The lone chair

Darius walked them fast through streets that didn’t match the place they’d just bled in—lanterns steady, shutters painted, doorsteps scrubbed. The air didn’t stink of old fish or rot here. Even the alley cats looked fed. Ren kept catching his reflection in clean windows and flinching at the stranger in armour and grime, the red dried into the seams of his gauntlet. He didn’t feel like anyone who belonged to quiet streets or tidy thresholds. He kept thinking he should be at the back of the line with his head down, not walking beside Darius, not answering when Hibiki muttered something venomous under his breath about rich districts and people who never saw blood unless it came out of a pig.

The house sat halfway down a terraced row, narrow but tall, with brick gone soft at the edges from rain. Two steps up to a blue door with a brass plate that had been polished enough to remember a better year. Darius fussed with the key more than he needed to; his hands weren’t steady, and the lock scraped like it didn’t recognise him. When the door opened, the smell of dust and soap slid out into the street as if the place had been holding its breath too long. He stood back and made a little half-bow that would’ve once come with a grin and a “mind your boots”, but he didn’t have a grin left.

“Go on,” he said, voice low. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

Inside was a narrow hall, plaster hairline-cracked, with pegs on the wall with a long coat and an older, finer coat that had been mended at the sleeve. The kind a man keeps even when it doesn’t fit the work anymore. The floorboards creaked as old-aged wood tended to do. To the left was a small room like a living area; to the right was a dining room with a long table that only had one chair pulled out, all the others pushed in tidy like no one used them. Beyond that was the kitchen, clean without being polished, with pans hung from hooks and a pot on the hob with ash cold underneath. There were little touches everywhere that said Darius had lived here alone for longer than he’d admit—two cups on a tray but one dusted; a bowl of salt gone hard in the corner; a folded blanket over the arm of a chair with a dent in the cushion deep enough to hold a habit.

“You’ve… got a nice place,” Ren said, hollow. He was trying to sound normal but couldn’t. His eyes caught on the fifth chair and then slid off again. Darius’s gaze followed his for a second, then dropped. “Boots off, or I’ll pretend to care,” he muttered. “The kitchen’s at the back. Water’s clean. If I’ve done this right, there’s wine that hasn’t turned yet.” They followed, Hibiki dragging his new morning star along his shoulder until Miyako hissed and elbowed him. No one wanted to be the first to mark the place with noise. The kitchen felt like the heart of the house, even cold.

A narrow window overlooked a yard with a stump of a tree and a washing line still hanging with a single peg. A kettle waited. A cupboard near the floor wore a smear from fingers reaching for it too often. Darius opened it and drew out a green glass bottle with no label and four mismatched cups. He hesitated with the fifth, then fetched it anyway, put it on the table, looked at it too long, and put it away.

“Sit,” he said. “You look like ghosts that got lost on the way to the river.” They sat. Ren’s bones thanked him, then punished him with the ache that hits when you stop. Hibiki sprawled like he always did, legs wide, jaw set tight enough to crack a tooth. Miyako chose the chair with her back to the wall and angled so she saw both the door and the window. Ren sat stiff, still feeling like he didn’t belong near clean walls. The crossbow’s absence sat heavy; he kept seeing it on the warehouse floor. Darius poured. The wine was darker than Ren expected, thick and a little dull in the light, and it smelt sour-sweet like something that had decided to live a second life as vinegar and changed its mind at the last second.

“To your health,” Darius said without smiling. “And to stupidity that passes for courage.” Hibiki snorted and drank. Ren’s first mouthful burnt, not from strength but because his throat was raw from smoke and shouting. He swallowed, and it landed in him like a stone finding water. They didn’t talk at first. The silence was safer than the words waiting behind their teeth. Outside, the street ticked along, wheels on cobbles, a distant shout that wasn’t angry. In here the only sounds were cups against wood and the soft drag of a chair as Darius shifted to ease his ribs. Ren couldn’t stand it. He pushed the words out, jagged. “I should’ve seen it. The trap. I said I’d take the front. I dragged us in, and I didn’t see her go.” His knuckles whitened around the cup.

Miyako’s eyes didn’t move from the window. “We all missed it. I was at the side door. Hibiki threw early. Alice did what she was told. You kept two off of her. We missed it because they were better at this part than us.” Miyako pushed her chair back, cloak already drawn close. “I’ll fetch our things from the inn,” she said. “If they’re watching, they’ll watch there first. Bolt the door after me. Two knocks if it’s me. If you hear nothing, don’t open.” She didn’t wait for an argument—just checked the knives at her side, pulled her hood low, and slipped into the night. Hibiki couldnt calm down and directed his argument at the entire room. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped. His fist slammed the table, rattling cups. “Better? They’re not better—they’re rats in rags, hiding behind smoke and whispers. We lost her because we were slow, because we—" He cut himself off, teeth grinding.

His chair scraped back, and he surged up, pacing the small kitchen. “I keep seeing her face when the bolt hit, and then—nothing. If I’d been closer—if I’d—” He dragged his hands through his hair, voice raw. “I’ll kill the ones who touched her. Doesn’t matter their name. Doesn’t matter if it’s ten or a hundred. I’ll kill them.”

“Sit down,” Ren said sharply. “You’re rattling the windows.” Hibiki glared but sat, jaw trembling. Darius leaned back, the chair creaking. “You want to lead. When I first saw you, I felt the city was different than its usual self around you—like a seam pulled wrong. I thought maybe you’d snag it back. “That’s why I stuck my neck out,” he said. “You don’t know how yet. That’s not a sin. The sin is pretending you do while people die. So stop pretending.” He drank. “Concordium’s not what you think. It smiles at the city and eats what it wants. Always has, but lately the mouth got bigger. Blame the crown. Blame the council. Doesn’t matter. Paperwork eats law. Paperwork makes new law. They rewrite ledgers like scripture.”

Hibiki spat into the empty cup. “Say the name. Stop dancing.” Darius’s good eye flicked to him. “The ones who took her? They’re called the Unwoven. At least that’s what sticks to the rumours that come around. They think the world’s a cloth to unpick and stitch back however they like. No one says it out loud. But you hear it if you listen where you shouldn’t.” Ren stared. “And the Concordium—” “Feeds them when it suits,” Darius finished. “Let them feed when it doesn’t want the blame. Don’t trust either. Don’t trust anyone in a robe. Don’t trust me if you’re smart.” Silence again. Time dragged, and Hibiki’s anger cracked into mutters. Ren sank into his guilt and slunk further into a chair. Alice’s absence pressed against them—her quiet remarks missing, the way she’d usually say something soft to cut the tension. No one replaced it. When the knocks finally came—two, pause, nothing—Ren’s chest nearly tore itself apart. He froze, waiting, and counted to ten like Miyako had drilled. He counted again. Then he slid the bolt, slowly.

Miyako slipped in. Hood low, sack slung over her back. Her breath showed she’d taken the long way. She looked at them, one by one, and set the sack down. “Checked us out. All clean. No trail left.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were tired. “Someone was watching the corner, not the door. I lost them. If they followed, they won’t find me again.” Ren let out air he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The house settled around the word, like it had been waiting to hear it for years.