The outskirts of Oryn-Vel were silent, save for the occasional chirp of crickets and the whisper of wind through the skeletal trees. Sparse homes and abandoned buildings dotted the landscape, half-eaten by nature, a perfect place for a clandestine meeting. Beneath the dim light of a hanging lantern, three figures stood in the remnants of what had once been a small chapel, now reduced to little more than cracked stone and creeping ivy.
Rook leaned against a broken column, arms crossed, his hood pulled low over his face. His fingers idly tapped against the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a subtle warning, though his voice carried none of the tension his stance implied. "I don't know how many times I have to say it, but let me spell it out for you." He straightened, pushing off the column, his sharp eyes locking onto the two men before him. "The Whispers aren't joining the Syndicate."
The two ambassadors exchanged glances. They were dressed too well for this part of the city, their dark coats clean, their boots polished. Syndicate men, through and through. One was a thin, rat-faced man with narrow eyes that darted around like he expected an ambush. The other was built like a brawler, arms thick with muscle and a face marred by an old scar down his cheek.
The rat-faced man, Harker, cleared his throat. "You're making a mistake, Rook. Luthias Varrel isn't the type to take 'no' lightly." He tilted his head, voice slick with an attempt at persuasion. "The Syndicate is regaining power, piece by piece. We're in the streets, we're in the markets—we're in the damn guardhouses, for all you know. Luthias is patient, but his patience runs out."
"That sounds a lot like a threat," Rook said flatly.
Harker spread his hands. "Not a threat. A reality check."
The scarred man, Grendon, stepped forward, his voice a low rumble. "The Whispers are a shadow of what they used to be. You lost your strongest when the old city burned. You lost more when the guilds collapsed. The Syndicate is offering a hand, Rook. You think you can keep your people safe all on your own?"
Rook was silent for a moment, then sighed, shaking his head. "I don't think. I know."
Before either man could react, he moved.
In the blink of an eye, he had crossed the space between them, his dagger pressed just under Harker's jaw. The rat-faced man barely had time to gasp before Rook's other hand grabbed a fistful of his coat, yanking him forward. Grendon's hand went to his belt, but Rook's next words stopped him cold.
"Move, and he dies."
The cold steel under Harker's chin didn't waver. Rook leaned in just enough that his voice dropped to a whisper, though there was no warmth in it. "You go back to Luthias Varrel and you tell him this—The Whispers do not bow. Not to the Syndicate. Not to him." His grip tightened. "He keeps pushing, and I push back. And I promise you, he doesn't want to see what happens when I start pushing."
Harker swallowed, a thin bead of sweat running down his temple. "You're making enemies you can't afford, Rook."
Rook shoved him back.
Harker stumbled but caught himself, rubbing his throat. His eyes burned with quiet fury, but he said nothing as he adjusted his coat.
Grendon met Rook's gaze, something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of respect, maybe. Or maybe just calculation.
Finally, Harker straightened his coat and spat to the side. "Fine. Message received." He turned on his heel, motioning for Grendon to follow.
Rook watched them go, not moving until they vanished into the darkened streets. Only then did he exhale, rolling his shoulders.
Luthias Varrel wouldn't give up that easily.
Rook could only hope the bastard was smart enough to take the warning. But deep down, he already knew—this wasn't over.
*
The streets were still as Rook moved through the shadows, his footsteps light, deliberate. The meeting with the Syndicate had gone exactly as he expected—threats, posturing, and the ever-present promise of war if he didn't comply. It was exhausting.
He cut through back alleys, taking a circuitous route toward one of his many hidden residences. This one was tucked between two decaying buildings in the old merchant district, its exterior just as worn-down and unassuming as the others he owned. Cracked brick, faded paint, a boarded-up window—just another forgotten structure in Oryn-Vel. But inside?
Inside was a very different story.
Rook unlocked the reinforced door, stepped in, and shut the city out behind him. The moment he did, the tension in his shoulders melted. Soft candlelight flickered against polished wood floors, rich rugs muffled his steps, and the scent of lavender and wine drifted in the air. The residence was warm, cozy, a world apart from the filth outside. And, more importantly, he wasn't alone.
"Welcome home, love."
The voice was rich, teasing, belonging to Seraphine, the first to greet him. She lounged lazily on a velvet chaise near the hearth, golden curls spilling over one bare shoulder, red silk draped around her like a second skin. A goblet of wine dangled from her fingers, her emerald eyes watching him with playful amusement.
Rook sighed and loosened his coat, setting his daggers aside. "It's been a long night."
"We figured," came a second voice—Liora, who was stretched across the divan, reading a leather-bound book. She was the sharpest of them, the one with a knowing smirk and dark eyes that caught everything. She didn't look up as she turned a page, but her smirk widened. "You only ever come here when you're brooding."
"Or when he's tense," added the third—Valesse, the youngest, sitting cross-legged on the plush rug before the fireplace. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, and her violet eyes gleamed with mischief. She tilted her head at him. "Did someone try to kill you again?"
Rook gave her a flat look. "No. But they might soon."
That was all the invitation they needed.
Seraphine rose from the chaise and padded over, placing her goblet aside before sliding her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. "Poor thing," she murmured, trailing her fingers through his hair. "Come sit. Let us take care of you."
Rook let her guide him toward the sofa, where the other two were already waiting. Liora shifted, making room, while Valesse curled up at his side, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Syndicate again?" Liora asked, resting her chin on her palm.
Rook exhaled through his nose. "They sent two men to convince me to join. Same old story. Same old threats. They don't get it. I don't bow to anyone."
"Mmm. And that's why we adore you." Seraphine kissed his jaw, slow and deliberate, her lips brushing his skin. "Stubborn. Unyielding. Entirely ours."
Valesse hummed in agreement, curling closer. "Tell us what happened. From the beginning."
Rook hesitated. He didn't like talking about these things—about politics, power struggles, the constant push and pull of the city's underworld. But here? In this space? With them? He could allow himself the indulgence.
So he talked. And they listened.
Three women, each uniquely dangerous, each uniquely his.
Seraphine, once a noble's daughter, sold off to a merchant before Rook burned his business to the ground and took her in. She was charm, silk, and hidden daggers. Liora, a former assassin who had tried to kill him once—he had let her live, and in return, she had pledged herself to him instead. And Valesse, the runaway noble from the royal capital in the north, the one with a sharp tongue and sharper mind, who had chosen him over a life in a gilded cage.
They were his. And more importantly, they were his safe place.
As the fire crackled and the warmth of their bodies pressed against his, Rook let the tension drain from him. For tonight, at least, he wasn't a leader of the Whispers. He wasn't a man being hunted by the Syndicate.
Tonight, he was simply Rook.
*
Rook awoke slowly, the warmth of soft sheets tangled around his bare torso. A delicate pressure traced the muscles of his back—small, skilled hands working along his spine with practiced ease. He exhaled a slow breath, blinking against the dim morning light filtering through the heavy curtains.
"You're tense again," Valesse murmured against his ear, straddling his waist as she kneaded into his shoulders. Her touch was firm, knowing exactly where to press. "That's what you get for brooding all night."
Rook let out a low grunt, turning his head slightly. "Did I?"
"Mmhmm. We practically had to drag you away from your thoughts." She leaned down, silver hair falling in a cascade over his back, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Fortunately, I'd say we did a very good job."
Rook smirked, but didn't answer immediately. He let her continue the massage, feeling the tension in his muscles loosen, the weight of the past evening settling properly in his mind.
"Where are the others?" he finally asked.
Valesse sighed dramatically. "Seraphine had an errand to run before noon. Liora left a little after dawn. She didn't say where, but I assume it has to do with that Syndicate scum you scared off last night."
That wasn't a surprise. Liora liked to keep tabs on his enemies.
Rook ran a hand through his tousled hair, then shifted to sit up, making Valesse slide off him with a little noise of protest. "Enough lying around. I need to meet with the others."
She pouted but didn't argue, watching with appreciation as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His body was lined with faint scars, reminders of past fights, past victories.
Rook dressed quickly, pulling on his usual dark tunic and leather coat, buckling his belt where his daggers rested snugly against his hips. Valesse, still draped in the sheets, propped her chin on her palm as she watched him.
"Be careful," she said finally.
Rook glanced at her. "Always."
Then, with a final look, he strode out of the room, his mind already shifting toward the next task.
It was time to meet with his most trusted people in the Whispers.