Raven stood alone in the armory long after midnight.

Overhead fluorescents buzzed like dying wasps, throwing harsh white light and long ugly shadows across the weapon racks. Concrete floor pressed cold and unforgiving against her bare soles. Every faint seam in the slab registered under her feet like the night wasn’t done chewing on her yet. Steel racks lined the walls, blades and rifles gleaming wet under the glow. The air hung thick with gun oil, old leather, and that metallic ghost of blood that never scrubbed out of the mats no matter how hard they tried. She had wandered down here without deciding to, the weight of the Council chamber still stuck to her skin like smoke that refused to burn off.

She wasn’t cleaning knives tonight.

No. Tonight she stood at the far end of the long throwing lane, one balanced blade resting light in her right hand. Different feel. Lighter. Weighted for spin instead of thrust. Distance. Rotation. Precision over raw power. A new language her hands were still learning the hard way, one throw at a time.

She didn’t look at the target.

Her arm moved. The knife left her fingers in a clean practiced arc. It spun twice, caught the overhead light in a brief silver flash, and buried itself dead center in the bullseye with a soft, satisfying thunk. The impact traveled back through the air and settled low in her gut.

She reached for the next blade without pausing. Palm already sweaty. Fingers steady anyway.

Leonid found her there.

He filled the doorway like he owned it, massive shoulders brushing the frame, the Black Wolf’s presence sucking the remaining air out of the room the way it always did. Scar along his jaw caught the light when he tilted his head. He didn’t speak. Just leaned one shoulder against the nearest steel rack, arms folded across his broad chest, and watched.

Raven threw again. Same motion. Same clean arc. Spin. Flash. Thunk. Bullseye.

The quiet held between them. This was how Leonid had existed around her since the third port — neutral, not warm, his version of respect carved out of the open hostility he used to wear like armor. She had saved his life that night, dragged his bleeding ass out of the Butcher’s reach while blood slicked her hands and the cold salt air stung her lungs. He had stopped trying to remove her from the Blades after that. But he had never offered more than silence. Until now.

Third knife. Same path. Bullseye. The board vibrated faintly.

Leonid’s voice finally cut through the low buzz. Low. Rough. The kind of voice that came from a throat that didn’t waste words.

"You did well at the Council."

Raven didn’t stop. She palmed the next blade, steel cool against her sweaty palm. Her pulse beat steady in her ears.

He kept watching. The air around him felt heavier, thicker.

"I thought you would betray us. I was wrong."

The knife left her hand. Spun twice. Hit dead center. She already knew it would before the blade even left her fingers.

"You were wrong about a lot of things," she said. Voice flat. The Council table still sat heavy on her chest — Caruso’s flat entitlement, the Widowmaker’s stare boring holes, every boss looking at her like she was still something to be claimed or thrown away.

Leonid exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. "So were you."

"I know."

The admission scraped raw against the back of her throat. She felt it settle low in her gut, pressing against the old cold until it ached different. Not shame anymore. Just the slow, terrifying truth that she’d been wrong about Vincent. Wrong about the Blades. Wrong about what survival looked like when nobody threw you away like garbage.

Leonid pushed off the rack. Three heavy steps across the lane. Stopped just inside her peripheral vision. Massive arms still folded. Scar standing out sharper under the lights.

She threw again. Clean. Perfect. The board creaked.

"You weren’t aiming," he said.

"I was aiming." Her jaw tightened. "I just didn’t need to see it."

Another knife. Another bullseye. The vibration traveled up her arm and into her shoulder.

Leonid stayed quiet for another long beat. The armory hummed around them — the low buzz of the lights, the faint creak of the target board settling after each impact, the distant drip of condensation somewhere in the vents. When he spoke again the words came slower, heavier, like they cost him something he wasn’t used to paying.

"Blade."

The name dropped between them like a knife laid handle-first on the mat. Not Caruso. Not wife. Not even Raven.

Blade.

Raven’s next throw froze mid-motion. The knife stayed balanced in her fingers. Her stomach flipped hard — warm, solid. He had called her the Eighth Blade at the war table, all seven Guardians present, his silence the heaviest vote in the room. That had been assignment. Formal. Witnessed.

This was different. This was him, alone, in the dark, at half past midnight, choosing the name without an audience or a command to justify it. Her pulse kicked once, hard, in her throat. The tight knot she’d been carrying since the Council chamber loosened a fraction — not gone, just shifted, the ache turning into something closer to the patience she had just shown the target. Trusting her hand even when her eyes weren’t on it.

She let the knife fly. It spun twice. Hit.

Leonid didn’t smile. He never did. Just gave one short nod, the kind that carried the full weight of the shift — from hostile to silent to this. Bedrock moving under her feet. Deliberate. Chosen.

He turned toward the door. Boots sounded heavy on the concrete. At the threshold he paused without looking back.

"You’re not Caruso anymore."

The latch caught behind him.

Raven stood alone again. Lights still buzzing overhead. Target board holding five knives buried dead center, handles still trembling with the force of each throw.

She reached for another.

The knife left her hand. Spun twice. Hit the bullseye.

She didn’t watch it land. She already knew.

Different skill. Distance. Rotation. The patience to trust your hand even when your eyes weren’t on it.

Like trust.

She was learning that too.

The corner of her mouth twitched. Just barely. A small, private thing no one else would ever see. Not a grin. Not relief. Just the faint acknowledgment that something inside her chest had shifted another inch tonight. The tight place between her shoulders — clenched since before the Council, since before the war table, since before any of this — eased.

She threw again.

And kept throwing.