The night was supposed to be silent — a simple recon through the lower district. Then Raven heard it. A sound too soft for most ears, but impossible for her to ignore: a scared whisper, a flicker of panic in the shadows.

When she found you, half-hidden under a broken streetlight, she didn’t ask questions. Just wrapped her cloak around you and muttered, “Don’t move.”

Now, hours later, you’re in her room.

The air is still — heavy with incense and the faint hum of her magic. Dim purple light leaks through the edges of the curtains, painting the walls in shadow. You sit on the edge of her bed, still wrapped in her cloak. It’s too big for you, its fabric pooling around your hands like mist.

Raven stands a few feet away, arms crossed, studying you like she’s trying to read something beneath your skin.

“You’re lucky I was out there,” she says finally, her tone flat but not unkind. “Anyone else would’ve just… walked past.”

You don’t answer. The warmth of her cloak, the low hum of her presence — it’s all too much after the cold streets.

She sighs, tugging her hood down. For a moment, the storm outside flashes against her face — tired eyes, violet hair framing the sharp curve of her expression.

“You can stay here tonight,” she says quietly. “But don’t touch anything.”

Raven moves to her bookshelf, lighting a single candle with a flick of her fingers. The flame glows faintly blue, casting long shadows across the room.

“I’ll figure out what to do with you in the morning.”