Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR8M34SKH38D7SR4JSQPJM

The knock was soft but insistent, a familiar three-tap rhythm that stopped Aurora's breath in her chest. She'd been switching off lights, readying for bed, hair damp from the shower and wearing only an old university hoodie and leggings. Ptolemy twitched his tail from his perch on a stack of grimoires. She moved to the door, peering through the peephole. The fish-eye lens distorted his face, but she'd know that platinum blond hair anywhere, the sharp line of his jaw. Lucien Moreau stood in the hall, one hand resting on his ivory-handled cane, the other tapping gently against his thigh. Aurora unlatched the three deadbolts. The door swung inward. He looked exactly as she remembered and nothing like it. Still in a charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, his hair slicked back from a face too handsome to be entirely human. But there were shadows under his heterochromatic eyes—amber and black meeting hers with a weariness she hadn’t seen before. He leaned heavier on the cane than usual. “Rory.” His voice was soft, the French accent more pronounced than she recalled. “Lucien.” She didn’t step back to let him in. “It’s been nine months.” “Seven months, fourteen days.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But who’s counting?” “What do you want?” “May I come in?” She hesitated. The last time they’d been in a room together, it had been in his office above the casino. He’d handed her a dossier on Evan’s new associates, along with a warning to stay away from a certain artifact dealer. She’d told him he was suffocating her with his protectiveness. He’d told her she was reckless, a liability. They’d traded barbs until she’d stormed out, leaving a silence thick enough to choke on. Now he stood on her threshold, smelling of rain and expensive cologne, looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Aurora stepped aside. He entered, his cane tapping lightly on the floorboards. His gaze swept the cluttered room—the books piled on every surface, the scrolls unfurled across her small dining table, Ptolemy observing from his tower of knowledge. “Still researching,” Lucien said. “Still stating the obvious.” He turned to face her, leaning his cane against the sofa. “I need your help.” “You have people. Lots of them.” “Not for this.” “What’s ‘this’?” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes tracked over her face, lingering on the small crescent scar on her wrist, visible where her sleeve had ridden up. She crossed her arms. “Sit down,” she said, moving to clear a stack of books from the armchair. “You look like you’re about to collapse.” He sat, sinking into the worn upholstery with a faint sigh. Aurora remained standing, leaning against the edge of the table. “Talk.” Lucien rubbed his temples. “There’s a man named Alistair Finch. A collector. He specializes in… objects of power.” “I’ve heard the name.” “Of course you have. You’ve been digging into every corner of this city’s underbelly since I last saw you.” There was no judgment in his tone, only fatigue. “Finch has acquired something. A reliquary box, twelfth century, Venetian. It’s supposed to contain a feather from a Watcher.” Aurora’s brows lifted. “Angelic feather? That’s…” “Extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. And Finch’s hands are very wrong indeed.” Lucien leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I need to get it back before he figures out how to open it. But his security is… formidable. Magical and mundane.” “And you thought of me.” “I thought of you,” he admitted. “Your particular skillset would be advantageous.” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “My skillset? You mean my talent for breaking into places I shouldn’t be?” “Your talent for thinking in ways others don’t. For seeing solutions where others see walls.” He met her gaze. “And yes, for getting in and out of places undetected.” “You told me I was a liability.” “I was wrong.” The words hung between them. Aurora studied his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation she’d learned to expect from anyone in his world. But his expression was open, raw in a way she’d never seen before. “What happened?” she asked softly. “Pardon?” “Something’s different. You’re not just tired. You’re…” He looked away, toward the window where rain streaked the glass. “My mother is ill. It’s not something medicine can fix. It’s a… deterioration. Magical in nature.” Aurora’s stance softened. “Lucien…” “The feather. If it’s genuine, it could heal her. Or at least slow the progression.” He turned back to her, his amber eye catching the lamplight. “I know I have no right to ask. After how we left things. But I’m asking.” She walked to the kitchenette, filled the kettle, set it on the stove. The familiar ritual gave her hands something to do. Ptolemy jumped down from his perch and wound around Lucien’s legs. To her surprise, Lucien reached down and scratched behind the cat’s ears. “You remember Ptolemy.” “He bit me last time.” “He bites everyone.” “He didn’t bite you.” Aurora leaned against the counter. “You could have called. Sent a message through one of your intermediaries.” “I wanted to see you.” “Why?” “Because I missed you.” The words were simple, unadorned. “And because when I imagine doing this job, I imagine doing it with you. No one else.” The kettle whistled. She poured water over tea leaves, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. She brought two mugs over, handed one to him. Their fingers brushed. A current, old and familiar, sparked between them. She sat on the edge of the sofa, a careful distance away. “Tell me about the security.” A faint hope kindled in his eyes. He sipped the tea, nodded approval at the blend—Earl Grey with lavender, her favorite. “Finch’s estate is in Surrey. Twenty acres, walled. He employs three live-in guards, ex-military. The house itself is protected by sigils carved into the foundation stones—dispels hostile magic, alerts him to supernatural intrusion. The reliquary is kept in a vault beneath his study. The vault door is mechanical, a combination lock from the 1920s. No electronics.” “Mechanical I can handle. The sigils…” “We’d need to be invited in. Or enter without magic.” “So I’d be going in blind.” “Not entirely.” He set his mug aside. “I’ve secured blueprints. And I’d be with you.” “You can’t walk into that house, Lucien. Your energy signature would trip every ward.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I’ve acquired a charm. Temporary, but effective. It’ll mask my nature for about four hours.” “And after that?” “We’ll be long gone.” She studied him, the careful way he held himself, the tension in his shoulders. “This means everything to you.” “Yes.” “And if we’re caught?” “We won’t be.” “That’s not an answer.” He reached for his cane, ran his thumb over the ivory handle. “If we’re caught, I’ll get you out. That’s the deal.” “The deal,” she repeated. “There’s always a deal with you.” “Rory.” He said her name like a plea. “I’m not here as a fixer. I’m here as a man who made a mistake and let the best thing in his life walk out the door because he was too proud to admit he was afraid.” Aurora’s throat tightened. “Afraid of what?” “Of losing you.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “You terrify me. Your courage, your stubbornness, the way you charge into danger without looking back. I thought if I pushed you away, I could keep you safe. Instead, I just made sure you were alone.” She looked down into her tea, watching the leaves swirl at the bottom. “You hurt me.” “I know. And I will spend every day regretting it.” The rain picked up outside, tapping against the window like impatient fingers. Ptolemy jumped into her lap, a warm, purring weight. She stroked his fur. “When?” she asked. “Three days. The new moon.” “Give me the blueprints. I’ll need to study them.” Relief washed over his features, softening the sharp lines of his face. He reached inside his jacket, withdrew a slim leather case. “Everything’s here. Schematics, guard rotations, even Finch’s schedule for the week.” She took the case. Their hands met again, and this time she didn’t pull away. “Stay,” she said, the word surprising both of them. “It’s pouring. The sofa folds out.” He looked at her, his heterochromatic eyes searching hers. “Are you sure?” “No.” She stood, taking the case to her table. “But stay anyway.”