⎝ Shiv Shah. ⎠ - Blog Posts

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

Irene didn’t slow when the door shimmered open ahead of them — just tightened her grip on Shiv’s hand and stepped through like it cost her nothing. In truth, it did. Every second she stayed, every inch deeper she went into this fractured loop of their mind — it drained her. She wasn’t built for this. Her power lay in action, in the physical, in breaking things and building them back stronger. Minds were too soft. Too loud. The weight of someone else’s ruin pressed behind her eyes like a scream trapped under glass. But for Shiv?

She’d stay as long as it took. No matter how many times.

Even if it cracked her right down the middle.

She wouldn’t let them suffer in here. Wouldn’t leave them stranded inside their own wreckage. Shiv had been the only one who saw her — really saw her — without asking her to be anything more than what she was. Their kindness was quiet, careful. Not soft exactly, but real. That mattered. That always mattered. The world shifted as they passed through the threshold — a breath held between realities — and when she blinked, the desert was gone.

Now there was a beach.

Nighttime. Still, dark, and vast. The stars stretched endless above them, their shimmer soft over the slow-crashing tide. A breeze curled through the air, warm and clean, laced with salt and the faintest echo of wild lavender. The kind she remembered from southern coasts. The kind she hoped Shiv liked.

The sand here didn’t hum with strange magic or loops or teeth. It just was.

Safe.

A little further down the shoreline sat a small house — all weathered wood and crooked windows, roof sloped like it had exhaled. The porch light flickered gently, like someone was already home. Like someone was waiting. Behind it, just beyond the first dune, a bonfire burned low and steady. Not too bright, not too loud. A comfort, not a warning. And beside it — books. Piles of them. Every book she’d ever read. Stolen pages, annotated field manuals, quiet poetry, dumb thrillers from train stations, stories she half-remembered from her mother’s kitchen. All laid out, ready. Something to occupy Shiv while they rested. Something that felt human again.

“I can hold this place,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Shiv, still keeping their hand in hers. “For as long as you need it.”

She meant it.

Whatever toll this dreamspace took on her, she’d pay it twice. Three times. She’d bleed it out if that’s what it took. They reached the porch, and she didn’t let go until she was sure the loop wasn’t pulling anymore. Until the dream quieted.

Then, finally, she looked at them.

Really looked.

Not the handler. Not the mission. Not the broken mind trying to put itself back together — just Shiv. The only one who didn’t flinch when she was cold, or sharp, or impossible to read. The one who always stayed a step behind, steady, no matter how many times she tried to walk alone.

The words from before settled into the air between them.

She exhaled, long and low, eyes flicking away for just a moment — before they returned to Shiv’s face with something almost like warmth in her expression. Almost.

“The file doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care what was in it.” Bright hues met theirs — tired, but still burning. Still Irene. “I’m just… glad you remembered me.” Her voice dipped, gentler than it had been in hours. “If you hadn’t—” She didn’t finish. Just shook her head. “Things could’ve gone badly.”

A beat.

Then—

“You sound like my dad,” she muttered, glancing away again with a half-hearted scoff, the edge of a grin curling at her lips. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

It lingered — the smile. Brief but real. A crack of sunlight on a long-dry floor.

“I don’t think everyone sees it the way you do,” she added, quieter. “Nico would probably stab me in the back and then complain I bled on his boots.” A shrug. “But… for once, I’m glad I’m a witch.” She shifted, expression flickering with something unreadable. “Are you okay? Is this good? Comfortable enough for now?”

Because that mattered. It had to be his peace. Not hers.

She could feel the parts of Shiv’s mind she wasn’t supposed to be in, the flickering half-formed echoes of what had been lost — and what might be found again. Including her.

Including Thera.

And gods, Irene hated moments.

She hadn’t meant to see anything. That wasn’t what she came for. But minds didn’t exactly play fair, and some scraps came unbidden — laughter too close to lips, glances held a second too long. Thera, brushing dust from Shiv’s coat like it was instinct. It made Irene want to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

And gag. Just a little.

Still, she knew what it meant. Connection like that doesn’t vanish. Not fully. Not unless someone makes it vanish. And Irene… she didn’t believe Thera would ever do that to them.

There were ways to bring memory back.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

“Do you remember anything at all? Who did this to you? I —” she paused, exhalding deeply. “—I feel their magic. It's more than —” How could she even put this into words? She couldn't. “More than one witch did this.”

Shiv can only shake their head in confirmation. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time remembering much of anything lately.” It’s a mercy, a miracle that they managed to scrape up their memories of Irene a few moments before she arrived. Half of Shiv’s memories are gone and their mind is quite literally in ruins but gods forbid they lose their impeccable timing.

Do they like the beach? The question sounds ludacris, so much so that Shiv immediately answers absentmindedly. “Sure. A night at the beach sounds bloody lovely right now.” Of course Shiv follows Irene’s lead, both in conversation and on the path through the desert. They're not exactly in the right condition to argue or call shots. And they know that, pride by damned. Apologizing again wasn't going to do anything.

Irene never wastes time and energy on talk. When she does talk, it's important. Shiv is quick to remember that as they piece together the context clues sprinkled in her blunt attitude as the two silently walk hand in hand. 

This Thera is obviously important. ‘Accomplice’ isn’t strong enough to describe someone keeping them alive. Maintaining their physical body most likely. Yet, for what reason? It must be for good reason if this Thera would be glad to see the connection made. Right? There’s too little emotion in Irene’s face and voice to further work off of. That’s the second fact they remember about Irene. Never clear cut feelings out the gate with this one. Always patiently waiting for the right cues, the slightest micro-expression or the tiniest shift in her eyes to speak louder than words.

Shiv can't see either from here. However, her grip on their hand is tight, firm. As if they will crumple or fade away with the slightest breeze and shift in the sand.

“You're not the type that needs tracking. But you went missing anyway.”

She's worried.

They don't have any magic or useful tools to help her. But all Irene seems to need is reassurance, something to let her know they're still here. Touch. Noise. Anything.

Shiv squeezes Irene's hand back. They can do that.

"...I never got around to giving your file back, did I? Other business got in the way. The hurricane especially. Its just..." Shiv scratches their dry throat and swallows hard, "I would have let you burn the damn thing. Witch or nay, you're a good hunter. An even better comrade. No matter what happens, its an honor to be your handler."

"Moreso you confidant. Moreso your friend."

Irene didn’t flinch when Shiv’s hand landed on her shoulder — the weight of it familiar, grounding. She let it sit there for a second, two, before her gaze shifted, sharp eyes scanning the shimmering horizon behind them.

The sand still whispered wrong beneath her feet. Magic in too many layers. Riven’s magic. It stirred like oil just beneath the surface — thick, slick, and sour-sweet. Something about the way it pulsed made her stomach pull tight.

This wasn’t just a trap. This was a loop. But why?

She never wished to be in their head. Not now, not ever.. and yet, here they were.

Her fingers flexed slightly around Shiv’s wrist.

“You're not the type that needs tracking,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to them. “But you went missing anyway.”

Her tone was even, but her jaw stayed set. Beneath her skin, the hum of too many unanswered questions burned like static.

Then—Thera?

She heard the name echo back at her, and for a moment, Irene just looked at Shiv. Really looked. Their confusion was real — not acted, not played for deflection. There was an absence there that hadn’t been there before. Like someone had gone through and cut out whole hours of their memory with surgical precision.

Her heart dropped, low and hard. She didn’t show it.

Instead, her lips pressed into a line and her eyes flicked to the edge of the dunes again — reflexive now, like she expected something to claw its way through. But it was just heat and mirage and silence.

Not the good kind.

She stepped a little closer, keeping hold of their wrist. The contact was starting to buzz now — faint, like a wire fraying somewhere between them.

“You don’t remember her.” It wasn’t a question.

Irene’s breath went out soft, deliberate. Her other hand rose, gentle but sure, brushing a line just above Shiv’s temple — not quite touching skin, but close enough to feel the threads of magic humming underneath. Weakened. Strained.

Instead, she looked Shiv in the eye and said, “What do you mean? Thera’s keeping you alive right now.”

She didn’t wait for the weight of that to settle. There wasn’t time. The sand behind them had started shifting again — just slightly, but enough to make Irene’s pulse tick faster at the base of her throat. She hated this place. Too bright, too open, too... unreal.

She reached down and took Shiv’s hand in hers, firm and warm and real.

“We can talk more when we’re out of here,” she said, nodding toward the faint outline of an archway shimmering in the distance — a door forming, slowly, between dunes. A weakness in the fold. Maybe even a way out.

“Do you like the beach?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t stitched to a hundred memories of nights spent escaping and surviving and forgetting how to breathe.

Her grip on their hand tightened just slightly.

“Let’s walk. Keep your mind open. Just enough for me to hold on. I’ll handle the rest.”

She glanced back once, the heat behind them already thickening into something with teeth. Her voice was low, steady — a whisper, not a plea. She'd answer their questions, as long as they were somewhere safer.

“Don’t let go.”

Irene makes contact and the sand underneath Shiv’s feet feels just a little more solid, grounded. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, the false reassurance of having someone they can touch and see as supposed to voices in the wind and a phantom’s touch against their skin. But, placebo or nay, they'll take it. 

“Since when have I been the type that needs tracking?” Shiv shakes their head as they laugh and smile, “Seriously, it's good to see you. I mean it.” Shiv plants a hand on the younger hunter’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Fantastic work.” 

Despite what the dream would have them believe, they don't actually have all the time in the world. If they did, Shiv would have taken a moment to give Irene her flowers, additional words of praise and notes of improvement every hunter needs to continue the onslaught.

Unfortunately, they don't have the time nor brain power to ask Irene how she got here. Shiv’s already got so much to wrap their head around as it is. Instead they nod along. “Right. Steady…Steady?” 

They fail to hide their confusion, their smile becoming nervously forced and uneasy. What does steady mean in this context? Steady as in stable? If so, mentally or physically stable? It’s hard to say if they can achieve either at this rate.

The confusion on Shiv’s face multiplies as Irene mentions another person. An accomplice maybe? Brows furrow, body slightly leaning forward as they parrot back, “Thera?”

The name feels familiar on their tongue but any and all tangible memory is missing. 

Despite how hard they try to think or recall in that moment, there is simply nothing there. No link. No connection. Just the same all-consuming static that comes when Shiv tries to remember how they got into this mess in the first place. 

“I-I mean, yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Obviously could be better- I’m sorry, are you okay?" Before they know it, the panicked dread weighing on Shiv bleeds into their voice, "Are you hurt? What of Sammy? Or the twins? Is the rest of the Brotherhood alright? Have we been breached?”

“...And who’s Thera?”

The air here had the wrong kind of silence. Not the peace of stillness, but the hush before a scream. The kind of quiet that clung to the ribs and made you afraid to breathe too deep.

Irene’s boots sank into the sand with each step, her coat heavy with the weight of someone else’s dream. It dragged behind her like an anchor, fabric catching on invisible threads. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The desert had no patience for that sort of thing.

The sun was too bright —unmoving, merciless. It bleached the sky and cracked the air and made everything feel brittle.

Then.. a voice.

Her name, carried on the wind like a lifeline. Frayed but intact.

She turned fast —too fast— and there they were. Distant, a figure clawing for focus at the edge of the heat-haze. It was the voice that cut through, more than the shape. The sharpness of it. The hope laced in panic. She could hear the fight still tucked behind every syllable, even now. Especially now.

“Shiv,” she said, but it came out quieter than she meant.

She started walking, then running, each step slower than it should have been. Like the world didn’t want to let her through. But she pushed. Sand caught in her boots, wind tried to drag her back —but Irene kept going, jaw set and eyes locked.

By the time she reached them, her hand was already out. She didn’t wait for permission, just reached forward and gripped their wrist —tight, real, grounding. Her voice was low, but steady.

“I’ve got you.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything else. She just stood there with them, fingers still curled around their pulse. Still there. Still beating.

Then she let out a breath, slow and deliberate. “You’re harder to track down than most. Not a compliment. Not this time.”

But there was relief there. Raw and sharp at the edges.

Her gaze swept over them, and then past —like she could see something they couldn’t. Like she could hear it.

Something was wrong with the sand here. Wrong with the way it shifted. Magic lived in it, but not just Shiv’s. Not just theirs. She felt it —thin threads laced through the dream, twisted in too neatly, not native to this place.

Familiar.

Her hand tightened slightly, protective now. Alarm blooming low in her gut. She didn’t say the name, not yet, but it burned in the back of her throat anyway.

Riven. There was no doubt in her mind, in her bones, that it was his magic.. and yet, it didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Why would he be here? What did he want?

And how deep had he gone?

Irene shook the thought off, eyes flicking back to them. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, more sure than she felt. “But first—we get you steady. Then we get you out.” Or at least, try to find a way.

She tilted her head slightly, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. Not soft, not quite. But real.

“Thera’s going to be glad we made the connection. That counts for something.”

She let the silence sit for a beat, then asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

If they said yes, she’d lead them. If they said no, she’d find another way. Either way—she wasn’t leaving without them.

Dreams are timeless.

Hours, days months-- That all means nothing now. Shiv doesn't know how long they've been here, alone in this endless desert. There is no promise of dusk, no sanctuary under evening skies, no comfort of the moon. Just permanent day. An eternity spent desperately grasping sand, wasting away and trying to salvage what they could from the ruins of their mind.

Then something shifts in the air. A fresh, gentle breeze. One that does not carry the pained screams of their father or their mother's death rattle. This is quiet, contained. Dare Shiv say kind. Either way, one fact rings true:

They're not alone.

Shiv turns to address the intruder with bated breath. One hand immediately raises to shield their squinting eyes and furrowed brows from the sun. The other struggles to grasp at nothing, torn between reaching for a weapon they don't have or clenching a tight fist in its stead. Even when stripped of all else, Shiv is still a hunter. The instinct to pursue the monster under the bed still flows through their veins. And the drive to confront the horror with just as much teeth and claw is branded into their very being like the tattoos etched into their skin.

What else has come to hurt me? Here to finish the job? I'd like to see you try. C'mon, fucker! On with it!

Shiv watches sand in the air condense as the intruder materializes some distance away, stepping into the desert out of thin air. Memories sputter and flicker in the back of their mind. A pang of recognition stops Shiv in their tracks. Their grip on nothing loosens. The tension rolls off their shoulders.

They know that silhouette. Through the glass door as she steps into the laundromat on a late night, sharing their own restless fatigue in her eyes. Young Hunter Clermont. "Irene."

Recomposing themself, Shiv takes two steps forward, ignoring the sinking sand underneath their feet. They cup their hands around their mouth as they shout, "Irene! Ms.Clermont!" Shiv's voice echoes out and reverberates back to them. "Can you hear me?! It's Shiv! I'm alive! I'm here...I'm right here!"

WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place

The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.

Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.

She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.

Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.

“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”

She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.

Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.

But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.

Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.

The breath she took before slipping under was shallow—more habit than need. Like she could brace herself for something she couldn’t see. Like that ever worked. Irene had walked through a lot of dreams. Built some from nothing, pulled others back from the brink. But this was different.

This one wasn’t hers.

This one had teeth. It had magic, and it was the wrong kind.

Shiv’s mind wasn’t open so much as cracked. The kind of break that didn’t bleed but never really healed, either. And she could feel it the second she stepped in —like walking barefoot onto glass. The air didn’t smell right. Not dream-sweet, not unreal. Just off. Wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

She stood in the dark for a moment, the place slow to take shape. This wasn’t a memory, not exactly. It shifted like sand under her thoughts. Sounds crept through the silence —muffled, tinny. A phone ringing somewhere too far to reach.

Irene frowned and took a step forward.

She didn’t know what she was walking into.

Didn’t know if Shiv would know her.

Didn’t even know if she’d know him in here.

But the connection was still there —fragile and thin as a spider’s thread, tied to her body back in that quiet room, tied to his heartbeat, still going.

She followed it.

Because someone had to.

Irene watched Shiv’s hands as they worked, and something in her chest went still.

It wasn’t just the methodical precision, the quiet reverence they carried for the steel — it was the way they did it. Like it was more than habit. Like it was memory. The kind that sits in muscle and marrow and doesn’t need language to surface. For a moment, just a brief flicker, her vision blurred at the edges and her father’s hands ghosted over the ones in front of her. That same calm, practiced rhythm. That same kind of quiet focus. Her dad used to say a blade didn’t need to look mean to do damage. It just needed to be respected. Shiv worked like that — like someone who understood what tools could become in the wrong hands, and carried them anyway.

When they smiled, she did too. Small. Unthinking. Like a reflex, not a decision.

She reached for the knife when they offered it, and when they pulled it back just slightly, she didn’t bristle — just raised one brow in mock offense. It was the kind of gesture someone else might’ve earned a sharp reply for. But not Shiv. They were one of the few people who didn’t set her teeth on edge just by existing. Maybe it was the way he never pushed. Never tried to draw blood just to see if she’d flinch. Just anchored himself in the space beside her like it didn’t cost anything to stay. Like someone had told him to watch over her, and he’d decided to take that promise seriously.

She took the blade properly when he passed it a second time and ran her thumb over the newly sharpened edge. A clean hiss of a breath followed — barely audible. “That’s perfect,” she murmured, and meant it.

The blade sat in her hand like it remembered her —like it forgave her for the neglect. Irene ran her thumb along the spine, not the edge, tracing the familiar nicks and wear without looking at it. Her gaze moved on Shiv, steady now, the way you look at someone you’re still trying to figure out but already trust more than you should. “I’m not used to being looked after,” she said, voice quiet but not brittle. “Not anymore. Feels strange. Like wearing someone else’s coat. But... I think I could get used to it. Maybe.” The last word landed softer than the rest, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Then, quieter still, eyes still on the knife, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m not easy to kill. You won’t have to mop anything up.” She glanced up then, something easier behind her eyes. “But I’ll leave a note. Promise. Or a text.” A pause, then, because saying thank you outright always caught like glass in her throat, she offered the closest thing she had — “You’ll know where to look.”

Though unspoken, there is a clear look of recognition towards another item inside Irene’s bag as its set on the table:. a small pouch of dried sigil chalks. Not one of those mundane, painfully-fake brands sold in Crow and Chalice. The real kind of magic their recurring companion carried in her travels, skillfully wielding it in a way that always gently stimulated their hunters' mark and completely captured their attention--

Fortunately, Irene brings their focus back to work before Shiv could further reminisce.

“Definitely not in worst shape...” Shiv parrots under their breath as they take the blade in hand. The hunter gingerly runs their thumb across the edge and lets it snag skin. Clean but dull. This edge should be sharper; it should have sliced their flesh and drawn blood by now. Shiv nods. “Definitely not in worst shape but still handled with great care. Good. I will be sure to do the same.”

Knife sharpening is not a chore but a practiced ritual imbued in Shiv’s being as their hands move on autopilot:

Cloth doused in just enough honing oil prepares the blade. Whetstone, darker coarse grit. Twenty-two degree angle. Moderate pressure. Slide forward, ten times. Sharpening steel. Rinse, dry with separate cleaner handkerchief. Whetstone, light fine grit. Stroke, ten more times. Yes, Appa, ten exactly, I know-

Plenty of meticulous steps to fill the silence, the sharp sound of blade on whetstone leaving room for Irene’s dramatic pauses. “If you ask me, it’s easier to hunt something that is real than not, something that can be understood and given a name. Hunting what refuses to be known or named is much more difficult. Practically impossible”, Shiv scoffs thinking back on the intangible nightmares that torment them. Oh what Shiv would give to stab or shoot or even claw their way out of one of those. “It’d be responsible to say that you should rest and get shut eye when you can, yadadada. But, c’mon. Look at me. Who am I to lecture you about not sleeping?”

“I won’t stop you from training late at night, alone or otherwise. But.” They offer the sharpened blade back to Irene, only to pull it back slightly when she goes to reach for it. Shiv softly smiles. A small jest. “Just be sure to let someone know in case things go south and we need to follow a trail. A note on your fridge or whatever. You have my number.” Shiv offers the blade once again. Earnestly this time.

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

Irene blinked against the brightness of the laundromat lights, the hum of the machines loud enough to fill the silence between them. Her jacket still smelled faintly of dried mugwort and something acrid from the burner at work —something half-finished she hadn’t meant to forget.

She didn’t meet Shiv’s eyes right away, just stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her.

“Nothing,” she said after a second, like the word had to work its way through a wall first. “Maybe I just need to wash some clothes.”

It was a lie. The kind that didn’t even try to convince.

She hated asking favors. In general, she hated asking anyone for anything. It made her feel like she owed something back, like she'd cracked open a door she couldn’t close again. But the Shahs… her dad had trusted them. Said it more than once, like a scratched-up record he couldn’t stop playing. If anything happens to me, find the Shahs.

It was even in the will. Right there with the money he left her and a half-page of careful handwriting that tried too hard not to sound like a goodbye.

So maybe it meant something. It had to.

She dropped a small canvas bag beside one of the empty machines, but didn’t open it. Arms crossed loosely, fingers tucked beneath sleeves like they might betray more than she was willing to admit.

“Place felt quiet tonight,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Too quiet. I figured I’d go train for a bit.”

There was a pause. Not quite hesitation—more like a space to breathe.

“You feel like joining?” she asked, finally glancing his way. “Could use the company. Or, I don’t know... maybe just the noise.”

WHO: @ireneclermont WHERE/WHEN: Wash Tub Laundry / Late Evening

If Shiv had a nickel for every secret Brotherhood witch they knew and had a detailed case file for, they’d have two nickels. Two nickels with uniquely different baggage Shiv had no clue where to begin with. 

Gemma’s case was less cause for immediate concern. If things blew out of water, Gemma still had her brother and father to cover for her. That wasn’t the case for Irene. She’s an outsider coming in; Irene has no one within Port Leiry’s Brotherhood Sect to come to her aid in the worst case scenario... No one except Shiv that is. 

Technically all that Asim wanted in his will was a watchful eye on the Clermont Girl but Shiv found themself acting as their fellow hunter’s keeper unprompted. Not that Shiv's father could blame them. Compassion is a Shah bad habit: plucking up weary hunters and taking them under their wing like stray cats needing a home.

Tonight Irene comes into the laundromat with a glint in her eye. The kind of glint that gives Shiv pause. “Clermont.” Shiv stands up from where they were sitting behind the front desk, turning their full attention to the young hunter. “Working late again, I see. How can I help you?”