Threads Of Fate (Being Revamped)

Tumultuous thoughts

"Are you sure meeting at a tavern is a good idea?"
Edward's voice carried that mix of skepticism and reluctance as he walked beside Zenith, his boots clapping against the cobblestones.

The moon hung pale and watchful above, casting a silver sheen over the winding street. Oil lamps along the walls spat out weak, flickering light, leaving deep pockets of shadow between the pools of yellow. It made the narrow road feel narrower still, every echo of their footsteps swallowed by the quiet of the night.

Zenith glanced sidelong at him, noting the careful way he kept pace with her — cautious, but no longer stiff with that familiar anger and bitterness she had once gotten used to from him. She felt the pull of his gaze now and then, soft and curious rather than cold. And perhaps that, in itself, made her feel lighter. It was a small victory — but a victory all the same.

"I have a lead," she said at last, drawing her coat tighter around her shoulders as a breath of wind swept past them. "Someone there might be able to help us. Madame Delphine. Knows nearly everything that matters in this part of town — especially the goings‑on between the rich and the pretty, unprotected girls."

"You think she might know our mystery girl?" Edward asked, his tone low, eyes staying ahead yet attentive.

"Maybe," Zenith admitted, "but Mr. Umbridge also told us the Duke mentioned a quack in the south part of town."

Edward's gaze sharpened. "Yes... that area's particularly rowdy." He hesitated, then caught her hand before she could step ahead. The sudden warmth of his palm around her fingers sent a brief, unexpected jolt up her arm. "Wait. I've heard whispers — the quacks there are infamous for... for unethical and unsafe abortions." His voice dropped, taut with unease. "You don't think—"

"I do," she said bluntly. "And a lot of those procedures don't end well." Her words hung in the cold air, both of them fully aware of what she was implying.

The tavern came into view just as a shattering crash split the night. Zenith's head snapped up in time to see the small window next to the door burst outward in an explosion of glittering shards. A man tumbled through, limp and swearing, the back of his coat shredded where it had caught on the jagged frame.

Zenith narrowed her eyes, instinctively leaning toward the broken window to see inside. But Edward's arm shot out, pulling her firmly behind him. He stepped forward first, one hand pushing the tavern door open with measured care.

She should have been annoyed — she was more than capable of holding her own when needed. In fact, the idea of anyone shielding her used to rankle her deeply. But at that moment, she was startled by a flash of something else — an old, unwelcome memory. A little girl crouched behind a liquor cabinet, trembling, listening to the drunken voices calling her name with leering laughter. No one had protected her then. No one had stepped between her and danger.

But Edward... Edward just had.
And damn him, that was how she kept falling for him again and again.

She stayed close, trailing his shoulder as they stepped inside to the crash and hum of a boisterous room. The smells hit instantly — stale beer, wood smoke, and the copper tang of blood lingering faintly in the air. Patrons were shouting, laughing, or outright betting on the scuffle in the center of the space.

Then her eyes locked on the heart of the chaos — and her hand flew to her mouth.
"Is that—?"

Edward followed her gaze — and froze.

In the middle of the crowd, framed by flickering lamplight, was Anya. Blonde hair mussed, a determined fire in her blue eyes, she stood braced like she'd been born in a tavern brawl. In one smooth, fluid motion, she drove her boot straight into the gut of a hulking drunkard. The man doubled over, but she didn't pause — her elbow came down sharply onto the back of his head, and his face smashed sideways into a nearby table, scattering mugs and dice in every direction.