Title: Midnight's End Bargain

The rain drummed steady on the neon-lit sidewalk outside Midnight’s End, Mia Savage’s nightclub at the edge of the city’s supernatural quarter. In the dim pulse of the VIP lounge, away from the pounding beat and swaying bodies, Mia sat in her private booth, her gaze fixed on the guest across from her.

The elf—he called himself Ashar—looked out of place amidst crushed velvet and vintage whiskey displays. The shadows accentuated the unusual tilt to his high cheekbones and the glimmer of faint, blue tattoos curling up from his shirt collar. If not for the weariness in his silver eyes, he could have been just another beautiful face.

Ashar wore the resigned air of a man half-drowning. The air around him was faintly perfumed with magic, but gray and withered at the edges. She knew the signs. Every bartender Mia trusted had wanted her to refuse hos entry, but she’d said yes—even after catching the whispers about him on the wind.

He wanted help. She felt oddly compelled to offer, but the weight of her own problems pressed in—her sister’s face, half-forgotten and always at the edges of dreams, clutching at her heart.

They sat in silence for a time. Rain splattered patterns against the glass by her ear.

Then, Ashar leaned forward, uncharacteristically gentle, and tucked a strand of Mia’s black hair behind her ear. She tensed involuntarily. His touch was both electric and cold, drawing a sharp breath from her. He didn’t smile; in fact, he looked as if the gesture had cost him a great effort.

Mia opened her mouth, searching for words in the charged hush—none came.

She needed time. Abruptly, she rose, moving as if breaking spell, heels clacking in the quiet. Her hands shook as she grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind the bar—gin for herself, measured out through trial and necessity, and for him, a generous glass of whiskey, aged and sharp.

She returned to the booth and handed Ashar the drink. He took it wordlessly, fingers brushing hers. For a beat, she wondered if he could hear her heart.

“I’ll help you with your curse,” she said, her voice diamond-sharp, “but I want something in exchange.”

He raised an eyebrow, wary and amused. “And what does the queen of Midnight’s End desire?”

“My sister is missing,” she said, digging her nails into the velvet cushion. “I can’t find her with the usual means, and the witches I know are… evasive. I know you have influence among her kind. Find her. That’s my price.”

Ashar’s eyes flickered, too quickly for her to read. “And while you play at detective, what becomes of me? I am not a patient man, Mia.”

Her mouth twisted. “If I don’t keep my promise, you can do whatever you want with me.” It was reckless and probably stupid, but she had no other leverage. “But you get my help after you bring her back to me.”

He swirled the whiskey, considering. “An arrangement steeped in suspicion.” He leaned forward, the silver glint in his eyes hardening to steel. “Have you considered I may simply take what I want?”

“You could try,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But that would be too easy, and the curse would remain. You need me, Ashar. Let’s be honest—we don’t trust each other, but this is the best offer you’ll get.”

A wry smile ghosted across his lips. “Very well, Mia Savage. I accept your terms. Shall we drink on it?”

They clinked glasses. The air vibrated, heavier than the thrum of bass leaking through the walls.

---

The first clue came three nights later, as the club overflowed with revelers and Ashar stood guard from the shadows. Mia bent under the counter, restocking bottles, when a witch named Lys—a regular with too many secrets and the scent of roses and grave dirt—slipped her a torn scrap of paper.

“She’s in the old industrial park on the south edge. There’s a masked warlock with her.” Lys’s gold eyes burned. “Find her quick. The fae courts are circling.”

Ashar materialized at Mia’s side without a sound. “Trouble?”

“Always.” Mia didn’t look at him. “We go now.”

Night poured thick as ink as they cut through abandoned alleys and under blinking streetlamps. Ashar’s magic threatened to snap at her skin with each stride; she wondered if he was thinking more about debts—or deliverance.

They found the warehouse ringed with salt and symbols. Ashar muttered, low and ancient. The wards shuddered, flickered; he scowled in pain. Mia helped him, clutching his arm as the curse sizzled visibly up his veins. She forced the lock. Together, they crept inside.

It wasn’t just her sister, but three others, all bound to the floor by salt lines and cords. And the warlock—Varek, a name Mia recognized, excommunicated from the local covens—stood over them. His smile was wide, his intentions clear.

“This can’t be stopped, little mortal. You’re Meddling.” He spat the word.

Ashar stepped between them, something dangerous in his bearing. “You have something we want. Give her to us, or your next breath is your last.”

Varek’s aura was old, smoky, but Ashar’s power—despite the blight on it—roared brightly, if briefly. Mia used the distraction, knelt, and broke the salt lines with her hands, ignoring the stinging burn along her fingers.

Her sister looked up, eyes wild. “Mia? You shouldn’t have come—”

But Mia caught her, hauling her to her feet as Ashar and Varek clashed. Magic blistered the air, blue and black.

The fight was swift, brutal—a crash of glamour and will. The curse hobbled Ashar, but his rage made him dangerous. Varek fell to the concrete, unmoving. Ashar stumbled, breath ragged, nearly collapsing as the curse retaliated.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mia hissed, dragging her sister.

They fled, Ashar behind them, shaking.

---

Back at the club, amidst blood and exhaustion and the rattling of ice in a glass, Mia turned to Ashar.

“You did your part,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Now it’s my turn.”

Ashar sank into the velvet as if tired of pretending. The lines of his face were softer, his arrogance eroded by pain. “There’s only one witch who can break this,” he admitted, the reluctance clear. “But she’s exiled. They call her Maudlin.”

“I know her,” Mia replied with grim satisfaction. “She owes me a favor.”

For a long moment, they simply stared at one another, the tension of what passed between them finally burning out. Mia wondered if attraction in the face of desperate circumstances was just another curse, or its own unpredictable blessing.

“I keep my promises,” she said quietly.

Ashar reached for her hand, unexpected tenderness in the gesture. “So do I.”

Outside, the rain slowed; inside, a fragile knot of trust and hope hung, trembling, above the empty whiskey glasses. In the city’s heart, in the liminal space between mortal and fae, bargains were always the truest kind of magic.

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.

AI Prompts