We land with a thud and a flash of magic that fizzles the second it touches the concrete.
The air hits me like a punch.
I gag.
It smells like… gods, I don't even have words for it.
Burning metal. Rotting food. Sweat. Something acidic.
Pollution clogs every breath—thick and sticky, like trying to inhale through tar.
Monoxide. Radiation. Pee.
How the hell do mortals live like this?
I double over, my senses clawing for clarity.
My hearing is worse—sirens scream somewhere blocks away, a baby wails nearby, a car honks five times in one second and I want to kill it.
It's too much. Too loud. Too close.
And all I can think is—
My teachers did not prepare me for this.
I was taught the facts: human history, mortal society, how they destroy their planet with alarming enthusiasm.
But nothing—nothing—ever mentioned how they smell.
"Okay," Sylas coughs beside me, covering his mouth with the edge of his jacket. "So. Note to self. Humans live in garbage."
He looks around dramatically.
"Ugly garbage. And loud. With questionable fashion choices."
Darian doesn't flinch. Doesn't cough. Doesn't even look fazed.
Of course he doesn't.
He adjusts his coat and glances down the alley like this is just another Tuesday.
"This is your first time in the mortal realm," he says, calm and irritating. "It always hits hard at first."
"Oh, does it?" I growl, trying not to claw my own ears off. "Because I can hear someone breathing six floors up and someone else throwing up behind that door."
"Yeah," Sylas mutters. "That guy's dinner was not okay."
Darian ignores both of us.
"Magic is unstable here," he says. "The air is poisoned with chemicals. Radiation, lead, electronic noise—everything interferes with spellcasting."
"So we're powerless?" I snap.
"No," he replies. "Just limited. We can still use it—carefully. But push too hard and it could backfire. Badly."
I scowl. "Great. Love that for us."
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded bundle.
Paper. Colored. Thin. With human faces on it.
"First things first," he says, holding it up. "Money. You'll need it. Mortals won't trade in blood oaths or death threats."
Sylas pouts. "Lame."
"We change clothes. Blend in," Darian continues. But his voice lowers half a notch as his eyes sweep over us.
Only now do I realize—
We're covered in blood.
My coat is half torn, one of my knives is still dripping, and Darian's entire right sleeve is soaked.
Sylas glances down and snorts. "Oh, yeah. That explains why that guy across the street just made the sign of the cross and ran."
Darian ignores him.
"Then we head to one of my houses here."
I freeze.
"Houses?" I echo, narrowing my eyes.
He nods. "I've had safe locations here for years. Just in case."
And then—he looks at me.
Not like a commander. Not like a stranger.
Like someone making sure I understand.
"I made sure you'd have options if you ever needed them."
I blink.
Sylas arches a brow, slow and sharp.
"Oh," he says. "So you made sure? As in you and your secret prophecy crew?"
Darian doesn't answer. Just hands me the money.
And I hate that part of me doesn't want to let go of his fingers.
_____________
We walked.
Apparently, teleporting directly inside a mall was "too risky" and "could alert mortal surveillance systems" and "might cause a minor explosion." Darian's words. Not mine.
So we walked.
The city was worse the farther we got from the alley. Louder. Brighter. Smellier.
Sylas kept muttering under his breath, pointing out ridiculous advertisements. "Who needs twenty flavors of toothpaste?" he hissed. "And why is there a billboard of a half-naked man holding a sandwich? What does that even sell?"
We turned the corner, and Darian spoke without looking back. "We'll need a phone."
I blinked. "A what?"
"A phone," he repeated. "For communication. Logistics. Emergency contact."
"I know what it is," I said flatly. "It's that mind-rotting radiation device humans carry around like their lives depend on it. A glowing brick they stare at instead of each other's faces. It emits signals, stores images, tracks location, and slowly cooks their brains from the inside out."
Sylas nearly tripped. "I—okay—WHAT?" He turned to me, eyes wide. "Since when do you know anything about mortal tech?"
I shrugged. "Aven made me study it."
Sylas blinked. "You? Miss 'Knives Before Books'?"
"I didn't have a choice," I muttered. "Apparently Darian thought it would be useful."
Darian, still walking ahead of us, gave a satisfied little hum. "And look at that. It is."
We moved through rows of kiosks and shops until Darian stopped in front of a sleek storefront with matte black windows and gold lettering.
Vesper & Fifth.
Of course. It screamed overpriced clothes and morally questionable influencers.
Mannequins in the window struck bizarre poses in even more bizarre outfits—half-suits, half-streetwear, all of it looking slightly afraid of commitment.
I stepped inside.
And immediately regretted it.
"What the hell is this," I muttered.
The first rack held shirts that were basically napkins. Paper-thin, ripped, sheer, some intentionally full of holes. Who wore this into battle? Or into weather?
Next: pants that could double as ribbons. Low-waisted. Laced. One pair was entirely covered in rhinestones spelling the word "BABY."
I grabbed something labeled "Bodycon Dress" and held it up to the light.
It disappeared.
"Is this made of spiderwebs?" I hissed. "Or lies?"
Sylas was already skipping toward the men's section, cackling. "This is going to be amazing."
Darian just looked like he'd seen it all before. "Find something functional. We don't need attention."
I sifted through rack after rack, judging every outfit like it had personally betrayed me.
Too tight. Too shiny. Too short. Too…mortal.
Then, near the back, something caught my eye.
A black high-collared coat with deep silver embroidery along the lapels. The buttons gleamed like pressed obsidian. Beneath it, a slate-gray blouse with soft flowing sleeves and a cinched waist, paired with fitted dark trousers and tall black boots.
Elegant. Structured. Dangerous.
The style reminded me of something I'd seen once in one of the mortal fashion magazines Aven had thrown at me. "Study everything," he'd said. "Even aesthetics. You never know what will be useful."
It was labeled as "old money revival"—whatever that meant.
I stared at it for a long second before grabbing it and disappearing into the fitting room.
The mirror inside was tall and unforgiving.
I changed quickly, yanking the cursed battle gear off my body and sliding into the new pieces.
And then I looked up.
I blinked.
I didn't hate it.
In fact—I kind of… liked it.
The coat fit like it was made for me. Sharp lines. Power stitched into every seam. The blouse was soft but strong, and the boots added just enough height to make me feel like a threat in heels.
I looked like I belonged somewhere dangerous. But also… regal. Like maybe I wasn't the girl who grew up training in blood and ash. Like maybe I could pass as someone who didn't need to gut a man to feel in control.
I was about to run a hand through my hair when I heard Sylas laugh—loud, theatrical, ridiculous.
"GUYS," he shouted from the other side of the curtain, "I THINK I FOUND MY NEW PERSONALITY."
Curious—and slightly afraid—I pushed open the fitting room door.
And they were both standing there.
Sylas had on a glittering gold bomber jacket and sunglasses. At night. Indoors. With socks that said "I BITE."
He was mid-pose, clearly preparing to twirl.
But both of them stopped the moment they saw me.
Sylas's jaw actually dropped. "Whoa."
Darian just stared.
No joke. No smile. No breath.
Just… stared.
And for some reason, that was worse.
My stomach twisted. My heart did something irrational. I suddenly felt like I was back in the Trial Grounds, weaponless, exposed.
"Say something," I snapped.
Darian blinked.
"You look…" he started, then trailed off.
Sylas let out a low whistle. "Okay. I see why the queens want you dead."
And then—Darian stepped out.
He was wearing a dark tailored coat that mirrored mine almost exactly—sleek black with subtle silver detailing along the seams. A deep charcoal shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a glimpse of collarbone (rude), tucked into dark trousers that fit entirely too well. The whole look was quiet, dangerous, precise.
He looked like he belonged beside me.
Like we were—
"Oh gods," Sylas breathed. "You two match."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My brain had melted.
Sylas grinned. "You look like a couple. A terrifying, world-ending, immortal power couple. This is disgusting."
Darian's gaze flicked to mine—calm, unreadable. But his jaw was tight.
Sylas kept going. "Technically, I mean, you are soulma—"
He stopped.
Aurora Death Glare™: fully activated.
Sylas held up his hands. "Okay. Right. I like living. I'm gonna go… pick something more, uh… normal human." And he vanished.
We were alone.
We looked at each other.
And I hated how much I wanted to move closer.
The silence pressed down like a velvet knife.
Then I cracked.
"We need to talk," I said, sharper than I meant to.
Darian didn't flinch. "No time."
I turned to him. "What?"
He was already stepping back toward the fitting room. "We need phones. More clothes. Transportation. And we need to find the dagger."
I blinked. "You're—wait, what dagger?!"
He didn't answer.
He just disappeared behind the curtain again, like he hadn't just detonated my entire brain.
I stood there, fists clenched, heart thrashing.
And I swore—under my breath, under my soul—
"You have got to be kidding me."