The Veil Between Lies

There were things Elira Vale didn't dare speak aloud-things like spells, or her mother's name, or the truth.

Truth got people killed.

It had, after all, killed her father.

The Archives of New Argenta were silent at midnight, except for the gentle hum of magic. Not the real kind, of course-not the blood-bound, soul-etched kind she'd watched her mother wield before the Purge-but the pale echoes of it: relics locked behind glass, enchanted scrolls that no longer sang, and shattered rune stones that hummed like wounded animals. Elira was alone here, as usual. A shadow in a city that only feared her kind when they remembered they still existed.

Wearing black gloves and a sleek linen blouse, she catalogued the latest confiscation shipment by hand-using ink, not spell-mark, because even a flicker of power would trigger the sensors. The government had done a thorough job after the War: stripping the city of magic, outlawing sigils and enchantments, burning witches, binding memory.

But no one ever thought to check the archives.

"Acquisition #764: Hemlock Ring-cursed, formerly active. Found on corpse in District Eight. Sealed in jade glass containment box."

She clicked her pen, then paused.

A hiss of air shifted behind her.

Elira turned slowly.

Nothing.

The vault door remained locked. The security cameras blinked red. Even the heavy curtains on the west side didn't move.

But still, she felt it-that prickle at the base of her neck. Magic. Faint, ancient, familiar.

A second heartbeat echoed within her chest, not her own. A whisper. A name.

Nyx.

She gasped and grabbed the jade box, tucking it under her arm. The moment she touched it, the air tightened around her like a clenched fist.

Elira closed her eyes. Her late mother's voice, long dead and buried, whispered inside her:

"Some relics call to you. Listen, but never answer."

She placed the ring back in the containment tray and forced herself to breathe.

Outside, New Argenta throbbed like a neon wound. Skyscrapers shimmered under glamor shields, and shadows moved too quickly in alleyways where spell-runners still whispered their trade.

Though the Council declared the city clean, Elira knew better.

She lived two lives: the Archivist by day, and Nyx, illegal spell-weaver by night.

And tonight, Nyx had a client.

**Two Hours Later**

The Sanctum was a speakeasy for sinners-hidden behind a laundromat and spelled with ten layers of glamour. Inside, the lights flickered with violet haze, and scent magic perfumed the air: sandalwood, dark berries, temptation.

Elira wore her second skin now-black silk, thigh-high boots, a leather choker with a sigil etched in gold. Her long brown curls were piled high, and a half-mask disguised the sharpness of her cheekbones. It wasn't foolproof, but the Sanctum wasn't interested in truth.

Only power.

She sat in a velvet booth, fingers resting on a glowing cocktail that fizzed with enchantment. Her client was late.

And then he walked in.

Tall. Cold. A suit tailored within an inch of legality. Dark hair slicked back. A face that didn't smile so much as assess.

Cassian Rhys. One of the Council's lawyers. The prosecutor with the perfect record. The bastard responsible for at least twelve life sentences against suspected magic-bearers.

Elira's blood chilled.

He was here. Not as a Council dog-but as a client.

He didn't recognize her, of course. Why would he? By day, she was no one. By night, she was myth.

He sat across from her without invitation.

"You're Nyx?"

Her voice dropped to silk. "That depends. Are you here for absolution or corruption, counselor?"

Cassian's eyes flashed with something darker than interest. "Neither. I'm here for truth."

Elira leaned back, hiding her thundering pulse. "Truth is dangerous."

"I'm a lawyer."

"And I'm a criminal. Your point?"

"You weave blood wards. I need one."

That silenced her. Blood wards were illegal, rare, and fatal if done incorrectly.

"Who are you protecting?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he slid a black velvet pouch across the table. Inside, she could feel it: power. Blood-bound. Fresh.

Payment.

Elira narrowed her eyes. "You do realize what you're asking me to do could get me-"

"Killed? Yes."

She met his gaze. Cold steel. No fear. A challenge.

And gods help her, she liked it.

*Later That Night*

Back in her apartment, Elira paced. The blood ward would take days. She needed Cassian's name, his true intent, a physical anchor-but mostly, she needed to know why a man who imprisoned people like her would risk everything to hire her.

And why, despite herself, she felt the pull.

Cassian Rhys was arrogant. Powerful. Untouchable. And yet, something was broken beneath the surface.

People didn't hire Nyx unless they were desperate. Or guilty.

She stripped out of her clothes and stepped into a bath laced with spell-salt. The water turned deep blue, her skin glowing faintly beneath its surface.

A mark on her spine pulsed-one she was born with. One she'd never shown anyone.

Cassian had looked at her like he knew.

But that was impossible.

Unless...

No. She wouldn't let her mind go there.

**Elsewhere: Cassian's Apartment**

Cassian poured a glass of whiskey, ignoring the file splayed open on his desk.

Subject: Elira Vale

Age: 25

Occupation: Archive assistant, Class A citizenship

Affiliation: Unconfirmed

Surveillance status: Low

He flipped to the photo.

Hair tied back. Eyes soft. No trace of the woman who had sat across from him tonight like a queen of shadows.

But he knew.

She was Nyx.

And he was going to use her.

Or burn with her.

*Three Days Later*

The blood ward was ready.

Cassian showed up to the Sanctum wearing the same tailored arrogance.

"Take off your jacket," Elira said.

He raised a brow. "Not even a drink first?"

"You want protection or not?"

He obeyed, revealing a scar on his forearm. Old. Deep.

Elira's heart twisted, then hardened. She dipped her finger in ink and traced the ward over his veins, murmuring the ancient language that made her throat burn. His skin glowed red, then gold, then black.

When it was done, he stared at her. "What does it protect me from?"

"Your past."

He leaned in. "And what do you want protection from, Nyx?"

She turned away.

"Men like you."

**Back at the Council**

"Is the witch in place?" a man asked.

Cassian didn't look up. "She's not a witch."

"She has the sigil."

"She's bait."

**Final Scene of Chapter One**

Elira returned to the Archives the next morning, weary and unguarded, only to find the containment wing unlocked.

Someone had been there.

And the Hemlock Ring was gone.

A note sat in its place.

"*You wear two faces, Archivist. But the one that kills will be your undoing."*

Her hands shook.

She wasn't the only one playing a dangerous game.

And Cassian Rhys?

He might not be her client.

He might be her executioner.