Polaris

There was a rumour that Aden Livingston had crawled his way back from the next life after making a deal with a Dark Witch. The deal, so the story goes, that he would be brought back under one condition, the Witch would take his soul as payment. As a result, Aden’s eyes became red, warning everyone that he came in contact with that he was a demon, or at the very least, pretty damn close.  

The other tall tales that circled the streets of Astrakhan and bleed into the warnings of locals would tell those who docked ranged in insanity. The more grounded theories were that Aden was simply not human and thus didn’t deal in emotions such as that, which wasn’t entirely far off, and the crazier theories edged towards an old god who was angered that he’d been forgotten. Those stories suggested that Aden as an old god strived to wreak as much hell and chaos upon Landria as he could.

Admittedly, much of those tales had been stirred up by none other than Aden himself. 

The real story was likely just as compelling, but it made him too pitiable and he simply couldn’t have that. 

So, for argument’s sake, Aden was soulless or possibly an old god. Certainly, he was ruthless enough to pass for either one. It was the only way that he could survive in a place like Astrakhan which was run amok with thieves, gangs and criminals drudged up from the worst places whose lives were made from the darkest of tales.

For the most part, Aden worked for no one but himself. He found, more often than not, that the gangs and crime lords that ran Astrakhan had much narrower ambitions than he’d been interested in. Power and acclimation of territory seemed a waste of time, much too human.

Those things were constantly shifting and changing and when it came down to it, shallow, fake even. Territory or hold on a single city was not where true power laid, Aden had enough life experience to know that.

Still, Aden played the game in Astrakhan, made power grabs and deals in the shadows, barely lit up by the moon or whatever faded lanterns failed to light up the area. 

Though Aden was used to making deals in sketchier areas like the Den, sometimes his dealings occurred elsewhere. Like the infamous Market District, the only neutral territory in the whole damn city. 

However, neutral territory didn’t mean that deals didn’t go down around the darkened corners. 

Aden’s right hand rested comfortably against the grip of his revolver as he faced the Landrian politician before him, Zachariah Mailon.

The middle-aged man clearly had no business in the lawless deals he was attempting to engage in, judging from the way he shifted his weight back and forth. There was a pistol in his hand, pointing towards the ground with a lack of steadiness. It was a flashy weapon, the kind that someone chose when they had no experience with artillery. 

Aden’s crimson eyes reflected the moonlight as he studied Mailon, never once breaking his intent eye contact. Mailon was less steady with his eye contact, frequently glancing towards the gun in his hand. 

Aden eyed the gun before moving his gaze back to Mailon, daring him to try to use the weapon.

“Well?” Aden prompted, his dry rasp cutting through the cold night air. Mailon cleared his throat and then reached beneath his jacket to pull out a neat file, secured closed by a thin piece of twine. 

Something then took over Mailon and he raised his pistol at Aden. The young man didn’t bat an eye, never even moving his gaze from Mailon’s face to the weapon that threatened him.

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” 

“I keep my promises. Can you say the same to your wife?” Aden asked cooly, dropping a bomb without blinking an eye. Mailon flushed bright red and began to stutter uncomfortably, forming the beginnings of a dozen different sentences without ever completing one.

Aden held out one hand. His fingers were long and nimble, remarkably smooth for a young man who was supposed to have lived such a rough life. Mailon drew the folder back one more time, still hesitating.

“What do you even get with this information?”

“That’s not part of our deal.”

Finally, Mailon places the folder in Aden’s hand and steps back, about to leave. Aden watches the councilman twitch and then speaks again, 

“Wait. I’d like to see how good this information is first.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal,” Mailon says nervously, looking at the gun that he raised. In an attempt to seem more threatening, Mailon took the safety off of his gun. The look in Aden’s eyes grew lazy, almost tired by the silent threat.

“I’ve been quite cordial. Now, I suggest you put down the gun.”

“No, I walk away now. Our dealings are done.”

Aden’s gaze flickers away for Mailon for the first time since their meeting started, just past the older man’s shoulder. Mailon tensed as he heard a low growl.

Standing behind Mailon is the Red Wolf, one of Aden’s…assets. 

The Red Wolf is a magical wolf twice the size of its brothers and sisters. Its coat is immune to any known weapon, making it near indestructible. 

If that wasn’t intimidating enough, the Red Wolf did not associate with any criminal but Aden Livingston, which, of course, lead to more stories.

Stories that Aden was gifted enough with his magic that he’d turned a wolf pup into the Red Wolf, training the wolf to be loyal only to him.

Now those stories were ones that Aden hadn’t started, but he felt rather honoured that people thought he was capable enough to accomplish such a feat of transformation.

Unfortunately, the only magic capable of that couldn’t be replicated. Becoming a creature like that, nearly indestructible, could only be achieved by a shapeshifter.

A shapeshifter that Aden was cheery to say worked for him.

The councilman boxed between the massive wolf and one of the most terrifying people in the city started to sweat profusely. Aden raised an eyebrow, making a big show of opening the folder. His eyes drifted to the words on the pages, skimming through to make sure it was all there.

Aden closed the folder, his face never shifting from its neutral expression. Mailon swallowed hard, looking like he was either going to cry or pass out. Aden started at the older man for a moment longer, making sure that he left his mark on the man’s psyche.

“Consider your debts forgiven.”

“And my wife?”

“What about her?”

“Well, you-I-“ 

Aden’s casual drop about him cheating on his wife was definitely still throwing him for a loop. 

“You have nothing more for me, Mailon,” Aden said, the folder now tucked under his arm. The councilman looked like he wanted to protest some more, but then the Red Wolf snarled. It was a short sound, a simple warning which was then followed by a guttural growl. 

Mailon gulped and practically ran away. Aden nodded at the Red Wolf who seemed to acknowledge the gesture before turning away, disappearing down dark, abandoned roads. Aden didn’t move for a moment, turning his face up to the starry, night sky.

Silently, he located a constellation, tracing its shape with his eyes before taking a slow, deep breath. Then he left where he’d met Mailon, heading to the place that he now called home.

☽

The locals knew well to not cross Aden, and that meant literally as well as figuratively. As he walked the slanted, cracked sidewalks, people parted before they had the chance to reach him. Young lovers clutched each other close as they chose the open road rather than going anywhere near the young man. 

The whispers and sharp inhales of breath always managed to reach Aden’s ears.

Demon. Devil. Curst. Diabolus.

Every word that could apply to the criminal and his reputation was spoken. However, there was only one word that truly got under his skin. One word that he would never claim to his reputation.

Wicked.

The area of Astrakhan that Aden had grown familiar with was not-so-affectionately named the Den. It also happened to be the area with the highest rates of criminal activity which could probably be blamed on the impressive amount of gambling dens, brothels and other various dens of iniquity. 

The only thing that the Den didn’t have in abundance was magic. Not for lack of trying by other power-hungry criminals, but because Aden made it his business to singlehandedly run that market.

After all, he was a sorcerer whose right-hands consisted of a shapeshifter and a Seer.

Aden pushed open the front doors of the building that he called home.

For a moment, Aden went unnoticed as the patrons were all consumed by their winnings and losings, hypnotized by the cards smoothly dealt. However, as he took steps into the gambling den, customers tapped one another to take notice of him.

He heard the whispers…he was just used to them.

And usually, the novelty of looking at the sociopathic local sorcerer and criminal had worn off, but tonight, he supposed he could blame the blood spatter staining his grey shirt.

“Aden, busy night?” A scratchy voice asked. Aden’s gaze fell on Viper, leader of Violet Thorns and the building that he currently stood in. Viper sat back at a table, playing cards with a few of his patrons. 

Aden held out the folder that he’d received from Mailon to Viper. 

“You’re welcome,” Aden said before walking away, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket and heading to the back room where there was a thin, creaky set of stairs. 

Part of Aden’s deal with Viper was that the top floor of the building belonged to Aden. The gang leader was more than happy to part with it, on the condition that Aden did a bit of...freelance work for him. That and Aden’s magical security measures made Viper a very happy man.

The top floor was secured closed by a door that Aden slid a bronze key into its lock. He twisted it once, gave the old door a kick and pushed it open. Unfortunately, Aden’s rooms were not vacant entirely.

It was a break-in of sorts, but it was complicated. Mostly by the fact that the intruder lived there and can one really break into a place that they live?

Well, Rory O’Connor can because in the eight months that Aden had known him, it seemed that Rory wasn’t much a fan of doors.

Rory stood by the fireplace, poking at some logs before tossing in another feeding the orange flames. At the sound of the door, Rory glanced towards Aden, an intense look in his startling cobalt eyes. Rory adjusted the red cloak resting around his shoulders, stepping back from the fire. He seemed to have a permanent frown etched into what were probably once soft features, only hardened by the deep, old scars that were carved across his face. 

Rory O’Connor had hated Aden since the moment that they’d laid eyes on each other. Aden didn’t quite reciprocate the intensity of his feelings, probably because he didn’t have the moral superiority complex that Rory did. 

Rory stood up and yanked down his hood, glaring at Aden the way most would never dare to. If it had come from anyone else, they’d be wishing they could no longer see, but it was just…Rory.

The boy still had a healthy dose of fear regarding Aden, but the sorcerer found it easier to let Rory question him. Sometimes, it felt like an experiment. Like Aden was testing what might happen if he stopped holding everyone at a distance. 

If he pretended to be a normal 20-year-old.

“What the hell is that?!” Rory demanded, eyeing the dark blood that splatter over Aden’s shirt. 

“What?”

“Who did you…” Rory gestured up and down indignantly at the bloodstains. “…murder tonight?”

It was an errand that he’d taken care of on the way home. A rather violent one, but an errand nonetheless. 

“I’m sure you don’t want to hear the answer,” Aden said wryly, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a coat hook. 

“Look, I met you where you wanted me to. I scared the shit out of Mailon. Did you go back and murder him anyway?”

“As I said, you don’t want to know.” Aden then walked to another room, already unbuttoning his shirt. Rory followed angrily and only stopped short when Aden slid the shirt down his shoulders, grimacing as he did so.

There was an angry, bloody hole in Aden’s shoulder.

“And you got shot?!”

“I’m sure you know by now, Rory. Getting shot happens in this line of business.” Aden asked, masking his pain again as he reached into a cabinet to pull out a basket of loose medical supplies. Rory stood back, angrily shaking his head as he glared at the young sorcerer.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, you don’t want to go down that rabbit hole,” Aden answered dryly, sitting down on a chair with his supplies. He then looked pointedly at Rory. “Care to help or…?”

“Why should I? You’ve been using me for months and you have nothing for me.”

Aden sighed. At the moment that he turned, Aden’s face went from grimacing in pain to a facade of serenity.

“That’s fair, but without me, it’ll take a lot longer to find other shapeshifters.”

“Oh, you won’t die from that bullet,” Rory spat, seeming to think that Aden was overdramatizing. Aden plucked a pair of tweezers out of the medical basket and then produced a flask from his pocket. 

The sorcerer then doused the tweezers in the clear alcohol which made Rory grimace this time.

“No, I won’t.” Aden agreed before turning back to Rory. “I was indicating if you were to walk away from this.”

“Oh, the Great Aden Livingston would let me?”

“If you were a normal human? No. But people like us have to have each other’s backs.”

Aden then twisted in his seat to deal with the bullet himself. Before the tweezers could enter the bloodied wound, Rory grabbed them away.

“Now, you’re just pissing me off. Were you raised by wolves?” Rory asked bitterly, putting the tweezers down and leaving the room momentarily. He came back with different medical supplies, not the bare minimum that Aden was trying to work with. 

Rory washed his hands in the sink, making sure to thoroughly clean before he pulled up a chair to sit behind Aden. Rory pulled out a jar of paste that he put around the bullet hole.

Aden’s tense shoulders relaxed, the paste’s numbing properties already taking effect. It soaked into Aden’s otherwise smooth skin and Rory had a new pair of tweezers that presumably he’d sanitized in a way that he’d felt were much more adequate.

Rory stuck the tweezers into the bullet hole, which caused Aden to bite back another grimace of pain. 

“It was an abusive mother,” Aden began, trying to distract himself from the poking and prodding inside his back. “Then an assassin. So yeah, basically raised by wolves.”

Aden pressed his teeth into his lower lip, stiffening as he felt Rory drive the tweezers in deeper. Thin streams of warm blood slid down Aden’s back as Rory seemingly struggled to find the bullet.

“Got it,” Rory finally said, dropping the tweezers and the bullet on the counter. Aden lifted the bullet, turning it over with his thumb as Rory cleaned the blood on Aden’s back. He picked up a new jar of paste and began to carefully apply it over Aden’s wound.

“What about your father?”

“What about yours?” Aden countered which caused Rory to stiffen up. 

“Fuck you.”

Rory covered the wound with a bandage, wishing he hadn’t numbed the area. When it was over, Aden opened his wardrobe and pulled out a new shirt. He buttoned it steadily and then looked back over to Rory.

“I will find them, Rory. I keep my promises. You know I do.”

The shapeshifter didn’t say anything and instead just shook his head. He took off his red cloak, tossing it on an armchair. Aden watched as a raven then replaced Rory before flying out an open window.

☽

“You’re a complete and utter jackass.”

Aden glanced up from his desk to see his oldest friend (if he could even use the word), Norah Dubois. She wore a dress, completely unusual attire for this area, but with a long twin dagger on each thigh over a pair of tights. The daggers were almost entirely covered by the dress, but Aden could see the very tips. Her hair was long, only partially pulled back from her face.

“Is that supposed to be news?” Aden asked blankly.

“You’d live if you treated Rory a bit better.”

“And he’ll live if I don’t.”

“Oh, he’ll live, but I’m starting to worry that you might not.”

The mere suggestion that there could be fatal consequences for his attitude made Aden chuckle dryly in response. 

“He’s too soft to kill me, Norah.”

“Why are you so keen on pushing him to his edge, Aden?” Norah asked gently, sitting on the edge of Aden’s desk. “He’s a good guy.”

“Good guys get killed around here.”

“So you’re protecting him then?”

“I don’t protect people.”

“Sure, love. That’s what you’re doing with Sloan then, not protecting them?”

“Sloan is a scholar, historian who grew up in luxury with a tendency to walk into danger. They are an asset and I prefer my assets alive. Rory is an indestructible shapeshifter, I hardly think he needs the protection.”

Norah shook her head, sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at him. She put her hand on one of his, forcing him to look up at her.

“Aden, this loner thing will get you killed.”

Aden shook off her hand, standing up and heading over to the drink cart that he kept. 

“Norah, I’ll worry about dying when you have a vision that supports it.”

“One day, you might not have me. I might get sick of you, sick of how much of a manipulative bastard you are.”

For a moment, Aden seemed worried. He prided himself on finding people that were one of a kind. Norah was just that kind of person, who practiced both Celestial and Arcane magic, an incredibly rare combination. Rare, much like Rory was. 

“I won’t apologize to him, but consider my tongue held for now.”

“Good, because I like him.”

“You have any interesting visions recently?”

“Mmm…” Norah trailed off, seemingly wracking her brain for any answers. Then she lit up slightly. “Think Sloan wants to talk to you about something.”

“Any details?”

“It was a flash. Not a full-on, seizure-inducing, vivid dream walking, vision,” Norah explained as she stood up. She then smiled at Aden. “Like my dress?”

Aden swallowed his drink, looking at her up and down.

“You always look nice, Norah.”

“My gods, he can be nice. Say something like that to Rory once in a while.” There was a twinkle in her eyes. “Might reassure him that you are human and not a soulless psychopath.”

“I’m not a psychopath.”

“You’re not soulless either.”

“My adoring public would beg to differ.”