The name makes the wires pulse. The three bound spirits lift their heads like puppets hearing a bell.
I think of Ezra across from me in the coffee shop, his face arranged into concern. His voice soft with old familiarity. His hand offering the cross like care couldn't burn if it came wrapped in memory. I think of every whisper that crawled through the walls afterward, every almost-truth shaped to make the shop look like a cage and the Seminary look like the only door.
I keep my eyes on the chains.
"Ezra doesn't get another soft conversation."
32
Aven
Thecoffeeshopsmellslike burnt beans and forced cheer, all blonde wood, clean windows, and small succulents lined along the counter to prove nothing bad happens in places this bright. It's the opposite of Soren's shop, where the air tastes like old paper and whatever has decided to bite next. This place is built for constructive conversations, so every table is too small for anyone to have a proper breakdown.
Cain waits in the alley behind the building, close enough for the bond to hum low in my marrow and far enough away that this confrontation still belongs to me. He's not pushing. He's not guiding me toward the door or away from it. He's simply there, a dark, steady weight at the edge of my awareness, and today I let myself use the anchor.
Ezra is already at a small table in the back corner, wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater and the open, worried expression I used to mistake for safety. His hair is neatly parted. His handsare folded around a paper cup. Everything about him looks clean in a way that makes my skin feel too tight.
He stands when he sees me, warmth moving across his face as he starts to open his arms. I stop two feet short of him, and the hug dies between us. Ezra lets his arms fall, trying to make the motion look natural.
"I was starting to worry," he says. "You've been hard to reach. The Seminary hasn't seen you in weeks, and Gabriel said you haven't been coming in for shifts."
I pull out the chair opposite him. The metal legs scrape across the polished floor, sharp enough that a woman at the next table glances over. I don't apologize. I sit without taking off my coat and keep my hands where I can see them.
"I'm done with the classes," I say. "And I'm done with the spiritual-health check-ins. We're skipping the part where you tell me I look tired and I pretend you're worried for reasons that belong to you."
Ezra's face shifts. Not much. A small change around the eyes, the brief pause of a man finding the correct drawer for this version of me.
"I am worried."
"I know."
"Then let me help."
"No."
He breathes out slowly. He doesn't look angry yet. Ezra does concerned very well. He wears it like a priest wears white.
"This is what isolation does," he says, lowering his voice. "You pull away from structure, and the voices get louder. You stop letting the people who know you help, and suddenly everyone who tells you what you want to hear sounds like freedom."
I lean back. "There it is."
"Aven."
"No, keep going. I'm curious how long it takes before you get to the vampire."
His mouth presses into a thin line. "Cain is dangerous."
"Yes."
"He's manipulated you."
"Also possible."
That throws him for half a second. The old version of me would have rushed to defend, to explain, to prove I wasn't some desperate idiot caught by the first pretty monster who made the room quiet. This version of me is tired. This version of me has seen black wires in the throats of dead things, and Ezra's disappointment doesn't scare me the way it used to.
Ezra leans forward. "Need can feel like consent when it's the only thing giving you relief. You know that. You're too close to them to see clearly. Cain knows what his silence does to you. Soren needs you to keep his magic from eating itself. Ira has already shown you what his protection looks like when he's afraid. You told me these things, Aven. Maybe not in those exact words, but you told me."
He uses truths. That is why the old rhythm still has teeth.
