rhaegar noticed — wasn’t silence so much as suppression. Like she was holding her breath across dimensions. She drove like she was racing a ghost only she could see, and he let her, watching from the passenger seat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, hunger curling in his gut like a slow-burning fuse. He hadn’t fed. The city smelled louder when he was empty — metal, sweat, perfume, decay. Every heartbeat was a small betrayal in his ears. But he focused on her instead.

Her voice had cracked on the phone. Just for a second. But it was enough to rattle him in a way he didn’t have language for. When they reached the hotel, it unfolded with the surreal momentum of déjà vu, she looked like she had been there before. Keller was useless, Benoit looked like he’d aged backwards into panic, and Lyanna — Lyanna handed over the box. Just like that. No snarling. No threats. No dramatics. Rhaegar didn’t like being three steps behind. He didn’t like when people touched things they didn’t understand — cursed boxes, or women with eyes like winter storms. She was shaken. He could see it. Not visibly — not to the untrained eye — but he’d spent long enough cataloging her tells to catch the shift. Her shoulders were stiff, not coiled. Her sarcasm came half a second too late. And she wasn’t making eye contact.

Which was how he knew something was wrong. When they got back to his apartment, he didn’t tell her to leave. He didn’t retreat to his private corner of the night to hunt, or open a bag of disappointment from the freezer. The last time he’d let her out of his sight, when she was acting weird, she’d almost died. And he still tasted ash over that memory. The elevator groaned its way up to his floor. He glanced at her in the reflective chrome. Her face looked carved from stone. Beautiful, cold, unreadable. Except for the faint tremor in her hand, like her body still remembered something she hadn’t said yet.

Then she spoke. — “Yer hungry, ain’t ya? Haven’t fed yet.” —  Lyanna sounded as if she already knew the answer. Like it wasn’t a question but a diagnosis.

The words cut through the elevator's hush like a scalpel, sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.  He arched an eyebrow. Oddly perceptive, he almost said. But instead, he let it come out the way it always did with her — dry, unbothered, slightly amused.

“Oddly perceptive on your part.” — The words rolled off his tongue like silk over a hidden blade, laced with wry amusement but not without weight.

She gave a half-smile, something wan and tired, the shape of a woman who had too much to say and no energy left to disguise it. — “Ta for everythin',” — She said, voice low. — “Don’t reckon ye’ll ever get how much it means, to me.” 

And there it was — the strangest part of the night. Not the box. Not the man with the knife. Not the uncanny precision with which she navigated a case he hadn’t even fully grasped yet. No, it was this: Lyanna saying thank you like it mattered. Like he mattered. He stared at her for a beat too long, studying the line of her jaw, the bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes, the way her voice caught halfway through sincerity. She never said things like that. She didn’t do gratitude — not out loud. Which made him wonder, again, what the hell had happened before that phone call. What she'd seen. What she'd felt. She was still holding something back. And he was still pretending not to care. But he did. Gods help him, he did. 

She said it too casually. —  “Ye gonna head out an’ pick somethin’ t’eat?”

The question drifted through the elevator like cigarette smoke — casual, curling, dangerous if inhaled too deeply. Rhaegar’s eyes went forward, locked on the ascending numbers above the door. He counted them like they mattered.

Rhaegar said it like an afterthought, voice low and clipped, the way a man might mention a raincoat in a storm. — “No. I… I’ve blood bags at home. They taste like hospital cotton, but they’ll do.” — He didn’t look at her when he said it. He was already withdrawing into that polished armor of his, clinical, composed, pretending hunger was just another equation to manage. But there was tension in the line of his jaw, the kind that hinted he was lying more to himself than to her.

It wasn’t the worst lie he’d told. But it wasn’t good. She didn’t answer, not right away. And silence with Lyanna was never just silence. It was weight. Weather. Pressure change before a storm. The elevator felt smaller than usual. Not a problem — unless one was a vampire trying very hard not to acknowledge the intoxicating proximity of a banshee who was bleeding fatigue and ghostlight from her pores. He wasn’t easily unnerved. He’d told her once, with a hint of smugness, that centuries of high-stakes diplomacy, courtly backstabbing, and half-hearted academic conferences had built him a cast-iron composure. But Lyanna cracked things in him. Not with sentiment — gods no — but with her maddening ability to exist just beyond understanding. She made him curious. And that, in his experience, was always a prelude to disaster. Still, there it was — that strange flicker again. Her being here. The way her voice had sounded earlier, brittle and breathless. The way she hadn’t explained anything, but somehow he hadn’t demanded answers. Hunger gnawed at him, but he resisted it with the same religious fervor addicts call recovery. Bloodlust wasn’t a craving. It was a shame. 

And Rhaegar had spent lifetimes mastering restraint, he wore it like armor, tailored sharp. Then she said it. — “I mean, I’m right ’ere, ain’t I?”

It landed soft. And detonated hard. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Inside, alarms went off like sirens under church bells. She couldn’t know what that meant. She couldn’t know what it meant to offer blood to someone like him. Not a stranger, not a victim — him. Rhaegar didn’t feed on people he knew. It was too… complicated. Too intimate. Too much. He’d gone centuries avoiding that particular thread, because feeding wasn’t just biology — it was memory, heat, tethering. It was letting someone inside in the oldest, rawest way a creature like him could. Not even his maker had fed from him before they were lovers.

He swallowed that thought. — “What do you mean?” he asked carefully. Like stepping over cracked ice.

She shrugged, barely.  — “I’m ’ere. An’ I did drag you outta yer usual plans, so…”

He would’ve made a joke. Would’ve turned his back. Pivoted, distracted, danced away like he always did when the fire burned too close. But there was nowhere to go. The elevator kept climbing. Too slowly. — “I don’t…” — His voice faltered.

She cut him off. — “I ken ye haven’t fed.”

Flat. But not hollow. There was something under it, concern, maybe. Challenge. He couldn’t tell. He hated that he couldn’t tell. — “You’re slower than usual. Paler.”

Lyanna said it clipped and sharp, like she didn’t have time for fussing, a quick, no-nonsense — “Fine, then,” — That left no room for argument.

It came out brittle. Defensive. She’d see through it in an instant. The numbers above them refused to hurry. Lyanna stepped off the wall and closed the space between them. Not touching — but near enough. Close enough for him to smell her: ash and storm and something underneath that made the beast in his chest stir like a half-remembered name. She tilted her chin. Exposed her throat.

“I’m just sayin’… ye could take some,” —  Lyanna said it quiet, matter-of-fact, like she wasn’t begging or fussing, just plain truth laid out flat. Her voice held that stubborn edge, like she didn’t need to explain but wanted him to get it all the same. — “If ya need it.”

Rhaegar didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Two heartbeats passed, hers. Not his. — “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” — He kept his voice measured. Almost cold. Like distance could be a substitute for discipline.

She rolled her eyes. Snorted like he’d recited scripture instead of admitting temptation. — “I’m nae scared o’ ye,” — She said. —  “Yer hungry. I’ve got blood. Do the math.”

He did the math. He also did the calculus. And the theology. None of it made this safe. She held his gaze. Chin high. Unflinching. A soldier in cigarette smoke and eyeliner. A girl who could see death and still offer her neck. And then, in a voice softer than he expected — too soft — it came, 

“But I s’pose I’ll take the rejection.” — Lyanna’s voice dropped lower than he’d thought it would, quiet, almost tender, with a softness that caught him off guard. It wasn’t defiance this time, but something closer to reluctant surrender.

That bruised something in him. He didn’t know what. But it hurt like the echo of a life he used to want. It shouldn’t have mattered. A line spoken too casually, a shrug of indifference. But it did. Gods, it did. Not because she’d offered. Not because he was starving — though he was. It mattered because she thought he didn’t want to. That was the lie he couldn’t let live. Rhaegar moved before thought could strangle the impulse. No lecture. No clever diversion. No sermon on restraint this time. His body betrayed him, acting with the violence of want. He reached for her. His hands were rougher than he intended, pulling her forward, her back hitting the mirrored wall with a soft metallic thud. Her eyes met his — sharp, startled. But not afraid. And that sealed it.

“Don’t mistake it for rejection,” — He said, voice low and taut with something between shame and possession. — “I didn’t refuse because I lack desire. It’s a matter of conflicting interests.”

He didn’t touch her like glass, didn’t kiss her skin like prayer. That was a younger man’s mistake. He leaned in, mouth grazing her throat with the kind of hunger that burned reverence away. Her blood called to him — sang to him — and he answered. His fangs slid in. Clean. Firm.And Lyanna didn’t flinch. She didn’t gasp or cry out. She breathed. A low exhale, steady and defiant. Like this was a pact she’d made with herself long ago. Her hands curled into his shirt, his hair — sharp fingers, sharp choices. Her heartbeat spiked, then settled. She didn’t surrender. She chose him. He tried to keep it clinical, detached. He’d perfected the art of feeding without intimacy — turning sacred hunger into dull necessity. But this wasn’t dull. And it was far from necessity. Her taste hit him like an old melody buried in bone. Bitter and bright. Ancient. Wild. Alive in a way that was dangerous. Not prey. Not sustenance. She tasted like a storm trying to be still. Banshee blood was different. Rhaegar knew that in theory.

He’d tasted it once from her during their first case, when meaning didn’t matter and survival was louder than memory. He hadn’t understood it then. Now he did. And still, he drank. It wasn’t feeding anymore. It was craving. It was answering a need he didn’t admit to. Not to himself. Not to anyone. Her blood didn’t just fill him — it rewrote him. Every nerve lit up, every buried ache dragged into light. It grounded him and undid him all at once. The elevator dinged. They’d reached his floor. He pulled back, slow and breathless, though he didn’t need breath. Her blood still sang in his mouth, electric and haunting. His hands dropped to his sides like he’d only just remembered they had to. She looked up at him — cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, a smear of red at her throat.

“Ye done?” —  She asked, voice husky and daring.

Rhaegar stepped away as if the walls had grown fangs. — “No,” — He said softly.

Not nearly.

***

Title: Offers One Does Not Refuse

Tonight didn’t feel like a case. It felt like standing on the edge of something that had already swallowed me whole, watching her drop through the cracks before I could follow.

Lyanna was quiet. Not her usual blade-tipped silence, but something heavier — damp, coiled, held tight in the lungs like a scream never let out. She moved like someone walking through echoes, like she'd already lived this day twice and hated every second of it. No retorts, no sharp-edged wit. Just distance. I’ve seen her bloodied, furious, defiant. But this? This unsettled me.

Earlier, on the phone, her voice faltered. It cracked. Only for a second — but I heard it. And it stuck. Crawled under my skin and stayed there. She was fraying at the edges, and trying to pretend otherwise.

At the hotel, she handed over the box without ceremony, without venom. No theatrics. No protest. Just… gave it away. That silence again — louder than any alarm bell.

I should’ve fed afterward. I was starving. The hunger curled in my stomach like a second spine, growing vertebra by vertebra. But the memory of her nearly dying — her blood hot against my hands, Erik’s stench still in the air — kept me grounded. If you can call it that. I took her back to mine. Call it loyalty, guilt, fear — whatever. It wasn’t logic.

In the elevator, she looked at me like she knew. As if she could smell it on me — the hunger, the restraint. Most people don’t notice. Most people see the polished surface and never question what’s beneath. But Lyanna sees the cracks. Worse — she understands them.

I tried to play it off. Gave her some offhand remark about blood bags and the joys of synthetic nutrition. She didn’t buy it.

Then she said thank you . A real one. Sincere. Unarmored. It hit harder than I expected. Not because she owed me anything, but because she meant it. It came from that buried part of her — the one she guards with barbed wire and bad habits. And somehow, she let it slip.

Then came the offer. Not emotional. Not seductive. Just… honest. A gesture. A kindness. One that terrified me more than if she’d pointed a gun to my head. Because she doesn’t understand what that means. What feeding is. Not for me.

It’s not consumption. It’s connection. It's binding. Sacred, in a way nothing else is anymore. Most vampires don’t feed from people they care about. We know better. We know how it changes things. And she just offered — without fear, without strings.

I said no. Not for lack of want. But because I wanted too much. And then, the look she gave me — it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t cold. It was… disappointment. Like she thought I didn’t want her. That, more than anything, cracked something in me.

I moved before I could think better of it. I pulled her in. Close. Closer than I should have. Her back hit the elevator wall with a soft thud, but she didn’t flinch. Just watched me with those storm-blue eyes, steady and sure.

Her blood hit me like revelation. Old and wild, singing with death and defiance. Banshee blood isn’t like anything else. It doesn’t just feed — it remembers. I felt every note of her. Every fracture. Every fight. She tasted like the first thunderclap before the sky splits open.

She didn’t pull away. She gripped tighter. Shirt, collar, hair — holding me there like she meant it. She wasn’t offering herself up. She was meeting me. On equal footing. Not prey. Not victim. Just… her.

When I stopped, the air between us was different. Charged. Her breath was uneven. Her throat glistened red. But her eyes — gods, her eyes — they were clear. Brighter than I’d seen them since I met her.

Something had changed. Maybe everything.

And I knew, even as I stepped back, that I hadn’t had enough.

Not nearly.