Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PBX9X7KVQWQN6WZX7T

The rain had been falling since dusk, a relentless East London drizzle that slicked the brick alleys and sent steam curling from the curry house’s vents beneath Eva’s flat. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of turmeric, old paper, and the faintly musky warmth of Ptolemy, who was currently sprawled across a stack of dog-eared demonology tomes, tail twitching in his sleep. Rory stood barefoot in the cramped kitchenette, a chipped mug of tea cooling in her hands. Her black hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, tendrils escaping to frame her sharp cheekbones and those startling bright blue eyes, now narrowed in concentration as she skimmed a handwritten note Eva had left on the fridge in hasty, looping script: *Meeting at the Archive. Back by ten. Don’t let Ptolemy near the wards again.* She sighed, setting the tea down. The flat was a mess—papers spilling from shelves, chalk symbols half-erased from the floorboards, a half-assembled sigil diagram pinned to the wall above the sofa—but it felt like sanctuary. Safer than her little room above Silas’ bar, at least. Here, the chaos was intentional. Protective. A knock came at the door. Rory frowned. Eva was always punctual—never late, never knocking on her own door. And the curry house downstairs didn’t deliver this late. She moved quietly, padding across the worn hardwood. Three deadbolts. She slid each one with practiced silence: top, middle, bottom. She peered through the fisheye lens. And froze. Outside, illuminated by the dim streetlamp seeping through the rain-streaked glass, stood a man in a charcoal suit, his platinum-blond hair slicked back from a sharp jawline. The high collar of his coat was turned up against the damp, and in his right hand, he held an ivory-handled cane, its tip resting lightly on the doormat. His face was half in shadow, but even so, she knew those eyes—one molten amber, the other deep void black. Lucien Moreau. Her breath caught. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Ten months. Ten months since she’d last seen him in that back room of Silas’ bar, the air thick with the smell of whiskey and burnt sage, the silence between them heavier than any curse. Another knock. Firm, unhurried. Polite, but with an edge of expectation. She hesitated, then turned the knob and pulled the door open just enough to block entry with her body. "Lucien," she said, voice flat. "You lost?" He didn’t smile. But something in his expression softened—the faintest crease at the corner of his amber eye, a subtle tilt of his head. "Hello, Rory." "Don’t call me that," she snapped, then immediately regretted it. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. "What do you want?" He glanced past her, taking in the clutter, the half-formed wards, Ptolemy’s indifferent blink from the pile of papers. Then back to her. "May I come in? It’s raining." "You don’t care about rain." "No," he admitted. "But my suit does." She exhaled sharply. "You can’t just show up like this. Not after—" "After what?" he asked, quiet. Too quiet. "After I kept you alive when the Hollow Court came for you? After I lied to Malakar to buy you time to run? After I let you walk away because you asked me to?" Her pulse jumped. She looked down, tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb. A childhood accident? That’s what she told people. But the truth was, it had split open the night she’d fled Evan—her knife had slipped. Lucien had stitched it himself with silver thread and a whispered incantation that left the skin cool to the touch. "I wasn’t ready," she whispered. "And now?" he asked. Now, he was standing on her doorstep in the rain, looking like a man who’d walked through fire just to say her name again. She stepped back. He entered without a word, closing the door behind him. His cane tapped once against the floor—deliberate, ceremonial. He didn’t take off his coat. Just stood there, water beading on his shoulders, his mismatched eyes raking over her with something between longing and restraint. "You’ve been avoiding my messages," he said. "I’ve been busy." "With what? Playing apprentice to Eva’s crusade against the Veil? Delivering lo mein to occult enthusiasts?" She bristled. "It’s honest work. More than I can say for you." "I broker truth," he said coolly. "Even when it’s dangerous. Even when people don’t want to hear it." "And what truth are you selling tonight, Lucien?" He stepped closer. The air between them tightened. "That you’re not safe. That *I’m* not safe. That the night you left me, I didn’t stop hunting the ones who wanted you dead. And now one of them has surfaced. In London. *Here.*" Her breath stilled. "Who?" "Valerius Malakar’s nephew. Ren. He’s been tracking you since Cardiff. He thinks you have something of his—an artifact. A key." "I don’t even know what that is." "He doesn’t care. He saw us together. He thinks you’re my weakness." A bitter laugh escaped her. "You have weaknesses?" Lucien’s jaw tightened. He looked away, then slowly removed his glove, revealing long, elegant fingers. He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out a small, tarnished locket—the kind with a tiny hinge. Engraved on the front was a spiral sigil Rory recognized from one of Eva’s texts. "You left this behind," he said. "In my flat. The night you disappeared." She stared at it. "I didn’t take it with me on purpose." "No," he said softly. "You left it so I’d know you’d been real." Her throat ached. He closed the distance between them in one step. No more space, no more pretense. Just the heat of him, the faint scent of bergamot and something darker—brimstone, maybe, or old magic. "I spent ten months telling myself you were better off without me," he said. "That a half-demon with blood on his hands had no business loving a woman like you. But I was wrong. You’re not better off. You’re *targeted*. And I won’t let him hurt you." "Who says I need protecting?" "Your scar does," he murmured, lifting his hand. His fingertips brushed the crescent on her wrist—so light, so careful it made her shiver. "This still cold? Mine kept it that way. So the wards would recognize you. So *I* would know, if you ever came back." She looked up, caught in his gaze—the amber eye warm as embers, the black one depthless as a starless sky. "You kept it spelled," she breathed. "Everything about you is a spell, Aurora Carter," he said. "And I’ve been under it since the first time you called me an over-dressed gargoyle." Despite everything, she smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of her lips. "You *are* an over-dressed gargoyle." His thumb traced the line of her wrist. "But I’m *your* gargoyle." The rain beat against the window. Ptolemy yawned and stretched, as if the tension in the room were nothing more than a particularly dull chapter. Rory stepped forward. Into his space. Into the dangerous warmth of a man who dealt in secrets, who carried a blade in his cane and fire in his blood. "I didn’t come back for protection," she said. "No?" His voice was rough. "I came back," she said, rising on her toes, her breath against his lips, "because I missed the way you say my name like it’s a prayer." And then she kissed him. And for the first time in ten months, the world felt like it wasn’t falling apart.