THE RAVEN’S NEST SMELLED OF STALE GIN and wet ash, a sour perfume that clung to the walls like a bad memory. Elias Voss wiped the bar counter with a rag that had seen better days, its gray threads fraying like his patience. The clock above the door ticked past midnight, its hands crooked as if ashamed of the hour. Valcara never slept—not really. Outside, the Mediterranean wind howled through the port city’s narrow streets, carrying whispers of war’s end and the chaos it left behind. Inside, the bar was a tomb, save for the hum of a ceiling fan and the clink of a glass as Elias poured himself a shot of something cheap and amber.
He didn’t drink it. Not yet. The war had taught him to wait—wait for the shell to drop, wait for the scream, wait for the silence that meant you’d survived another day. Two years since the guns fell quiet, and he still waited, running this dive for the drifters and dreamers who washed up in Valcara. Refugees with hollow eyes, spies with greased smiles, sailors too drunk to care—they all found their way here, to the edge of nowhere.
The door creaked open, a jagged sound that snapped Elias’ head up. A man stumbled in, his coat soaked dark with rain—or something worse. Blood, Elias realized, as the stranger lurched forward, one hand pressed to his gut. His face was a map of pain, creased and pale, eyes wild like a cornered dog’s. He hit the bar with a thud, knocking over Elias’ untouched shot. The glass shattered on the floor, a small explosion in the stillness.
“Help,” the man rasped, his voice a gravel scrape. “The raven… it’s real. They’re coming.” His free hand fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled paper—a map, edges torn, stained with red fingerprints. He shoved it toward Elias, trembling. “Keep it… safe.”
Elias froze, the rag limp in his hand. He’d seen death before—too much of it. North Africa, ’43, his squad pinned under fire, the air thick with dust and screams. He’d crawled out of that hell, but not all of them had. Theo, his brother, barking orders one minute, gone the next, a traitor’s bullet in his back—or so Elias thought. The memory clawed at him now, sharp as the stranger’s gasps.
“Who’s coming?” Elias asked, voice low, steady, like he was calming a spooked horse. He didn’t touch the map. Not yet.
The man’s eyes darted to the door, then back. “Them… the ones who want it. Carver’s dead… it’s all—” His words drowned in a wet cough, blood flecking his lips. He slid to the floor, the map fluttering down beside him, a dead leaf on cracked tiles.
Elias knelt, checking for a pulse. Nothing. The stranger’s hand fell open, revealing a tattoo on his wrist—a raven in flight, crude and black. Elias stared at it, a chill snaking up his spine. He’d heard the stories: the jeweled raven, a relic from some fallen empire, worth more than Valcara’s whole rotting waterfront. A myth, he’d thought, like the promises of peace they’d fed him in the army. But this man had died for it.
Footsteps scuffed behind him. Elias turned, hand slipping to the knife under the bar. Mara stood there, her silhouette framed by the stage lights, a cigarette glowing between her fingers. She was the singer, the only thing in this dump worth a damn—dark hair pinned up, eyes like storm clouds, a voice that could break a man without trying. She’d been with him six months, since she’d stumbled off a refugee boat with nothing but a suitcase and a song. They never talked about it, what kept her here. Some nights, Elias thought it might be him. Most nights, he knew better.
“What’s the mess now, Elias?” she asked, smoke curling from her lips. She stepped closer, heels clicking, and saw the body. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t scream. Mara wasn’t the screaming type.
“Trouble,” Elias said, standing. He nudged the map with his boot, keeping his eyes on her. “Heard of the raven?”
Her face tightened, just a flicker, then smoothed out. “Fairy tales for fools. Burn that thing and call the cops.” She flicked her cigarette into an ashtray, the ember dying fast.
Elias didn’t move. The bar was empty now—two drunks had slipped out when the stranger fell, leaving their tab unpaid. He could hear the city breathing outside, the clatter of crates on the docks, the distant wail of a horn. Valcara was a beast, alive with secrets, and this map felt like its heartbeat. He picked it up, the paper rough against his calloused fingers. Lines crisscrossed it, smudged and faint, pointing somewhere—maybe the coast, maybe the slums. A word scrawled in the corner: Carver.
Julian Carver. The name hit like a slug of bad whiskey. Valcara’s shadow king, a shipping tycoon who’d built an empire on war profits, then vanished into his mansion years ago. Word was he’d died that night, found cold in his study. Elias hadn’t cared—until now.
“He said Carver’s dead,” Elias muttered, half to himself. “And this raven’s real.”
Mara crossed her arms, her silk dress catching the dim light. “Then he’s a liar or a ghost. Either way, it’s not your fight.” She turned to the stage, grabbing her shawl. “I’m done for the night. Don’t be stupid, Elias.”
He watched her go, the sway of her hips a quiet taunt. The door slammed shut, and he was alone with the corpse and the map. His mind spun back to the war again—Theo’s laugh, sharp and reckless, the last time they’d shared a cigarette before the ambush. Elias had trusted him, followed him, and lost everything when Theo turned coat. Or so the story went. Two years of guilt, two years of running, and here he was, still picking up pieces.
The stranger’s blood pooled wider, seeping into the cracks. Elias grabbed a tarp from the storeroom, draped it over the body, and dragged it to the back alley. No cops—not yet. Valcara’s law was a joke, more likely to shake him down than solve anything. He’d dump the stiff in the harbor later, let the tide take the body.
Back inside, he locked the door and spread the map on the bar. The lines twisted like veins, leading to a mark near the old shipyards. He traced it with a finger, the stranger’s words echoing: They’re coming. Who? Smugglers? Carver’s men? The raven felt like a curse already, heavy in the air.
He poured another shot, downed it this time. The burn steadied him. Mara was right—he should burn it, walk away. But something in him wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the war, the need to prove he could still fight for something. Maybe it was the stranger’s eyes, pleading through the pain. Or maybe it was just Valcara, this city of shadows, pulling him deeper every day.
A knock rattled the door—three sharp raps. Elias tensed, sliding the map into his coat. He grabbed the knife again, its weight familiar, and moved to the window. A figure loomed outside, broad and hunched, rain dripping from a hat. Not a cop. Not a drunk. Trouble, like Mara said.
“Open up, Voss,” a voice growled, thick with the docks’ salt and grit. “We need to talk about that map.”
Elias cursed under his breath. The raven’s shadow was already stretching long, and he was caught in it.
