Citadel

11:34 PM, 5/14/6241, Veritas Lounge, Fractal District Two

The bar was too loud to think. People were talking in enclosed booths behind her, sitting in the bar area near her, waiters walking all throughout the lounge balancing trays of drinks. She nursed her drink in the corner, condensation sliding slow and sticky down the glass. The burn of it in her chest didn’t register past the ache behind her eyes. Spending the entire day crunching numbers did that.

“Well, isn’t it the great Ivara Korrel herself!” The voice sliced through the room like a blade, silencing the white noise of laughter and clinking glasses.

Korrel looked up with a sigh, already regretting the choice of venue. She knew who frequented this place, and still came. The bar’s warmth felt stifling now, like the walls themselves leaned in to listen. Glasses clinked too loud, laughter pitched just a bit too high—grating, like a poorly tuned instrument. Asvek stood with the posture of someone in complete control of their gravity. Their smile was too precise, like feathers groomed for a display—glossy, symmetrical, performative. She arched a brow as Asvek slid smoothly onto the stool beside her.

“I never thought I’d see the day—Korrel, alone in public, like some lost pet waiting for its master.” They ran a hand through their hair, platinum strands catching the shifting light—more disheveled than she’d ever seen. It clashed with the rest of them: the crisp white satin button-up, the tailored black dress pants, the coat draped over their shoulders with effortless grace.

Korrel’s fingers tightened slightly around her glass. “I must respectfully ask you to leave me alone,” she said coolly, setting her drink down with deliberate care. She’d never seen Kestral Asvek outside the council building, and certainly never like this — with that shit-eating grin stretched across their face like a practiced mask.

“Oh, come on, Korrel. We’re off duty. Lighten up.”

She didn’t even glance at them. “Fuck off.”

That earned a low chuckle. Asvek leaned forward, propping their head on one elbow, eyes gleaming with mischief. “There we go—see how easy it is to communicate now?”

Korrel sighed, rolled her eyes, and tossed back the remainder of her drink. She stood, collecting her things, her body already turning toward the door—but Asvek’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. The grip was elegant but deliberate, like a talon alighting just before the kill.

“Is a civil discussion outside of work too much effort for you?” Asvek asked cheerfully, arching a delicately shaped brow.

Everything about Asvek was eye-catching, from the platinum hair, those striking violet eyes, to the sharp, feather-like markings framing their eyes, greatly obscured by the glasses they wore. Eyes that now studied Korrel like she was some fascinating new piece of legislation to dissect and eviscerate. Korrel looked down at the hand on her wrist, then up at them—expression unreadable, cold enough to make most people flinch.

“With you? Yes,” she said flatly. Their hand felt colder than the glass she’d just abandoned. Korrel didn’t pull away, and her breath shallowed. “Let go.”

Asvek’s laugh was a hollow exhale through clenched teeth, sharp and weightless—like the snap of a feathered wing slicing air before the strike.

“Still precise as ever.” They withdrew their hand, letting it fall back to the counter. “I’m not here to argue, Korrel. Just...talk. Like normal coworkers.”

She hesitated. That alone was unusual. Asvek never reached out to people on their own. Charismatic, yes—undeniably so—but still the most isolated of anyone on the council.

“Talk,” she echoed, skeptical. “You stalk me to a bar, insult me, grab my wrist—and now you want to talk?”

“Technically, I only did two of those things,” they said, holding up two fingers with a smirk that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “Come on. Sit. I’ll even buy you another drink. Call it... diplomatic outreach.”

Korrel exhaled slowly through her nose. “You don’t do diplomacy. You do theatrics.”

Asvek leaned back slightly, shrugging. “Different branches of the same tree.”

She eyed them for another long moment, then slid back onto her stool without a word.

Asvek raised a hand for the bartender. “Two more,” they said, then glanced at her. “Unless you’re drinking something that requires an apology from me.”

Korrel rested her elbow on the counter, chin in hand. A splash of fizz with bitters and gin. They had gotten her order perfectly, down to the three sugar cubes. Any more and it would have ruined the taste of the cocktail. “You’ll need more than a drink for that.” She gave Asvek a look. Her perfect drink wasn’t the most surprising part though. She hadn’t expected to see the Commissioner General of Public Affairs out in public, drinking hard liquor. Asvek raised their glass, swirling the amber liquid slowly.

“Even a Commissioner is allowed a vice or two. Besides,” they said, taking a measured sip, “I needed something strong before trying to talk to you.”

Korrel arched a brow. “You make it sound like a chore.”

“It usually is.” Asvek’s smirk was brief, almost too fast to catch. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m hoping for honesty. Just a sliver.”

Korrel let the silence stretch between them, watching the way the light danced across their features. She hated that they were hard to read. Always had been. They were like 50 people in the same body, their personality shifting with every situation, every person in their general vicinity. Tonight’s version was quieter, almost somber—but Korrel didn’t trust any of these versions. She tipped her glass towards them, the cloudy liquid swirling around the lip.

“So which version of you am I speaking to tonight? The charming envoy? The manipulator in diplomat’s silk? Or the one who tried to knife me in committee three weeks ago?”

Asvek winced—barely. “That amendment would’ve gutted your proposal, not you. Don’t take it personally.”

“I always do.”

They smiled into their drink. “That’s what makes you fun.” Even Asvek’s speech reminded her of a bird of prey, with their sharp, precisely calculated responses. Korrel studied them again. The lines under their eyes. The tension in their shoulders. The mask was still there—but thinner than usual.

“You’re stalling,” she said. “So say what you came to say, or let me finish my drink in peace.”

Asvek hummed idly, tapping the table. “You know what I came to discuss, Korrel.”

The core issue that had haunted the building for years was the same: the separation of Fractals and Hollows. Those born with abilities, and those without. Not that powers meant much anymore. They’d fallen so far out of use that no one really knew how to wield them at all.

Asvek’s voice dropped lower, the usual polish replaced by a rare, raw edge. “The separation. The fracture between Fractals and Hollows. It’s not just a debate anymore—it’s a ticking time bomb.”

Korrel’s eyes narrowed. “You think this is new? It’s been simmering for decades. What’s changed?”

“The Council’s patience,” Asvek said, fingers drumming restlessly on the counter. “There are little factions from the underlings pushing for hard lines, for segregation. And others are advocating complete integration, ignoring the risks. Neither side will back down.”

She leaned forward, voice cold. “And where do you stand?”

Asvek met her gaze evenly. “I stand on the edge of a knife, Korrel. But I need your vote—and your influence—to keep the city from bleeding.”

Korrel let the silence stretch, tasting the weight behind those words. Influence. Ha. That sounded familiar. But this wasn’t just internal politics anymore. Asvek was notoriously hard to read—even now, their many faces were shifting, gauging her facial expressions, sifting through the cards. Cunning as always.

“You want my influence,” she said slowly, “but you’re still playing games.”

Asvek didn’t flinch at her accusation. “I’m playing to win. You know how the council works—what survives isn’t always what’s right. It’s what’s defended by the loudest voices and the deepest pockets.”

“And what do you defend?” Korrel asked, frowning.

“Myself, usually,” they said with a smile, the ridiculously fake grin flashing across their face.

She leaned back, studying Asvek again—looking past the diplomat, the schemer, the performer. “You believe in this.”

“I do.” They shrugged. “But belief doesn’t win votes.”

“And you think I do?”

“I think you could. If you stopped treating every offer like a trap.”

“Maybe because most of them are,” Korrel stated dryly.

Asvek laughed under their breath. “Fair.”

Another silence crept in. Korrel glanced at the glass in her hand, then back at them.

“I don’t make decisions in bars,” she said finally.

“No,” Asvek replied, tone unreadable. “But you listen better in them.”

Korrel stared at her reflection in Asvek’s cup, raven colored hair and markings reminiscent of waves cascading around crimson red eyes tinted amber.

They had barely drunk any of it. Of course they hadn’t. Everything Asvek did was calculated. Even what they didn’t drink.

“What does the proposal actually say?” she asked finally. Korrel hadn’t read it fully. She just knew what Maevyn had told her.

“Motion 73-B. On the redistribution of civic resources between Fractals and Hollows.”

“Redistribution.” she echoed quietly. “That’s the word they’re hiding behind?”

“They’re always careful with the language. It doesn’t say segregation. It says ‘dedicated funding,’ ‘specialized districts,’ ‘cultural preservation.’” They paused, voice dropping. “Section Four allows enforcement agencies to operate under different rules, depending on the district.”

Korrel’s hand stilled around her glass.

“Separate rules,” she said. “For…separate people.”

Asvek nodded. “That’s what they want. Quiet division. No more pretense of unity. Just a clean break. And if it passes…”

Korrel exhaled slowly, the sweet cocktail on her tongue suddenly bitter. “I thought you were just here to bother me.”

“I was,” Asvek replied, eyes flicking over her face. “But then I remembered you care too much to walk away.”

Korrel didn’t answer right away. She stared into her glass, watching the fractured light ripple across the amber surface like broken promises. Even the ice cubes felt like accusations.

“I’m not voting against it,” she said finally.

Asvek went still. “What?”

“I’m not voting for it either. Yet.” Her tone was calm, unreadable. “But I’m not your swing vote.”

Their gaze sharpened, mouth a thin line. “So you support the motion,” they said, each word clipped like they didn’t trust their voice to stay steady.

“I understand the motion,” Korrel corrected sharply. “And I understand what it’s trying to prevent.”

“That’s not the same as supporting it.”

“No,” she agreed. “But sometimes division keeps people safer than forced unity. And some people—” Her jaw tightened. “Some people deserve the right to choose distance.”

Something passed through Asvek’s expression—there was no physical shift, but their gaze grew colder, darker. “You’ve never been one for retreat, Ivara.”

She looked away, swallowing hard at how their voice traced the letters of her forename. “It’s not a retreat. It’s...it is just protection.”

Asvek leaned back slightly, as if reevaluating the battlefield. “You’re not doing this for you.”

Korrel didn’t answer. She stayed silent, avoiding the piercing gaze of the Fractal.

Going against Maevyn was always a bad idea. Maevyn Thalor, High Commissioner of Civic Alignment—the architect behind most of the legal infrastructure keeping Fractals and Hollows “peacefully coexistent.” And the one who had whispered the word separation years before anyone else dared to say it aloud. And their superior.

Asvek exhaled sharply, then knocked back the rest of their drink in a single gulp. The glass hit the counter hard, shattering on impact.

Korrel didn’t flinch at the sound of shattering glass. Just watched the amber remnants bleed down the counter like spilled secrets.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The bar didn’t go silent—too loud for that—but something shifted. A few glances turned their way, lingering just long enough to notice the broken glass, the tension radiating off them like static. Nobody would say anything. Firstly, because that was the rule of this place, but secondly, because most people in here were lesser employees of the Citadel. A spat between Commissioners was far beyond their pay grade. Korrel didn’t look at the shards anymore. She looked at Asvek. They were still gripping the rim of the counter, like they needed it to stay upright. Like whatever was boiling beneath their skin might crack through if they let go. Asvek slowly dragged a hand down their face, wiping away nothing, then set their jaw like they were about to say something they’d regret. Instead, they let out a breath that sounded too tired to belong to someone so cutting.

“Always knew you’d be the last one to fold,” they said finally, not looking at her. “Guess even the strong ones find reasons.” Their voice carried the same dry edge, but now there was something brittle under the mockery.

Korrel’s fingers curled around her own glass, but she didn’t lift it.

“I didn’t fold,” she said, softly, almost repentant.

Asvek turned to her—just for a second. And as always, Korrel couldn’t read them. There was something in their eyes, but it slipped away before it could be named. They didn’t even glance at the shattered glass, their pale brows smoothing out.

“Add it to my tab,” they said to the bartender, brushing the shards aside with the edge of their sleeve, sending sharp fragments glittering down to the floor. “Mine and hers. I’ll pay it off later.”

“You always did like dramatic exits,” she said quietly.

Asvek didn’t move. “This isn’t an exit.” they said quietly. Korrel fell silent, giving them a curious look. “It’s a reminder,” they continued, voice low but steady. “Of what this place turns us into when we stop listening. When we start picking sides against the people we used to fight beside.”

Korrel’s lips tightened as she reached into her coat and dropped a few bills on the bar. Not enough to cover both drinks. Just hers.

“I don’t owe you,” her voice wavering. “I don’t want to be in debt to you.”

“Never said you did,” Asvek replied, their voice light, almost casual—like two coworkers sharing a drink after hours. “But one day, Korrel… you’ll have to decide if loyalty matters more than truth.”

They turned, melting into the crowd they’d emerged from, cloak trailing like the memory of wings—something that used to mean freedom.

Korrel remained seated among the shards, exhaling a slow, bitter breath. For once, she had no retort. Only silence.