Embankment

The night air was crisp, carrying the briny scent of the Thames. Chris walked along the Embankment, her boots tapping lightly against the damp stone pavement, the rhythmic sound muffled by lingering mist.

Across the river, the London Eye turned in slow, deliberate rotation, its lights streaking across the water’s black surface in shifting, liquid reflections. The glow of streetlamps cast warm, golden halos against the iron bridges and ornate railings, lending the quiet cityscape a touch of subdued elegance.

A breeze swept through, sharp and cool, rustling the edges of her coat. She reflexively pulled the lapels closer, her thoughts drifting back over the events of the night, piecing them together into something more complete.

The mission was over. At least, on the surface. The objective had been met. But for Chris, that was never enough.

Every mission was another lesson, another test. Her mind reeled back through the night’s events, scrutinizing each decision, every moment—had she timed things right? Were her choices sound? The instinctual calls she’d made—were they correct, or was there room for improvement?

Her thoughts turned like clockwork, a machine that refused to power down, combing through each detail, cataloging every mistake to be accounted for, corrected, prevented—

Then, a low engine rumble broke the silence, cutting across the river’s steady murmur. The sound didn’t belong to the modern hum of London’s streets—it was older, something that felt like it had come through time itself.

Chris looked up.

A vintage car rolled slowly toward her—a deep, understated shade of British racing green. Morris Minor, neat and composed, a relic of another era, its quiet presence almost out of place against the contemporary cityscape.

The window lowered with a smooth, deliberate motion, revealing a familiar face.

Archibald Sinclair.

Behind his thin-framed glasses, sharp grey-blue eyes glinted under the warm glow of the streetlamps, watchful, amused, assessing everything without appearing to do so.

He was dressed, as always, with careful precision—a three-piece tweed suit, muted in its vintage checkered pattern, restrained and classic. Everything about him exuded quiet deliberation, from the way his hand rested lightly on the wheel to the way he withdrew a silver pocket watch, flicking it open for a brief glance before tucking it away again. The motion seemed absentminded, but Chris knew better. Archie never did anything absentmindedly.

“Miss Lynn,” he greeted, his voice steady, with the faintest trace of a knowing smile. “I thought I might find you here.”

“Archie.” Chris returned the acknowledgement with equal calm, though her mind was still tangled in the aftermath of the night’s events. Even so, the sight of him—predictable, composed, entirely unthreatening—made her ease, just a little.

Archie had never been a danger to her. At least, not yet.

He was an observer, a recorder—occasionally stepping into the chaos of her world, sometimes as a neutral presence, sometimes as a trusted ally.

“Was I supposed to be somewhere else?” she asked, her tone light, the dry humor barely there but intentional.

“Of course not,” Archie replied mildly. He tilted his head slightly, motioning toward the passenger seat. “I was simply wondering—seeing as it’s quite late—whether you’d prefer a ride home. Not that I doubt your ability to navigate London’s streets at this hour, but I can’t imagine you actually intend to walk all the way back to Hammersmith.”

Chris hesitated for a moment, her gaze drifting to the car.

Like its owner, the Morris Minor was unassuming, practical, and steeped in an old-world elegance that refused to be rushed by time. The worn leather seats and the faint, steady hum of the engine gave it a familiar, grounded presence—it wasn’t flashy, but it was reliable.

And reliability, to Chris, was worth more than anything.

She sighed, the tension in her shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

“Fair enough. But if this thing breaks down halfway, don’t expect me to push.”

A glint of amusement flickered in Archie’s eyes. “Understood. But rest assured—she’s far more reliable than she looks.”

Chris let out a quiet huff, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. She pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat. The leather creaked softly beneath her, and the air inside carried the scent of aged upholstery, tinged with faint traces of something herbal—a fragrance like a memory preserved in time.

The door shut with a crisp, muted click.

The Morris Minor eased smoothly back into the night, its quiet presence blending seamlessly with the hush of London’s streets.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her gaze drifting toward the Thames, where the city lights shimmered across the water like streaks of liquid mercury.

Archie simply nodded, his focus on the road, leaving her with the space to unravel her thoughts in silence.

After a while, he broke it.

“Let me guess—Sydney and Kieran are off celebrating.”

Chris gave a small nod, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “They think the mission was a success.”

“And you?”

“The job was completed,” she said evenly. “If this were just a bounty contract, then yes—it would be a success.”

She hesitated for a beat, then added, thoughtfully, “But this was a trial run. The point wasn’t just finishing the job, was it? I assume we’re being assessed on far more than just those two words—mission accomplished.”

Chris wasn’t just making guesses—she knew exactly what these kinds of missions were for.

Before she was a hunter, she had spent years in the military. She had seen firsthand how these tests worked—they weren’t just about skill, but about discipline, about teamwork, about how one performed under pressure. It was never just about the objective.

Archie gave a slight, knowing smile.

“Your assumption is correct. Every aspect is being evaluated—tactics, coordination, adaptability.” He paused, his voice taking on a more measured tone. “But in the end, it’s not my decision. That will depend entirely on Lord Ashbourne’s assessment.”

Chris’s expression barely shifted, but her gaze darkened slightly.

“Then we’ll see, won’t we?”

The name Lord Ashbourne stirred something beneath the surface, an undercurrent of thought she had no interest in following. She had known from the start whose hands held the final say in all this—or more accurately, whose hands truly mattered.

Archie had already laid out the official version of events for her, or at least, as much of it as he was willing to share:

This initiative was financially backed by the Londinium Council, funneled through the City of London Corporation, which had established the Foundation to oversee its execution. And at its helm stood Lord Ashbourne—heir to one of Londinium’s most entrenched aristocratic lineages, his family a dynasty of political elites, steeped in centuries of privilege, influence, and control.

Chris understood exactly what it meant to take part in this. She knew whose influence she would be dealing with.

Power always came with politics. And politics—especially at this level—was never without ambition, manoeuvring, and control.

But on paper, the job itself was a lucrative offer, an opportunity to be part of something far-reaching, something that mattered. She had, therefore, already decided—whatever the job demanded, she would approach it with the same level of professionalism she brought to every contract.

So for now, any thoughts she had on the matter would stay exactly where they belonged—buried.

Especially when it came to the man whose reputation had long outrun him.

Lord Ashbourne.

Chris dismissed the thought before it could take shape—deeming it irrelevant, unhelpful.

Instead, she shifted gears, her voice taking on a note of curiosity.

“Honestly, I’m more surprised we even made it through selection.” She shot Archie a look, something caught between skepticism and amusement. “You’ve seen our ranking on the Hunters’ Arms leaderboards. You’re telling me that wasn’t an issue?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Let me guess. You left a few details off the application, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps…” Archie smiled. “Ah, but you already know how Londinium operates—connections are the oil that keeps everything running smoothly. Let’s just say, my letter of recommendation did its part.” He paused, his tone turning wry. “Of course… putting your family name on the application? That wasn’t just oil in the gears—that was ballast. The kind that steadies an entire ship.”

“Of course.”

Chris’s expression barely flickered, her response dry and clipped.

Archie glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his tone softening slightly.

“Chris, I know this wasn’t your choice. And I understand why you use Chris Lynn as your shield in the Metro.” He hesitated for a beat, his voice sincere but firm. “But in Londinium, things work differently. Here, a name is more than just an identity—it is, quite literally, a key. Wards, sigils, archives, official records—everything is bound to true names. Using your family name isn’t a choice. It’s a necessity.”

Chris didn’t answer. Her gaze remained fixed outside the window, watching the distant neon glow across the river, the silhouettes of the city beyond.

Archie kept his hands steady on the wheel, his focus on the road ahead.

“Besides,” he continued, “Christina Ellingwood—the name Ellingwood still carries weight here. A witch hunter’s legacy is like the foundation stone of this city. It will always exist in Londinium’s history, in people’s minds. I’d wager that’s one of the reasons you—and your team—were shortlisted.”

Chris kept her eyes on the window, her thoughts drifting toward something far beyond the cityscape before her.

Her family. The parents she had lost. The country house she hadn’t seen in years. The name she had discarded long before she ever set foot in the military.

Her fingers brushed absently over the edge of her coat.

Christina Ellingwood.

The name felt distant now—detached. Like an old coat that no longer fit.

“I know. I understood this completely when I agreed.” Her voice was calm, steady—as still as undisturbed water.

“I had no illusions. I never expected my past to remain hidden here.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. “But I hope it’s worth it.”

“It will be.”

There was warmth in Archie’s voice.

“This isn’t just a step forward for your team—it’s an important step forward for you. There’s a certain appeal to bounty hunting, but it has its limits. Too chaotic. Too unpredictable. And for someone like you… it’s already become a constraint.”

He cast a glance at Chris, who was still lost in thought, his own mind drifting toward a memory.

“Do you remember our first meeting? That café by Waterloo, a few years ago?”

As he spoke, Archie found himself recalling that moment—standing on the platform at Waterloo Station, watching her step off the train.

Chris, two or three years younger, wasn’t all that different from the person she was now—save for a face that still carried the faintest traces of youth. Fresh out of the military, she still bore the sharp, sun-hardened edges of discipline, the lean precision of someone who had seen more than her age should allow.

Though worlds apart from Londinium’s current aristocracy, the Ellingwoods, as The Witch Hunter, still belonged to a lineage of centuries-old prestige.

A descendant of such a family, at nineteen, would typically be in university or college, living through what should have been the brightest, most unburdened years of youth, filled with limitless possibilities and unshackled experiences.

But circumstance had forged Chris into something else entirely.

Even amid the sea of commuters disembarking, Archie had recognized her the instant she stepped onto the platform. It was in the way she carried herself—unyielding, sharp-edged, a presence that could not be ignored.

Back then, she’d still worn her hair long—ash-brown strands brushing her shoulders, catching the late afternoon light with hints of burnished gold, her beige trench coat shifting in the breeze. A crisp white shirt, fitted dark jeans, black combat boots.

Simple. Practical.

A plain black duffel slung over her back, her posture rigid, upright, her gait purposeful, efficient, every step as if heading toward an objective. Nothing about her movement was wasted.

Her ice-blue gaze swept over the station like a trained assessment, cool and precise, until their eyes met.

In that instant, Archie had thought—

If names in Londinium weren’t just titles but living embodiments of legacy, then Christina Ellingwood was, beyond question, exactly what her name demanded her to be.

Even then, he had known.

He could never predict the future, but one thing was certain—Christina Ellingwood would make her mark on Londinium. One way or another.

“I spent a great deal of time convincing you to stay in London—to become a hunter—because I believed that in a city like this, one filled with opportunities, you would find your place.”

Archie’s voice was smooth, measured, as his thoughts settled back into the present.

“And back then, you told me something similar. You questioned whether you would ever fit into a world you had never known, whether you could still wield the rapier you once mastered.” He glanced at her, his tone carrying the weight of certainty.

“But you didn’t just stay—you built something for yourself in the hunter’s ranks. Your team’s placement on the Hunter’s Arm leaderboard may not be impressive, but your personal ranking?” He gave a knowing smile. “That’s another matter entirely.”

Chris remembered, of course. She was fully aware of her standing in the hunter circles—she and her rapier, an unconventional choice of weapon, might never be fully accepted, but her record spoke for itself. Some cases even sought her out specifically.

And then, there was the leaderboard.

Others might look down on her, but results didn’t lie.

“But, as I said before, this is a city of opportunities.” Archie continued, “And right now, Londinium needs people like you—level-headed, steady, adaptable. I believe you’ll be able to make a real impact in what’s to come.”

Chris looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable—then, slowly, her gaze softened.

At last, she spoke, her voice low and quiet.

“Archie… for everything you’ve done, for always looking out for me—I’m grateful.”

Archie gave a small nod, his expression steady but sincere.

“I believe in you. Remember, this is an opportunity—make the most of it.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned once more to the city beyond the window, letting the conversation settle deep into her thoughts.

The Thames flowed as it always had, a silent witness to a city in perpetual motion. Ancient stone walls stood beside glass curtain walls, classical arches supported by Greek columns, their Latin inscriptions flickering under the streetlights. Just beyond the next turn, digital billboards lit up the skyline, flashing momentary glimpses of fleeting trends—timeless and transient, side by side.

This was London—a city woven from the Metro and Londinium alike, where contradictions clashed and intertwined, a tangled, intricate thing made beautiful by its very complexity.

And elsewhere, in another corner of the city, the night was unfolding to a different rhythm.

Neon spilled across the streets, gilding ornate doors, tracing carved beams and lacquered eaves—relics of another era, untouched by time.

Beyond them, music pulsed, deep and rhythmic, like a heartbeat, and in the spaces between, whispers drifted—low, cryptic, half-heard in the dark.

Another game was about to begin.