The first time I saw the Dusk Trade, I was seven years old.
My mother had taken me through the undercity of Nocturne, beneath the Obsidian Spire, where the fae-glamour thinned and the truth bled through. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat and something sweetly rotten—like decay wrapped in perfume. Humans moved in huddled groups, their eyes wide, their hands trembling as they bartered with shadowed figures for vials of crimson liquid, scraps of fur, or tiny glass vials filled with shimmering dust.
“That’s vampire blood,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around mine. “They sell it to the desperate. The addicted. The ones who think a sip of immortality will fix their broken lives.”
“And that?” I asked, pointing to a man holding up a wolf’s pelt, its silver-tipped fur still damp.
“Werewolf skin,” she said, voice low. “Trophies. Protection charms. Some believe wearing it makes them stronger. Faster. Unkillable.”
“And the dust?”
She hesitated. Then knelt, her storm-colored eyes locking onto mine. “Fae dreams, little storm. Stolen from sleeping Seelie. They trade memories for ecstasy. But the cost… the cost is their soul.”
I didn’t understand then.
Not really.
But I remember the look in her eyes—grief, yes, but also fury. A fire that never went out.
And now, standing at the edge of the Dusk Market with Kael at my side, that fire roared back to life.
—
The market hadn’t changed.
Not in structure. Not in scent. Not in the way the humans flinched when a vampire passed by, their UV-lensed spectacles glinting like dead stars. The stalls were still crammed into the narrow alleyways beneath the Spire, their wares displayed on cracked marble slabs: vials of blood in varying shades of red, some fresh, some coagulated; pelts stretched and nailed to wooden frames; glass orbs swirling with captured light—fae dreams, harvested like fruit.
The air was thick with desperation. With hunger. With the quiet, broken sobs of those who’d sold too much and gotten nothing in return.
And the enforcers? They stood at every corner—vampires in black armor, werewolves with silver collars, witches with sigils glowing on their palms. Not to stop the trade.
To *tax* it.
“This ends today,” I said, my voice low.
Kael didn’t look at me. Just stood there, his coat whispering against the stone, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. “You know what this will cost,” he said. “The Council will call it weakness. The Bloodfangs will see it as betrayal. The vampires—”
“Don’t care,” I cut in. “They’ve been feeding off this filth for centuries. Let them choke on the fallout.”
He turned then, his gaze burning into mine. “And the humans? What will you give them instead of false hope? Instead of stolen power?”
“The truth,” I said. “And a seat at the table.”
His breath caught.
Not with anger.
With *recognition.*
Because he knew—better than anyone—that the Supernatural Council had ruled from the shadows for too long. That the humans weren’t just bystanders. They were pawns. Tools. Fuel.
And if we wanted peace, real peace, it couldn’t be built on their backs.
—
We moved through the market like a storm.
Not with violence. Not with fire.
With *presence.*
Hand in hand. Head high. The bond pulsed between us—slow, steady, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh. The enforcers stepped aside. The traders froze. The humans—those brave enough to look—watched with wide, disbelieving eyes.
And then—
I stopped.
In front of a stall selling fae dreams.
The vendor was a woman—human, late thirties, her face lined with exhaustion, her hands trembling as she arranged the glass orbs. She didn’t look up. Just muttered, “Two vials of Seelie memory-dust for a week’s wages. Three if you want Unseelie. Stronger. Darker. More… *real.*”
I didn’t speak.
Just reached out.
And shattered the display.
My palm slammed down on the marble slab, the force cracking the stone, sending the orbs tumbling to the ground. They burst like fragile eggs, their contents spilling—shimmering, swirling, *screaming.* Not with sound. With *memory.*
I felt it—flashes of stolen joy, of forbidden love, of whispered secrets ripped from sleeping minds. And beneath it all—fear. The fear of the fae whose dreams had been taken. The fear of the humans who’d bought them, chasing a high that would never last.
The woman gasped, stumbling back. “You can’t—”
“I just did,” I said, stepping forward. “And I’m not done.”
She looked up then. Really looked. And when she saw my face—my storm-colored eyes, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm—she *recognized* me.
“Crimson Veyra,” she whispered. “You’re… you’re *her.*”
“Yes,” I said. “And I’m here to end this.”
She didn’t argue. Just sank to her knees, her hands pressed to her face. “They’ll kill me,” she said. “They’ll kill us all.”
“Then let them try,” Kael said, stepping forward, his presence a wall at my back. “And when they do, they’ll answer to me.”
She looked at him—his sharp jaw, his chiseled lips, the scar at the corner of his mouth—and shuddered.
But she didn’t run.
Just whispered, “Thank you.”
—
We didn’t stop there.
Next was the blood vendor—a vampire in a velvet coat, his fangs filed to points, his eyes gleaming with greed. He tried to run. I caught him by the collar, slamming him against the stone wall.
“You sell the blood of your own kind,” I said, my voice low. “To humans who don’t know what they’re buying. Who don’t know it’ll rot their veins, burn their minds, leave them screaming in the dark.”
“It’s not my fault they’re weak,” he sneered.
I pressed harder. “It’s *your* fault. And if you ever sell another vial, I’ll make you drink every drop until your heart bursts.”
He paled. But didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
And then—
The werewolf pelts.
The trader was a human man, broad-shouldered, his arms covered in scars. He didn’t flinch when I approached. Just said, “You think I don’t know what they are? I’ve seen the raids. The bodies. The ones left in the streets, skinned like animals.”
“And you sell their fur anyway,” I said.
“Because it keeps my family alive,” he snapped. “You think I *like* this? You think I sleep easy knowing I’m trading the dead for bread?”
I studied him. The truth in his voice. The pain in his eyes.
And then—I did something I hadn’t done in years.
I *listened.*
“What if I told you,” I said, “that you wouldn’t have to?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you offering?”
“A job,” I said. “Security. For the new Human Liaison office. Protection for your family. A wage that doesn’t come from selling the dead.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me.
And then—
He tore the pelts from the wall and threw them into the fire.
—
By midday, the Dusk Market was in chaos.
Not with violence.
With *hope.*
Traders were destroying their own wares. Humans were gathering in groups, their voices rising, their fists clenched. The enforcers didn’t intervene. Just watched, their expressions unreadable.
And then—
We called the Council.
Not to the war room.
Not to the throne chamber.
To the *market.*
They arrived in silence—seven figures in robes of black and silver, their faces tight, their eyes sharp. Torin came with his Betas, their claws bared, their amber eyes burning. The Human Liaison—Elias, a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a cane—was the last to arrive, his face pale, his hands trembling.
I didn’t wait for them to speak.
Just stepped forward, my boots clicking against the stone, my head high, my heart a locked vault.
“You’ve ruled from the shadows,” I said, my voice echoing through the alleyways. “You’ve fed on the weak. You’ve profited from their suffering. And you’ve called it *balance.*”
“And what would you know of balance?” Lord Malrik’s replacement, a Seelie named Virel, sneered. “You, who broke every law, who defiled the throne, who—”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off, “because I was one of the broken. I was one of the hunted. I was the daughter of a woman erased by your lies. And I survived. Not because of magic. Not because of power. Because I *fought.*”
“And now you would destroy us?” Virel challenged.
“No,” I said. “I would *rebuild.*”
And then—I turned to Elias.
“You are the first Human Liaison with real power,” I said. “Not a figurehead. Not a puppet. A voice. A vote. A seat at the Council table. And from this day forward, no law will pass without your approval.”
The Council erupted.
“This is madness!” Virel shouted.
“She has no authority!” another cried.
But Kael stepped forward, his presence silencing them.
“She does,” he said, voice low, guttural. “Because I give it to her. And if you oppose this, you oppose *me.*”
They fell silent.
And then—
Elias stepped forward.
Not with fear.
With *dignity.*
He looked at me. Then at Kael. Then at the Council.
And then—he nodded.
“Then let’s begin,” he said.
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I stood at the balcony, barefoot on the cold stone, my gown gone, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The city below was alive—lights flickering in the undercity, voices rising in song, the scent of burning blood and fae dreams replaced by something sweeter. Something *clean.*
Kael came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My core clenched. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just leaned into him, my body a furnace against his. “You were right,” I said. “Peace is the war we can’t afford to lose.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his breath warm against my skin.
And for the first time since I’d entered the Obsidian Spire, I didn’t feel the need to run.
Because I wasn’t alone.
I had him.
I had the truth.
And I had my mother’s name.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.
—
The next morning, the first Human Liaison office opened in the undercity.
No grand ceremony. No speeches. Just a door, a desk, and a woman—Elias’s daughter, a healer named Mira—who sat behind it, ready to listen.
And the humans came.
Not in droves.
Not all at once.
But they came.
One by one.
And when the first vampire enforcer tried to enter with a vial of blood, Mira didn’t flinch.
Just said, “This is a safe space. No trade. No violence. Just truth.”
And the enforcer—after a long, silent moment—nodded.
And left.
And I, standing in the shadows, smiled.
Because the war wasn’t over.
But the battle?
We’d just won it.