Bound by Blood and Stolen Time

With dinner done and Brittany’s business settled, Rosmira, Leon, and Jews leave Stars through the side corridor. The city outside is all neon rain and softer crowds, a better place to breathe.

Rosmira’s return pass pulses once under her hand. Then again. The glow is wrong, insistent, like it is answering something far away.

Rosmira glances down at the sealed complaint Brittany handed over earlier. The envelope sits heavy and neat, no longer just a favor, but part of a larger chain she can finally feel tightening.

Jews slides a little closer to Leon, smiling with calm that now reads too practiced. The pass keeps thudding in Rosmira’s palm, pointing the way forward even as the street opens toward quieter blocks.

Rosmira eases upward, drawing Leon and Jews with her toward a side street where the music thins and the rain softens. The return pass keeps pulsing, but the signal starts to feel less like a beacon and more like a snare.

She spots it, a narrow service awning tucked between shuttered shops, just enough shadow to hide three people and a bad mood. The sealed complaint stays tight in her hand as she leads them under cover.

Rosmira lands lightly on the awning edge, then drops into the narrow space below. Her aura dampener clicks as she adjusts it, and the pulsing in the pass stutters once, like it has found less to grab.

A streetlight above them flickers, then steadies. The torn corner of the reservation slip slips partway from Rosmira’s pocket and brushes Leon’s sleeve as the three of them stop, close enough to breathe the same air.

The pulse fades, but not cleanly. Somewhere nearby, a phone vibrates once in answer, and Jews turns her head toward the sound with a sudden, wary stillness.

Jews pushes off the wall and slips toward the alley mouth, all smooth impatience and predator grace. Her hand lifts once, quick and precise, and the camera above the awning jerks sideways into darkness.

The vibrating phone keeps buzzing nearby, now louder without the camera’s hiss in the background. Leon shifts closer to Rosmira, his shoulders tight but steady, keeping his body between her and the street.

Jews returns to the shadow line, dusting rain from her fingers. In the same motion, she hooks the torn reservation slip from Rosmira’s pocket edge and tucks it back flat before anyone outside can catch the flutter of paper.

The phone buzz stops, then starts again, stubborn and close, as if whoever is calling knows exactly where they are.

Rosmira leaves Neon Central behind and arrives at Dimmerra.

Dimmerra swallows them in warm, perfumed dusk, all velvet shadows and distant glow. Rosmira’s return pass flares hard in her hand, then goes still, like a lock finally finding its key.

A quiet corridor waits ahead, lined with soft light and polished dark stone. The air tastes familiar, and wrong, as if the place has been prepared for arrivals that are not meant to leave.

Leon steps in beside her with a sharp breath, looking from the pass to the corridor and back again. Jews follows a beat later, her expression flattening into alert recognition.

The phone’s buzzing dies the moment the glow settles, and the screen flashes a single unreadable notification before dimming. At Rosmira’s feet, the torn corner of the reservation slip has gone glossy in the new light, proof that something has followed them here with precision.

Ahead, a pair of doors stands open to a waiting hall, bright and quiet. No one blocks them, which somehow makes the welcome feel worse.

Leon’s brows lift, and he glances once at the bright doors, then back to Rosmira. Jews lets out a soft breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a warning.

The torn reservation slip in Rosmira’s hand catches the light like a fresh cut paper charm. Beyond the doors, the waiting hall stays empty, polished, and terribly quiet.

Rosmira lowers her voice and lays it out plainly, the way only an elder who has outlived embarrassment can. Cleara is not just staff, she is close to the Queen, and this place answers to rules older than pride. The glow was no accident, it was a summons.

Leon blinks, then exhales with a shaky little laugh that loosens his shoulders. Jews’ brows lift at the time difference, her skepticism thinning into interest as she studies Rosmira instead of the doors.

Rosmira’s words land with the dull weight of truth. The torn reservation slip trembles once in her fingers, and the waiting hall beyond the open doors remains blank and watchful.

Leon steps closer to Rosmira, not crowding her, just enough to share the air. Jews angles nearer too, keeping her voice soft. Neither of them pushes past the threshold, but both are waiting for Rosmira to decide whether this cage has a key.

Rosmira doesn’t linger in the hall. She squares her shoulders, gathers the pass and the torn slip, and steps through the open doors with Leon and Jews close behind her.

The waiting hall swallows their voices. Polished walls reflect them back in thin, pale strips, and the air feels measured, like it has been waiting to count them.

Rosmira reaches the office door first. It opens at her approach, and the formal room beyond is already arranged for visitors, too neat to be casual.

Leon pauses at Rosmira’s shoulder, then follows her across the threshold. Jews comes in last, her eyes on the room, not the exit.

Rosmira eases down to one knee, the torn slip and pass held low as proof of her patience. The room stills around the motion, formal and watchful.

Leon lowers himself at once beside her, careful and quiet. Jews takes the cue a beat later, posture tightening as she kneels with controlled reluctance.

Cleara’s gaze passes over them like a seal being checked, unruffled by the word mates and unmoved by the warmth in Rosmira’s tone.

The office feels smaller with all three of them lowered and waiting, the torn corner of the reservation slip bright against Rosmira’s hand as Cleara looks past it and into the silence.

Rosmira rises smoothly to her full height, keeping the pass and torn slip in hand as she faces Cleara directly. Leon and Jews remain kneeling, watching her take the lead.

Cleara lifts one finger and the office seals hum softly in response, as if the room itself is listening. Her expression stays composed, but her eyes sharpen on the torn corner of the slip.

Leon stays still, but his attention tightens on Rosmira, then on Cleara, reading the exchange like a door slowly closing and reopening at once.

The words land cleanly in the tight office air. Cleara blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh that does not reach her desk-bound posture.

Her gaze flicks to Leon and Jews, then back to Rosmira, the torn corner of the slip held between two fingers like evidence and an insult at once.

Leon huffs a quiet, helpless laugh, then goes still again when Cleara reaches for a stamp and marks the damaged slip with one sharp click.

Cleara rests both hands on the desk, the stamp now idle beside the torn slip. The tightness in the room loosens by a fraction, enough for the three of them to breathe again.

Leon shifts beside the others, looking from Cleara to Rosmira with the careful relief of someone hearing the room turn less hostile by the second.