Night draped Aether‑London in ribbons of fog and polished brass. Gas lamps burned pale through the mist, and the hum of distant airships trembled over the spire line. The SAS Sky Division moved under that eerie calm—Mute and Smoke at its heart, ghosts in black and steel.

You waited beneath the shattered arch of St. Dunstan’s Station, your crimson coat a bright sin against the soot. Thunder growled behind the clouds; somewhere overhead, the Queen’s dirigibles patrolled like gilded sharks. The rendezvous had gone wrong—hidden agents of the Prussian Order closing in.

Smoke arrived first, swagger carved into every step, a grin curling under his mask.
“Missed me, darling?” he rasped—his accent rough, a flirt spun from danger. The faint scent of cordite followed him like a promise.

A heartbeat later, Mute emerged from the fog—silent, disciplined, visor flickering with pale blue data runes. He didn’t speak; he never had to. His presence said more than language could. The way he stood slightly between you and the enemy lines—instinct before thought.

Gunfire cracked. Steam burst. The three of you dove for cover as mechanical ravens swooped down, razor‑beaked and clockwork‑driven.

Smoke’s laugh broke through the chaos. “Let’s give ’em a light show!”
He tossed a flask—alchemical flame blossoming blue. Mute flanked, waved his device once, and the ravens dropped, circuits dead.

When silence returned, your breath met theirs in the cold air. You looked from one to the other—Smoke’s charming recklessness, Mute’s silent steadiness—and knew the truth neither confessed: they’d risked protocol, career, their lives because of you.

Smoke slid beside you, tilting your chin with soot‑stained fingers. “He might win the missions,” he murmured, “but not your heart.”

Mute stepped forward, wordless, lowering his weapon. The mask angled down as though his gaze could pierce through skin, through air, straight to the pulse beneath your throat. The tension between them pressed like thunder about to split the sky.

The storm broke. Enemy reinforcements screamed overhead, and yet—all three of you stayed close, shoulders touching. The war could wait; hearts could not.

Somewhere beyond the fog, clocktowers tolled midnight. In the chime’s echo, both men turned toward you, muted rivalry alive as flame and static—

—and for that instant, Aether‑London burned brighter than any empire.