Lucien Blackmoore shoved through the sky-tower's glass doors like the night was chasing him with teeth. Inside, the air changed—thick and still, sticky with the reek of burnt glass, bitter synth-liquor, and something fouler. Not death, not rot exactly, but the kind of decay that clung to power too long unchallenged. Rotted ambition. The kind that dressed itself in tailored jackets and perched in lounges like this one, where the ceilings were too high and the silence too smug.
Neon smeared itself across every surface—mirrors, polished walls, floors gleaming like ice slick with old blood. Lights buzzed with a stubborn flicker, offended by their own permanence. Even now, after midnight, Valthara Prime was alive beyond the glass, spires lit up like altars, gutters lit up like threats. The city pulsed steady. Loud. Ugly. Breathing smog and deals and curses in the same breath.
Lucien's coat dripped rainwater down his boots, the seams soaked through. The cold had found its way into him and set up camp in his spine. He tugged the collar up. Not to block the cold—just out of habit, the same way you grit your teeth when you taste copper. He grinned. A tired grin, worn thin from deals and nights that never ended. Sharp enough to flash. Dull enough not to threaten.
The Silent Ledger shifted beneath his coat, tucked against his ribs like a third lung. It pulsed faintly—quiet as a whisper, steady as a toll. Glyphs burned to life inside his vision.
"Current target: None. Task: Neutral. Collections due: 3. Threat level: Moderate. Informant: Jyn—pending report."
Lucien moved toward the bar. Each bootstep stuck slightly, the slick floor catching just enough to make you wonder if the whole thing wanted to swallow you down. He slid a datapad beneath the thick counter—silent, no showmanship. His fingers lingered for a breath. The screen flickered faintly, pulsing low like it had something to say and no voice to say it with.
Behind him, the city howled. Through the glass walls, Valthara's bones showed: Watcher drones circled, red eyes flickering dull. They buzzed in lazy patterns, but never truly wandered. They watched. Not for lawbreakers. For debtors. For unfiled contracts. For proof that the world was still a game, and someone had tried to play outside the rules.
Lucien's jaw tightened.
Earlier that night, he'd walked into a Nyx Dynamics substation without clearance and walked out holding Jyn's soul-promise. Her signature was fresh. Bold. Desperate. She'd risked herself to protect her brother, and now he carried that debt like a timebomb tucked in his chest. One misstep, and she'd pay the price before he ever saw it coming.
The Ledger stirred.
"Her risk binds you. Emotional tether active."
He clenched his jaw and wiped his palms down the front of his coat. As if that might shake loose the weight riding him.
Toward the back of the lounge, Vren Thalor sprawled in a leather booth, a drink in hand and the air around him heavy with disdain. The booth wasn't marked, but everyone knew not to sit there. He didn't need guards. Vren's reputation walked ahead of him like a rumor sharpened into a knife.
Lucien approached with a practiced swagger—quiet, controlled. Like a man who'd danced too close to death and learned the steps by heart. Vren didn't move. Just turned his head, slow as rust.
"Vren, my friend," Lucien said, smooth but tired around the edges. "This city's rigged six ways sideways, but my credits don't lie. You're the real house."
Vren's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
"Lucien Blackmoore," he said, like reading off a sentence. "What drags you crawling into my den?"
A presence shifted beside Vren—silent, composed, dangerous. Elise. She moved like fog, slow and inevitable. Everything about her was sharp—the cut of her cheekbones, the edges in her stare. She didn't blink. Lucien offered her a grin anyway.
"Elise, darlin'," he said, laying it on like silk with sand in it. "You're the real prize here. Name your favor, I'll owe you twice."
He slid the datapad across the table. The numbers blinked slow. Encoded bribes, contracts wrapped in shadow. A quiet war dressed as a favor.
Elise didn't smile. Just leaned forward, her perfume sliding under his skin like a knife.
"You're bold," she said flatly.
Lucien's grin held. "Bold keeps me breathing. You? You keep Vren's empire standing. Seems we've both got a role."
Her mouth twitched—not a smile, more like a warning stretching its arms.
"Favors come knotted," she said. "Pull wrong and they choke."
Vren hadn't moved. Still sipping that drink like it held no consequence. But Lucien saw the tilt in his glass. He was listening now.
Then it happened.
The air in the bar cracked like a knuckle. A preacher stumbled onto the platform near the back, robes stitched with glowing wire and sweat. His eyes wild. His voice cracked glass.
"Gray-eyed man's coming!" he howled. "He damns the soul! Breaks the mark! No ledger holds him! No broker binds him!"
The room froze. Not completely, but enough. A tremor passed through the lounge like static before a storm. One woman whispered a prayer in an old dialect. Lucien didn't blink. But his pulse kicked. The Ledger stirred.
"Cassian cipher detected. Source unknown. Location: Bar platform."
Lucien's eyes dropped. At the preacher's feet, a crude cipher flickered red and raw—a sigil carved fast and sloppy into the floor. Cassian's mark. Ugly. Loud.
"He hunts me," the Ledger pulsed.
Lucien leaned forward, muttering under his breath. "Gray eyes... all bark, no bite."
But the tension beside him shifted. Vren's jaw went tight. Elise's hand whitened around her glass.
Lucien raised his drink, voice calm.
"To clean slips and dirty favors."
The bar slowly returned to motion. The preacher was pulled from the stage by a bored-looking security guard. Noise crept back in—slow, reluctant. The city wasn't done pretending yet.
The Ledger pulsed again.
"Target: Vren Thalor. Potential lead: 48%. Informant Elise—trust level 31%. Collections due: 3. Market instability: Veilshade tunnels. Sabotage probable."
Lucien set his drink down with a soft clink. His fingers pressed into the edge of the table, subtle but steady.
Cassian's reach had always been subtle—tendrils, not teeth. But now his cipher showed up like graffiti in a lounge like this? That meant something. Meant he was either careless or cocky. Neither option sat well.
A fragment of memory slipped through—Cassian's voice in an old corridor, laughing through a mouthful of blood. "You chase crumbs while I burn down kitchens, Lucien. That's the difference between you and me."
Lucien took a slow breath.
The Ledger pulsed softer this time.
"You chose power."
He didn't answer right away. Just stared out at the skyline—spires jabbing holes in the low, dirty clouds. Valthara was a city of illusions. But not all illusions were harmless.
Am I the villain?
The thought slithered in without permission.
"You're bound to me," the Ledger responded.
Lucien muttered, low and bitter. "Mentor cursed my greed. Said power would gut me. I laughed in his face."
He leaned in again, voice lower now, the pitch of planning settling into his bones. "Cassian's myth is loud, but myths cast shadows. Shadows leave trails. I'll follow his pattern. Analyze data. Map anomalies. Pin his proxies."
He ticked it off in his mind like a prayer made of steel.
Monitor cipher locations in corrupted zones.
Track Watcher drone misfires—Cassian's tech always bleeds weird heat.
Infiltrate data spires where soul contracts glitch.
Leak false data through Lila's channel—bait the next move.
Close the net.
Elise spoke again. "You're quiet."
Lucien blinked. Grinned thin. "Just counting teeth before the bite."
He rose. The Ledger warmed beneath his coat, echoing his steps like a shadow that thought it was real.
Outside, the air had cooled, but the streets were still pulsing—alive and wired. He tugged his coat tighter, stepping from marble back into Valthara's jaws.
There were battles still waiting in gutters.
And Lucien Blackmoore didn't run from battles.
He lit a fresh cigarette with a tired flick of his wrist, inhaled slow.
"Let's bleed him next," he muttered. "Proper."
The Ledger pulsed once, cold and clear.
"So be it."