Chapter 3: A Bargain of Thorns and Silk

Chapter 3: A Bargain of Thorns and Silk

Kaelen had escorted her back to her dorm, a silent, imposing specter moving through the campus shadows. He left her at her door with a final, chilling statement: “Your awakening is drawing attention. Do not leave this room tonight.” It wasn't a request. It was the command of a jailer.

Now, locked in her sterile room, Elara felt like a cornered animal. The silence was a breeding ground for terror. Kaelen’s cold, silver-eyed appraisal was a cage of ice. Rowan’s burning golden gaze was a cage of fire. Both of them saw something in her—this Nyx—that she couldn’t see in herself. They wanted to control it, possess it, use it. And she was trapped in the middle, a pawn in a game whose rules were written in blood and shadow.

Her hand closed around the folded note in her pocket, the thick paper a solid, real thing in her chaotic world. The dreams are memories. Trust no one.

If the dreams were memories, then the answers were hidden there, buried in the blood and moonlight of her own mind. She couldn’t trust Kaelen’s measured, controlling guidance. She couldn’t trust Rowan’s primal, possessive agenda. She had to find the truth herself.

Sinking onto her bed, Elara closed her eyes, willing herself back into the nightmare. She pushed past the visceral flashes of violence, past the scent of pine and the glint of Rowan’s eyes. She searched for the where.

And an image surfaced. Not a memory, but an imprint. A pulsing, hypnotic beat that vibrated through her bones. The taste of ozone and expensive perfume. Neon lights in shades of amethyst and venom green, twisting like ethereal serpents in the dark. And a name, whispered on the psychic wind of the dream. The Umbra.

It was a suicidal impulse, a moth drawn to a flame that promised obliteration. But it was the only lead she had. It was a place from her other life. A place where Nyx had walked.

A quick search on her phone yielded nothing. No club called The Umbra existed in any public listing. It was hidden, meant only for those who already knew. Relying on a desperate, terrifying instinct, Elara pulled on a dark hoodie, hiding her face and the damnable white streak in her hair, and slipped out into the night, defying Kaelen’s command.

She let the dream-memory guide her. It was a strange, magnetic pull, leading her away from the manicured lawns of the university and into the city's gritty, beating heart. The streets grew narrower, the buildings more rundown, their brick faces scarred with vibrant graffiti that seemed to watch her pass. The pull grew stronger here, a thrumming bassline she felt in the soles of her feet.

It led her to a dead-end alley, reeking of stale beer and rain. The walls were a chaotic mural of spray-panted art, but one section was just a plain, unmarked black door. There was no sign, no handle, just a small, dark lens where a peephole should be. This was it. The source of the hum.

Fear, cold and sharp, threatened to send her running back to the sterile safety of her dorm. But the memory of Kaelen’s controlling gaze and Rowan’s possessive smirk hardened her resolve. She would not be their puppet. She raised a trembling hand to knock, but before her knuckles could touch the wood, the door swung silently inward.

Framed in the doorway was a man who seemed carved from a mountain. He was massive, bald, and covered in intricate, swirling tattoos that writhed like living ink under the dim alley light. His eyes, small and dark, fixed on her. Elara braced herself for violence, for questions, for being thrown back into the street.

Instead, the bouncer’s hostile expression dissolved into one of stunned, reverent awe. His eyes flickered to the stray wisp of white hair that had escaped her hood. He didn't speak. He simply bowed his head in a gesture of profound respect and stepped aside, holding the door open for her.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the world dissolved.

The air was thick with the scent of hothouse flowers, expensive liquor, and something else—the electric tang of raw power. A relentless, hypnotic music pulsed not from speakers, but from the very walls, vibrating deep within her chest. The club was a cavern of impossible geometry. Neon light tubes crisscrossed the ceiling, casting everything in shades of purple and green, yet somehow leaving the corners in absolute, impenetrable darkness.

And the patrons… they were terrifyingly beautiful. A woman with skin like polished obsidian laughed, revealing fangs sharper than any animal’s. A man with restless, amber eyes, surrounded by a group that moved with the coiled energy of a wolf pack, paused mid-drink to watch her. They were vampires, shifters, and creatures of nightmare and myth, all moving with a predatory grace that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

As Elara stepped further inside, a strange ripple spread from her. The conversations closest to her died. Heads turned. Beings that radiated ancient power and casual lethality froze, their eyes widening. A pathway cleared for her through the dense crowd, the supernatural elite parting like the Red Sea. They stared at her with a potent cocktail of fear, hunger, and something that looked disturbingly like worship. She was an outsider, yet they treated her like their returning queen.

Her instincts, Nyx’s instincts, pulled her toward the club's heart. On a raised dais at the far end of the room, a figure sat enthroned on a couch of black velvet, holding court. As she approached, he dismissed the fawning creatures around him with an elegant, lazy wave of his hand.

He was breathtaking. Ethereal and sharp, with iridescent silver hair that seemed to catch the unnatural light and shimmer with its own. His eyes were the color of amethysts, and they tracked her approach with amused curiosity. Pointed ears, elegant and subtle, peeked through his silver locks. He wore a high-fashion silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of smooth, pale chest, the fabric seeming to be woven with actual, living ivy. A charming, mischievous smirk played on his perfect lips, a beautiful mask for the cold, calculating intelligence that swam in his gaze.

"Well, well," he said, his voice a silken melody that cut through the club's thrum. "Look what the night dragged in. The little goddess, slumming it without her keepers."

Elara stopped at the foot of the dais, her heart hammering. "I'm looking for answers," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. It felt like someone else was speaking, someone bolder.

The Fae lord chuckled, a sound like wind chimes made of spun glass. He slid off the couch and descended the few steps to stand before her, his movements unnervingly fluid. He was taller than he looked, and his beauty was so potent it was dizzying. "Answers are a commodity here, little storm cloud. Everything has a price." He circled her slowly, like a shark assessing its prey. "My name is Lysander. This is my domain. And you, my dear, have been causing quite the stir."

"I haven't done anything," she insisted, the words tasting like a lie even as she said them.

Lysander stopped in front of her, his amethyst eyes dancing with cruel mirth. "Oh, I wouldn't say that." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath smelling of honeyed wine and winter frost. "You see, there was an unpleasantness down at the city harbor last night. The harbormaster, a mortal man sworn to my court, was found dead. Torn to pieces, in fact. An act of shocking brutality."

Elara’s blood turned to ice. She remembered the flashes from her dream—the crunch of bone, the metallic tang of blood.

"The authorities are baffled, of course," Lysander continued, his smirk widening. "But I have… better sources. A witness. A terrified little wretch who saw a woman on the docks, just as the moon was rising." He reached out, his long, elegant fingers tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. His touch was cold as marble. "A woman with dark hair that bled stark white in the moonlight. A woman who commanded the very shadows to tear a man apart."

He pulled his hand back, watching her, his smile a thing of terrifying beauty. "A woman who looked an awful lot like you."

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Elara stared at him, the world tilting on its axis. The black hole in her memory was no longer empty; it was filled with the shape of a murder she couldn't remember committing.

"Now," Lysander purred, his eyes glowing with triumph. "Let's talk about a bargain."