Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXVZ594BSS0VF51ZTY2S0D

The rain was just beginning to change from a persistent drizzle to something heavier, drumming a steady rhythm against the window panes of Eva’s cramped Brick Lane flat. Aurora was elbow-deep in a stack of Eva’s research notes on pre-Victorian spectral manifestations, the tabby cat Ptolemy a warm, purring weight across her ankles. The smell of curry from the shop below seeped up through the floorboards, mixing with the scent of old paper and dust. Three sharp, precise raps cut through the ambient noise. Ptolemy’s ears twitched. Rory froze, a photocopy of a crumbling parish record hovering in her hand. Eva wasn’t due back from the British Library for hours. Nobody else came here. Eva had three deadbolts on the door for a reason. The knocking came again, not impatient, but insistent. A measured *tap-tap-tap*. She eased her feet out from under the cat, who grumbled and resettled himself on the discarded papers. Padding to the door, she peered through the peephole. The fisheye lens distorted the hallway, but it couldn’t warp the unmistakable silhouette. The tailored line of a charcoal suit jacket, the sharp cut of shoulders, the gleam of slicked-back platinum hair. One hand rested on the ivory handle of a cane. Lucien. Her breath hitched. A cold knot formed in her stomach, tangling with a sudden, unwelcome heat. Two months. Two months since she’d seen him, since they’d stood in the back room of his antiquities shop, words like shards of glass between them. Since she’d told him his methods were too close to the edge, and he’d told her her morality was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Since he’d turned those heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one pitch black—away from her and said, “Then perhaps you should go, Aurora.” She hadn’t gone back. Her hand trembled as it went to the first deadbolt. The click was loud in the quiet flat. The second bolt slid back with a rasp. The third required a key from this side. She fumbled with it, the metal cold against her fingers, before it finally turned. She opened the door just enough to see him fully, the chain still fastened. Lucien stood in the dim hallway light, impeccable as ever. Not a drop of rain seemed to have touched him. His amber eye caught the weak light from the flat; the black one was a depthless pool. He leaned slightly on his cane, a picture of composed elegance, but she saw the tightness at the corner of his mouth, a faint tension in his jaw. “Rory.” He used the old nickname. His voice was the same—a low, smooth baritone with the faintest trace of a French accent clinging to the vowels. It did things to her spine she wished it wouldn’t. “Lucien.” Her own voice sounded thin. “How did you find this place?” “I find everything. Eventually.” His gaze moved past her, taking in the chaotic interior of the flat. “May I come in? It’s a rather delicate matter.” “Eva isn’t here.” “I’m not here for Eva.” The silence stretched, filled only by the patter of rain and the distant hum of Brick Lane traffic. Ptolemy sauntered over and threaded himself between her legs, staring out at the visitor with feline indifference. With a resigned sigh, she closed the door enough to slide the chain free, then opened it fully. “Fine. But make it quick. I’m busy.” He stepped over the threshold, bringing with him a faint scent of ozone and expensive sandalwood. He glanced around at the towers of books, the scrolls unfurled across every surface, his expression unreadable. “Charming.” “It’s a research flat. It’s meant for work, not for entertaining.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, putting physical distance between them. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched, a nervous habit. “What’s the delicate matter?” Lucien turned to face her, leaning both hands on the head of his cane. The pose was casual, but his posture was rigid. “Malphas is in London.” The name landed like a physical blow. The demon lord from Avaros, Lucien’s… family. Of sorts. The source of half the trouble they’d ever faced. “What does he want?” “He’s hosting a gathering. A… procurement auction. For certain artifacts that have recently come into circulation. Artifacts I believe your friend Eva has been inadvertently tracking in her research.” Rory’s mind raced, connecting disjointed notes she’d been reading. Fragmented references to a “Sanguine Eye,” a “Veil of Whispers.” “She thinks they’re myth. Historical curiosities.” “They are very real, and very dangerous in the wrong hands. Malphas intends to be the wrong hands.” Lucien’s amber eye held hers. The black one seemed to look through her. “He’s sent out invitations. To certain collectors, certain fixers.” “Including you.” “Including me.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “The invitation was not optional. It’s at the Galliard Theatre tomorrow night. Black tie. I am to bring a companion.” The implication hung in the air between them, thick and heavy as the curry-scented atmosphere. “No.” The word was out before she could think. “Rory—” “No, Lucien. You have a dozen people you could take. Slick, underworld types who know how to play these games. People who wouldn’t balk at whatever you have to do to get what you want.” “I need someone who isn’t part of that world. Someone he won’t recognize, won’t expect. Someone with a quick mind who can think on her feet when the plan inevitably goes to hell.” He took a step closer. The space in the cramped flat seemed to shrink. “I need you.” “You *needed* me two months ago. You said my principles were a hindrance.” “I was angry.” “You were honest.” He looked away then, a flicker of something raw crossing his face before the polished mask slipped back into place. “I was wrong.” The admission startled her. Lucien Moreau did not admit to being wrong. “What changed?” “Nothing has changed. That is the problem.” His gaze returned to hers, and the mask cracked further. She saw the fatigue beneath, the strain. “I have been navigating these waters alone since you left. It is… tedious. And more perilous. You have a way of seeing the exits I miss. You see the human cost. I have been paying costs I did not fully appreciate until you were no longer there to tally them.” Her throat tightened. She uncrossed her arms, letting her hands fall to her sides. “This is about the artifacts. About stopping Malphas.” “It is.” He paused. “And it is not.” The rain lashed harder against the window. Ptolemy jumped onto a stack of books, watching them with unblinking eyes. “You show up here, unannounced, after two months of silence, and ask me to walk into a den of demons as your date.” A harsh laugh escaped her. “You really don’t do things by halves, do you?” “I have never done anything by halves with you, Aurora. That was always the issue.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost lost under the rain. “The things I said… I intended to push you away. I succeeded. I have regretted it every day since.” She remembered the hurt then, sharp and fresh. The feeling of being dismissed, of her concerns being brushed aside as naivete. The ache of missing him afterward, a constant, stupid ache she’d tried to bury under work and Eva’s research. “You hurt me.” “I know.” He didn’t look away. “I am sorry. It does not fix it. It does not even begin to atone. But I am sorry.” She studied his face—the elegant lines, the unfamiliar shadows under his eyes. The tight grip on the cane. “What aren’t you telling me? About this auction?” A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Always so perceptive. Malphas… has made the acquisition personal. He knows of our… association. Our past partnership. He intimated that your absence from my side was a sign of weakness. An invitation for him to press his advantage.” Lucien’s knuckles were white on the cane handle. “Having you there is not just tactical. It is a statement. It tells him the weakness he perceives does not exist.” “So I’m a pawn in your power play.” “You are a queen in a game I am tired of playing alone.” He moved then, closing the final distance between them. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye. “Say no. Tell me to leave. I will. I will find another way, or I will face the consequences. But do not say no because you are still angry with me. Say no because you believe it is the wrong path.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. The memory of his touch, the sound of his laugh, the late nights planning over cups of bitter coffee—it all rushed back, a tidal wave she’d spent months building a dam against. The hurt was there, a dull, persistent throb. But beneath it was the pull, the gravitational draw she had never quite managed to escape. He was right. They had never done things by halves. She looked past him, at the rain-streaked window, at the cat now washing a paw with supreme nonchalance. She thought of Eva, unknowingly circling a real and present danger. She thought of the artifacts, of what a creature like Malphas could do with them. She thought of Lucien, standing in her doorway, apologizing, asking. “Black tie?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. A breath he seemed to have been holding escaped him. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. “Black tie.” “I don’t own anything black tie.” “I will take care of it.” “And we’re just going to an auction. To observe. To stop him. No side deals, no morally ambiguous transactions.” “Your morality is my guide.” He said it without a trace of irony. She finally met his gaze fully, seeing the hope there, carefully guarded but unmistakable. “Tomorrow night.” “Tomorrow night. I will pick you up at seven. Not here. Your flat above the bar.” He was already stepping back, giving her space, the moment of raw vulnerability receding behind his professional demeanor. But his eyes remained on hers. She simply nodded. Lucien gave a slight, formal bow of his head. Then he turned and let himself out, closing the door softly behind him. She stood there for a long time, listening to the rain, until Ptolemy butted his head against her shin. She looked down at the cat, then at the three deadbolts on the door. Slowly, she slid each one home, the final clicks echoing in the silent flat.