Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT013NFDZXBYAFE3VNKB3KZ

The deadbolts clicked back one by one, the sound sharp in the narrow stairwell. Rory didn’t look through the peephole. Ptolemy yowled from somewhere behind the cluttered hallway, tail puffed. She pulled the door open, keys still in hand, the scent of cumin and turmeric from the curry house below thick in the air. Her breath caught. Lucien stood there, shoulders squared beneath a charcoal suit that didn’t hide the tension in his frame. Rain glistened in his slicked-back platinum hair, and one of his eyes caught the dim hallway light—amber, the other, flat as ink. The ivory handle of his cane pressed into the worn welcome mat. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Rory’s fingers tightened on the door. “You lost?” “Not quite.” His voice was lower than she remembered, rougher. Like it had been dragged across gravel. She didn’t move. “You can’t just show up here.” “I can. And I did.” “Three years, Lucien. Three years and nothing. No word. No call. Then suddenly you’re on my doorstep in the rain like some tragic film noir ghost?” Her voice stayed level, but her pulse thudded against the scar on her wrist, a dull ache she hadn’t felt in months. He exhaled through his nose, barely a breath. “I didn’t come for a reunion.” “Then why?” “You were followed tonight.” Her spine snapped straight. “What?” “Two blocks from the Golden Empress. Man in a grey coat, kept pace behind your bike. Not human.” His good eye—amber—narrowed slightly. “He lost you in Spitalfields. Temporarily.” Rory stepped back, scanning the street beyond him. Empty. Glistening cobbles. “You’ve been watching me?” “I watch a lot of things.” “That’s not an answer.” “No. It isn’t.” They stood in silence, the weight of the past pressing between them. Not just the years. The last time she’d seen him, she was bleeding from a cut above her brow, Lucien pressing a folded handkerchief to it in the back room of Silas’ bar. His fingers had trembled. Or maybe that was her. She turned, leaving the door open behind her. A silent permission. He followed, closing the door with a quiet click and sliding the deadbolts home. His cane tapped once on the wood as he moved past her. Ptolemy circled Lucien’s legs, sniffing, then darted away under the sofa. The flat was chaos—stacks of grimoires balanced on teetering stools, runes sketched on napkins, a half-dismantled sigil glowing faintly on the kitchen counter. A single mug sat cooling on the arm of the sofa—green tea, cold. Lucien didn’t touch anything. Just stood in the center of the room, dripping onto her rug. “You’re tracking rain,” she said, folding her arms. “You never did let a little mess bother you.” “That was before I had to clean it up.” He turned to face her. “I heard about Evans.” Her breath stilled. “You heard?” “People talk. Especially when a man like him shows up screaming about demons in Camden.” Rory’s laugh was brittle. “And what? You thought I needed saving again?” “No.” His voice hardened. “I thought you’d want to know he’s not just screaming. He’s *hunting*. And he’s working with someone who knows how to summon.” The room tilted. Rory gripped the back of the sofa. “He’s still chasing ghosts?” “Ghosts? No.” Lucien’s fingers brushed the hilt of the concealed blade in his cane. “He’s chasing *you*. And he’s picked up a summoner from the Outer Rings. A woman named Malphora.” The name landed like a stone. Rory paled. *Malphora.* Her alias. One of many. But not one Evans should have known. “You gave me that name,” she whispered. Lucien’s expression didn’t change. “I gave it to *no one*.” “Then how—” “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re using it. Calling it. And whatever answered… isn’t you.” She stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You think I don’t know what I am and what I’m not? You think I’d let that bastard use *my* name to tear holes in the Veil?” “I don’t think anything. I act.” “Right. The great Lucien Moreau. Arbiter of consequences.” She dropped her arms, voice cracking. “You vanished, Lucien. After Silas died. After I—” She cut herself off. After she’d kissed him in the rain outside the morgue. After he’d pulled away like she’d burned him. His jaw tightened. “You think I wanted to go?” “You didn’t *tell* me. You just disappeared. One day you were there, the next—gone. No note. Nothing.” “I kept you alive.” “By walking out?” “By making sure *they* didn’t know you mattered to me.” Rory froze. “What?” His black eye seemed to swallow the light. “The High Circle was watching. They knew about Silas. Knew about your connection to the Empress. Knew you were asking too many questions. If they’d known about *us*—” He stopped. “Us.” He looked away. “That’s rich. There was never an ‘us,’ Lucien. Not really. You made that clear.” “I kept you safe.” “At what cost?” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint silver scar along his jawline she hadn’t noticed before. “You think I wanted safety? I wanted *you*. After Silas. After everything—I called. I waited. I thought you were *dead*.” “I couldn’t contact you. Not then.” “Because of the Circle?” “Because of what I am.” She laughed, sharp and sudden. “Don’t give me that half-demon martyr act. You chose your world over me. Again.” “I didn’t choose.” His voice dropped. “I *obeyed*. There’s a difference.” “Not to me.” Silence settled, heavier than before. Ptolemy crept out, hopping onto the windowsill, tail twitching. Rory turned to the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and tossed it at him. “Dry off. You’re ruining my floor.” He caught it one-handed, stared at it like it was a live grenade, then slowly wiped his hair. “You should leave the city,” he said quietly. “No.” “You’re not safe.” “I haven’t been safe in years.” “This is different.” “Because of Evans? Because of some woman using my name? Please.” She faced him. “You don’t get to waltz back in here and tell me what’s dangerous. Not after *you* taught me how to fight. How to hide. How to survive.” “I didn’t teach you to invite war.” “I didn’t *invite* it.” “You’re still standing in it.” They stared at each other, the air crackling. Then Lucien reached into his coat. Rory tensed. He pulled out a slender envelope, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood. “What’s that?” “An invitation.” “To what?” “The Convening. In Prague. The Half-Bloods are gathering. They’re choosing a new Regent. Someone has to balance the Courts now that Silas is gone.” “And you think *I* should go?” “I know you should.” “Why?” “Because Malphora isn’t just a name anymore. It’s a *claim*. And only you can deny it.” Rory took a step back. “You want me to walk into a den of demons and half-breeds and say, ‘Hey, I’m not the ancient entity you’re looking for’?” “I want you to stand where they can see you. Alive. Human.” His voice softened. “I want them to see what I see.” Her breath caught. “What’s that?” “The woman who walked into a summoning circle with a chef’s knife and a bag of salt and walked out alive.” “That wasn’t bravery. It was panic.” “It was *you*.” She looked away, fingers pressing into her wrist, over the crescent scar. The same one he’d kissed once, long ago, when the world still felt possible. “You don’t get to come back and rewrite history,” she said, voice low. “I’m not.” He placed the envelope on the counter. “I’m asking you to write the next page.” Outside, thunder rolled over East London. Ptolemy flicked an ear. Rory didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Lucien lifted his cane. “I’ll be at the Iron Gate. Midnight. If you want answers. If you want to stop what’s coming.” He turned toward the door. “Lucien.” Her voice stopped him. He didn’t turn. “You still love me?” The silence stretched. Then, without looking back, he said, “I never stopped.” And he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only damp footprints and a blood-red seal on the counter.