The city of Duskmere never slept. It couldn't. The weight of its own secrets kept it restless, its sprawling streets always shrouded in the shadows of its grand, decaying buildings. The air tasted of iron and rot, thick with the ever-present stench of rain-soaked stone, sewage, and forgotten souls. The storm clouds overhead seemed as if they were perpetually locked in a struggle with the night, pressing down on the city with their oppressive gray weight.
Iris Verran hated it here. He hated the filth that clung to his skin, the bitter taste of smoke and decay in the air. But most of all, he hated the way the city had eaten away at his soul, bit by bit, leaving behind a hollow shell that had learned how to survive, not live.
He huddled beneath the rotting awning of a butcher's shop long past its prime, the roof sagging under the weight of countless years. The wooden beams creaked in protest against the wind, and water pooled at his feet, turning the ground into slick, treacherous muck. Iris had long since abandoned any attempt to keep dry. His clothes were drenched, clinging to his thin, shivering frame. His breath came out in visible clouds, the cold gnawing at his bones.
The coins he'd earned today—barely enough to cover a night's meal—had gone to a dying woman in the district's brothel, a former lover of some low-ranking aristocrat, who had paid for a cup of bitterroot tea to ease her final hours. She'd passed in the night, leaving nothing behind but the taste of bitterness and regret on his tongue.
He rubbed his cold hands together and sighed. A stale loaf of bread was all he had left. It would be enough, though. It always had to be.
Iris didn't mind the hunger; he had learned to live with it. It was the cold that broke him. The cold and the constant gnawing sense of dread that crawled up his spine whenever his mind wandered too far.
The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. Slow, measured steps that were too confident, too deliberate to belong to someone from these parts. Iris's chest tightened. He looked up sharply, his sharp, green eyes catching the dim light cast by a distant lantern.
The man who appeared before him was tall, almost impossibly so. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, as if he were untouched by the grime and the rain. His clothes were too fine, too well-tailored for someone to be out in this part of the city. A long black coat, embroidered with silver thread, flowed behind him, and the gleam of polished boots made no sound against the wet cobblestone.
Iris frowned, his lips curling into a sneer, even though his pulse quickened at the sight of the stranger. He didn't belong here. And he certainly wasn't someone Iris wanted to deal with.
The man stopped before him, his expression unreadable, yet something about his gaze felt too intense, too calculating. Iris lifted his chin, refusing to be intimidated.
"Move," the man commanded, his voice low and smooth, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.
Iris held his ground. "What, you own this alley too?" His voice was hoarse from the cold, but it came out sharper than he intended, his words cutting through the air like a blade.
The man's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing, his presence suffocating. "Not yet."
Iris's heartbeat quickened, though he refused to let it show. The rich didn't come to places like this unless they had business. They were always hunting something. Or someone.
The man's voice was colder when he spoke again. "Name."
Iris didn't hesitate. "Iris."
The man's eyes flickered to the side, as if he were assessing him, and then back to Iris. "That's a flower."
Iris felt his lip curl in a bitter smile. "Then pluck me, or piss off."
For a moment, the nobleman stilled, as though considering his words carefully. Iris was used to this—the long pauses, the unspoken power games that always seemed to accompany any encounter with the rich. But there was something about this man that unnerved him. He felt as if his every move was being watched, calculated.
The man straightened, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that was more dangerous than pleasant. "Almond Drevar," he said, his voice almost lazy, as if offering his name were the simplest thing in the world. "You'll want to remember that."
Iris felt a strange jolt at the name. Drevar. The name carried weight in Duskmere—wealth, power, influence. The Drevar family was one of the Five Houses that ruled the city from the shadows, controlling every aspect of life and death in Duskmere. They were the ones who played with magic like it was a toy—dangerous, forbidden, and deadly. Iris had heard whispers of them in the slums, but he never paid them much mind. It was easy to ignore the aristocrats when you were too busy trying to survive.
But Almond Drevar wasn't just any nobleman.
Iris's gaze flickered briefly to the man's exposed collarbone, where a strange symbol had been etched into his skin, half-hidden beneath his coat. A familiar, intricate design—a sigil that Iris had only seen in old, dusty books from his youth. It was a symbol of the Drevar House.
Magic.
Iris's heart skipped a beat.
Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating Almond's face for just a moment, and Iris saw it—the faint glow of something dark, something ancient, flickering beneath Almond's skin.
The air around them seemed to charge with energy, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them.
For a moment, Iris thought he saw the barest flicker of something in Almond's eyes—something that bordered on amusement, but there was something darker there, too. An interest that unsettled him.
Iris's chest tightened. He should have run. He should have taken his chances in the storm and fled, left the alley, left the city. Anything to escape the pull of Almond Drevar's gaze.
But he didn't move.
"I don't want anything from you," Iris muttered, a forced edge of defiance in his voice.
Almond took a step closer. His boots clicked sharply against the stone, the sound echoing in the stillness of the alley. "You'll want to remember that, too."
Iris's breath caught in his throat as Almond reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against his cheek in an almost casual gesture. It was a touch so delicate, so light, that it could've been a figment of Iris's imagination—but the heat that surged through his skin was all too real.
"Who are you?" Iris demanded, his voice rougher now. He hadn't meant to ask. He hadn't meant to show any weakness. But there was something about this man, something that felt like fate, like inevitability.
"I'm the one you'll be running from," Almond said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Soon enough, Iris. Soon enough."
Iris opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat.
He didn't know it yet, but that night, in the suffocating alley in the heart of Duskmere, would mark the beginning of something far darker than he could ever imagine.
It would be the beginning of betrayal.
It would be the beginning of blood.
And it would be the beginning of a love that would twist him in ways he couldn't begin to understand.