Midnight's Promise

The music thrummed beneath her feet, its low bass reverberating through floors and bones, the way the pulse of midnight should. Luna owned *The Velvet Veil*, the city’s only openly supernatural nightclub that was busier after two a.m. than at any hour before, foxtrotting to the secret harmonies of witch-folk, night-bloods, and those fey-living sides of humanity that simply refused to sleep.

Tonight, the crowd’s chatter was dampened in her private booth, as if the shadows around her and her companion hushed the cacophony. The elf sat across the table from her, his beauty as severe as a winter’s moon—angled cheekbones, black silvered hair, star-bright eyes and lips that always curved as if tasting the world’s bitterness. Elenion. She never heard him called anything else. He rarely smiled. Tonight was no exception.

Luna swirled her gin and tonic slowly, watching the melting ice catch errant reflections from the chandelier overhead. Elenion’s voice was low, ragged at the edges. He’d said little since he arrived; too little for a regular, dangerously too little for someone bleeding magic like cold sweat.

The story, when it came—pried from him by the weight of near death—was a curse, old and vile as mold on stone. Something eating him, unmaking him from the inside out. Mortal, Luna was powerless. She wanted to help—but didn't know if she *could*. Her hands felt too small, her years not nearly enough compared to whatever darkness had laid its claim.

But she was not alone in the city. Her life was a knot woven from encounters with every strangeness the night had to offer. Acquaintances, sometimes friends: witches who could fold time like napkins, shifters who knew the city’s underbelly as their own bones, demons who bartered with secrets instead of souls. She could try. For a price.

As she worried at her glass, Elenion reached out. His fingers, long and cool, brushed a loose black curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear with an uncharacteristic tenderness. Luna’s breath caught. No one touched her like that. Not here. Her lips parted on instinct—a soft sound unsaid, a protest or a question. His gaze lingered, frustrated and hungry.

She needed air—she needed control.

She rose and crossed to the empty bar, her heels echoing against tile. She poured herself a fresh gin and tonic and, after a moment’s consideration, a glass of whiskey for him. She handed it over, her skin tingling when his knuckles brushed hers. He accepted without thanks, but with a glance like melted silver.

She sat—closer now. “Let’s make a deal," she said, voice steady.

His eyebrow arched.

“You want this curse lifted. I can’t do it, but I know people—witches, mostly—who might. But you have to help me first. My sister, Justine, is missing. Disappeared three weeks ago into somewhere even magic can’t reach. You want my help, you find her.”

Elenion looked away, jaw tightening. He sipped the whiskey. The atmosphere between them sharpened, edged with doubt and something longing.

“I have reason to believe she’s alive,” Luna went on. “Or at least… not dead. Yet." The word hung between them like a prayer.

He put his glass down. “You don’t trust me. Smart, human.” His smile was all teeth. “And if you don’t keep your promise?”

She ignored the flutter in her stomach. “Then you can do whatever you want with me.” It sounded braver than she felt. In truth, she wasn’t sure she’d survive what he might demand, but—her sister was missing, and desperation stripped away scruples.

“Tempting,” he murmured, eyes boring into hers. His tone was almost cruel, but she caught a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, standing resolute even though the ground beneath them was made of lies and bargains.

She watched him, wary. “So. Do we have a deal?”

He drained his glass, throat working, and then nodded. “You get your witches. I’ll get your sister. And if you cross me—”

She met his gaze, steady, defiant. “I won’t. As long as you keep *your* end first.”

They shook hands—his cooler than hers, strong, and for a lingering second, the world felt off-balance, not-quite real, as if a deeper promise was being struck than either one could break.

**

It began with the easy leads, the liars and gossipmongers who haunted the Veil’s alleys. Luna knew which shifters owed her drinks, which devils could be bought with a whisper. Elenion moved through the shadows like he belonged, barely visible except when she focused on him. He found tracks Luna never could: a scarf caught on a wire fence, a string of pearls Justine had always worn, snapped and scattered beneath a gargoyle’s perch.

The more they searched, the closer Luna came to him. They bickered, traded secrets under breath; she watched the exhaustion in his eyes grow daily. The curse was eating faster than she could buy time for; his hands shook when he thought she wasn’t looking.

On the third night, she called in a favor from Dahlia, a witch in Chinatown. Dahlia’s apartment was a chaos of half-burnt spells and paper cranes. She examined Elenion, declared she needed something of the Caster, proof of love or hate, a sigil to bind.

“That’s my price, Luna. Find me its source, and I might get lucky.”

“Lucky,” Elenion scoffed later, pacing the Veil’s rooftop. “Witches never promise. Not where it counts.”

She found herself wanting him safe, almost…whole. Wanting his tired laughter, his antagonism. Sometimes she wanted to slap him. Sometimes she wanted to lean into his cold hands, let him smooth her hair back again.

Beneath the pretense, want bloomed dangerously.

**

Five days later, they cornered a lesser fae with a fondness for human music who’d seen Justine disappear—dragged by men in armored suits, symbols painted on their arms. “Hunters,” Elenion spat. “Witch-blood traffickers.”

“Why would they take a human?”

He looked at her, then looked away.

Luna confronted her own suspicion: Justine’s father was not Luna’s father. Their mother had never told her everything. Maybe Justine had magic—a thread of ancestry, hidden in her blood, that someone wanted to steal.

The night sharpened into a mission.

They found the warehouse at dawn. She’d never seen Elenion fight—never expected to be shielded by arms that were quick as daggers. Shouts, spells, gunshots. Justine was in a cell, bruised but alive.

When the last captor fell, Luna knelt, pulling her sister into her arms. The girl sobbed, laugh-crying. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I promise,” Luna whispered.

Elenion stood off to the side, watching with an expression she couldn’t name, like a man watching sunrise after too many years in darkness.

**

He left Justine at Luna’s flat and departed into the graying city, waiting for Luna to fulfill the other half of the bargain. Luna lost sleep—she tracked down Dahlia, pressed a glass bauble with a strand of Elenion’s hair and—after threats and tears—convinced her of a solution. The witch would confront the Caster with Elenion’s curse-touched name and demand the severance.

But she was late. When she found Elenion in the club’s darkest booth, he looked barely alive. She reached out, unthinking, and his head fell forward onto her shoulder.

“I kept my end,” he murmured, eyes half-shut. “Will you keep yours?”

“I will,” Luna said, heart pounding.

She called Dahlia, who arrived with a storm in her wake. It was not a ritual for spectators, but Luna wouldn’t leave. She held Elenion’s icy hand as Dahlia screamed the curse’s old name into the dark. Light poured out of the elf’s wounds like moonwater. It burned. He howled. Luna wept.

Then it was done.

In the debris of leftover spell-paper and spilled whiskey, he slumped, breathing shallow, but alive. More alive than she’d ever seen. For a moment he only stared, shaking, silent.

She feared what came next. He could leave. He owed her nothing.

But he turned, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her face again, and let his forehead rest against hers.

“You kept your promise,” he whispered, voice raw.

“Did you ever doubt me?”

“Always.” His breath was a laugh. “But I didn’t want to. Not this time.”

Luna wanted to question him, to tell him about the bond between them—a magic older than witch curses or ancient fae grudges, a trust neither could break.

She simply pulled him closer, letting the noise of the outside world fade, folding herself into his warmth, realizing she’d never truly been afraid for herself. Only of losing him before they’d really begun.

The midnight sun rose over the club, gilding cracked glasses and old scars—proof that, even for mortals, promises could be magic enough.

This story was generated by user jess.jessie0 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

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