Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMVKVS61DMBNNCTDD617CM

The door swung open before Rory could knock a second time. Eva stood there, her dark curls wild around her shoulders, a smudge of ink on her cheekbone. Behind her, the flat smelled of old paper and bergamot tea, the usual chaos of scrolls and leather-bound tomes spilling across every available surface. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, wound himself around Eva’s ankles with a plaintive mew. “Rory?” Eva blinked, her brown eyes widening. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s—” She checked the clock on the wall, a monstrosity of gears and brass that looked like it belonged in a steampunk novel. “—nearly midnight.” Rory shifted her weight, the cold night air biting through her leather jacket. “I know. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t—” She hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Evan’s back.” Eva’s expression darkened. She stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Get in. Now.” Rory slipped inside, the warmth of the flat wrapping around her like a too-tight embrace. The deadbolts slid home behind her with three sharp clicks, and Eva turned, arms crossed. “What do you mean, *back*? He was supposed to be in Manchester.” “He was. Or at least, that’s what I thought.” Rory rubbed her temples, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light. “I saw him tonight. Outside the Golden Empress. He was just… standing there, watching me.” Eva swore under her breath, a string of Welsh that would’ve made their mother blush. She grabbed Rory’s wrist, pulling her toward the sagging sofa. Ptolemy leapt onto the armrest, tail flicking as he eyed Rory with suspicion. “Sit. Talk.” Rory sank onto the cushions, the springs groaning beneath her. “I don’t know how he found me. I’ve been careful. No social media, no calls to Cardiff, nothing that could trace back to me.” “Except you’ve been working at the same damn restaurant for months,” Eva pointed out, pacing. “And you *did* use your real name there, didn’t you?” Rory winced. “I had to. Yu-Fei needed a real ID for the payroll.” Eva threw her hands up. “Rory. *Rory.* You know better than that.” “I *do* know better!” Rory’s voice cracked. She stood abruptly, knocking a stack of books off the coffee table. Ptolemy hissed and bolted. “I know better, okay? But I was trying to *live*. To not look over my shoulder every second of every day. And now he’s here, and I don’t know what to do.” Eva’s expression softened. She reached out, squeezing Rory’s shoulder. “You should’ve called me sooner.” “I didn’t want to drag you into this again.” “Too late.” Eva’s grip tightened. “You’re my sister in all the ways that matter. And if that bastard thinks he can just waltz back into your life after what he did—” The doorbell rang. Both women froze. Eva’s eyes narrowed. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” Rory shook her head. The bell rang again, longer this time, insistent. Eva grabbed a letter opener from the desk—a wicked-looking thing with a silver blade—and crept toward the door. “Stay back.” Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat, but she followed, pressing herself against the wall. Eva peered through the peephole, then jerked back as if burned. “What?” Rory whispered. Eva didn’t answer. Instead, she unlocked the deadbolts with deliberate slowness, her shoulders tense. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, his platinum blond hair gleaming under the flickering bulb, his heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—fixed on Rory with unsettling intensity. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the picture of effortless elegance in his tailored charcoal suit, but there was a tightness around his mouth that Rory had never seen before. “Mademoiselle Carter,” he said, his voice smooth, accented. “We need to talk.” Rory’s breath caught. Of all the people she’d expected to see tonight, Lucien was the last. The *very* last. Eva’s grip on the letter opener didn’t waver. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here, Moreau.” Lucien’s gaze flicked to her, unruffled. “And yet, here I am.” His eyes returned to Rory. “It’s about Evan.” Rory’s stomach dropped. “What about him?” Lucien stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the scent of sandalwood and something darker—something like smoke—following him. Eva shut the door, locking it again with sharp, angry movements. “He’s not just back in London,” Lucien said, his voice low. “He’s working with the Black Dawn.” Rory’s blood turned to ice. The Black Dawn was a name whispered in the supernatural underworld—a cabal of demons and rogue sorcerers who dealt in forbidden magic, human trafficking, and worse. If Evan was tangled up with them… Eva let out a sharp laugh. “You’re joking.” “I don’t joke about such things.” Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Evan’s been seen meeting with their operatives. He’s not here for you, Rory. Not *just* for you. He’s here for something bigger.” Rory’s hands trembled. She clenched them into fists. “What do they want?” Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them—the weight of his stare, the way his amber eye burned like a flame. “You.” The word hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Eva stepped forward, breaking the spell. “Why her?” Lucien didn’t look away from Rory. “Because of what you are.” Rory’s breath hitched. “I’m not anything.” “You’re wrong.” His voice was softer now, almost gentle. “You’ve always been more than you realize. And now, they know it too.” Rory’s mind raced. She thought of the nightmares that had plagued her since childhood—the ones where shadows whispered her name, where something *hungry* lurked just beyond the edge of her vision. She’d always assumed they were just dreams. But what if they weren’t? Eva’s voice cut through her thoughts. “This is bullshit. Rory’s just a girl from Cardiff. She’s not some… some *chosen one* in a bad fantasy novel.” Lucien finally tore his gaze away from Rory, turning to Eva with a faint, humorless smile. “And yet, here we are.” Rory swallowed hard. “What do they want with me?” Lucien’s expression darkened. “They believe you’re a descendant of the Morrigan.” The name sent a jolt through her. The Morrigan—the Celtic goddess of war and fate, a figure from the old stories her mother used to tell her. It was impossible. Ridiculous. And yet… Rory’s fingers brushed the scar on her wrist. She remembered the night she’d gotten it—the way the knife had slipped, the way the blood had pooled, dark and thick, before her mother had pressed a cloth to the wound and whispered something in Welsh. A prayer. Or maybe a spell. Eva was staring at her. “Rory?” Rory shook her head, forcing a laugh. “This is insane. I’m not— I can’t be—” “You don’t have to believe me,” Lucien said. “But you *do* have to listen. Evan isn’t just an ex-boyfriend with a grudge anymore. He’s a pawn. And if the Black Dawn gets their hands on you, they won’t just hurt you. They’ll *use* you.” Rory’s chest tightened. She thought of Evan’s hands on her, the way his voice had gone soft right before it turned cruel. The way he’d always seemed to know exactly where she was, even when she hadn’t told him. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Lucien’s expression shuttered. “Because I made a mistake. And I don’t intend to make another.” The air between them crackled, thick with history—with the night they’d met in a dimly lit bar in Soho, the way his fingers had brushed hers when he’d handed her a drink, the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. Something precious. And then, later, the way he’d walked away without a word. Rory’s throat ached. “You could’ve told me sooner.” “I know.” His voice was rough. “But I thought… I thought I could handle it. Keep you safe without you ever knowing.” “And now?” “Now, I need your help.” Eva let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. After everything, you just waltz in here and ask for her *help*?” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for her. For all of us.” Rory studied him—the way his knuckles whitened around the handle of his cane, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. She thought of the last time she’d seen him, the way he’d turned his back on her in the middle of a crowded street, his coat flaring behind him like wings. She should’ve hated him. She *did* hate him. Or at least, she wanted to. But the fear coiling in her gut was stronger than the hurt. “What do we do?” she asked. Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly. “We fight.” Eva groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Rory ignored her. She met Lucien’s gaze, her chin lifting. “Tell me everything.”