Hazelnut nudged the last of the jagged pottery shards into the dustbin with her foot. Soil clung to the floor like it was angry too. She glanced at her doorway—left open wide. Her mouth pressed into a line as she dumped the bin into the trash. "Yeah, I get it," she muttered. "Still would’ve been nice to at least offer to help." She gathered the bottle and glasses from the table. Buck's departure was sudden, his eyes dark with grief and confusion—but who could blame him? Carrying that kind of weight... it cracked people.

  She set the glasses down in the sink with a soft clink, then turned back to the scorch-mark on her coffee table. A singed paw print, just slightly off-center. She licked her thumb and scrubbed at it in slow circles. The smell of burnt oak still clung faintly to the air, the way old memories did.

  She remembered waking up that cold morning. The cracked and empty pantry shelves. The silence where Taurence’s footsteps should’ve been. The note that didn’t exist. Her gut had twisted for days, waiting. Maybe she’d broken a rule. Forgotten to cover her tracks after a score. Maybe he’d just had enough of dragging a kid through the slums. Enough years passed and pity gave way to something sharper. He’d taught her to lift from trash heaps and wallets alike, but not how to stop hoping someone might stay.

  Her eyes drifted to the print again. The tiny shape of the pad was unmistakably Kindling’s. It had stood its ground at the lounge—shielding Sparks while he directed strangers to safety. No hesitation. No fear. Just loyalty. The two of them moving like a single breath.

  Hazelnut’s fingers stilled on the table. She let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. "Lucky bastard," she muttered, and left the print to remain.

  There was a knock at her door. Probably Carl, here to complain about the noise earlier. She looked through the peephole and readied herself for another rant.

  Her stoop was empty.

  She stepped outside and nearly tripped over a small package—her name printed clearly on the label. No return address.

  Inside, a simple Slate phone. One of those prepaid brands. It was already on with a text message waiting.

  V: You come highly recommended.

  Hazelnut narrowed her eyes and typed a reply.

  From who? Who are you?

  The response was immediate and came with a photo attached.

  V: Someone who can help you keep your home.

  Attachment: Paid in full – Electrical Services // Balance: -3,200 klopens (credit)

  Hazelnut straightened, breath caught in her throat. Three years of power—paid in advance.

  What do you want? Why me?

  V: Taurence speaks well of you. Details soon.

  A chill shot down her spine to the tip of her tail at the mention of Taurence. She tucked the phone away under her bed and tried to forget about it.

  Her dreams that night were a disjointed path through an amalgamation of the apartment building. A maze. Corridors that folded in on themselves. Doors that looped back to where she started. Every call for help dissolved into silence. Until—

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A voice. Thin. Shaking.

  "Please? Let me out? I’m so alone."

  She followed it to a single door—old and splintered, the wood cracked from something pounding against it over and over.

  "What are you?" she asked.

  "I can help you," the voice whispered. "Just open the door."

  Hazelnut’s hand hovered over the handle. The screws hung loose; it would take almost nothing. But then—

  BANG.

  The door jumped in its frame. The voice shifted—louder, desperate, wrong. "LET ME OUT!" Blow after blow pounded against the door, rattling its hinges.

  "LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LETMEOUT LETMEOUT!"

  Hazelnut ran. The maze shook and the thing behind the door screamed after her—

  "You can’t run! You're all alone! You have no one to protect you!"

  "I AM INEVITABLE!"

  *  *  *

  Sleep didn’t come easily for Krouri either.

  Screams echoed down iron corridors. Chains rattled. Someone begged—over and over—for freedom. But her voice was drowned out by the deafening noise of the city. Vacant pleads for freedom. Desperate. Desolate.

  Krouri felt herself being whisked away; the noise of the city replaced by the comfortable and familiar scratching of quill against paper. Warmth from a crackling fireplace. She sat before a familiar desk. Her grandfather looked up from his parchment and gave her a gentle smile.

  "Little one."

  Her throat tightened. "Grandpa?"

  The bearded vulture shook its head. "I don’t want to deceive you. I took this form to put you at ease. I am the Eidolon of Order. You have been chosen, Krouri."

  "Chosen? For what?"

  "To stop what’s coming."

  He explained: Eidolons were crossing into the material plane—slipping through a widening crack in reality. Something troubling was leaking through. And the one chained in her earlier vision wasn’t a victim.

  "She is my prisoner," Order said softly. "The Eidolon of Chaos. I keep it contained…but others are trying to free it."

  Krouri’s wings twitched. "Is Pazienza one of them?"

  "Pazienza is…a necessary evil. But the broadcasts?" He shook his head. "They are not of this realm, which is why your searches have been fruitless. Look for pockets of doubt. Darkness. Seeds of discontent where idealism becomes anger. Look closely at the people who stand nearest to your heart." The vulture stood and offered his hand. "I can help you. I will grant you some of my power. A shard of strength to help combat the lies."

  Krouri hesitated. Unity, the broadcasts had said. Cooperation. But the more she listened, the more fractured the city became.

  She took his hand firmly. "You can count on me."