Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYVHH76QZJ46ST5D60H7E5

The rattle of the metal was sharp, violent in the quiet of the flat. Three deadbolts, one after another, sliding back in their housings. Rory stilled, the book in her hand forgotten, her thumb marking her page in a worn copy of *The Malleus Maleficarum*. The sound wasn't the gentle knock of her neighbour needing sugar, nor the hurried thump of a delivery. It was a heavy, insistent knuckle against wood that vibrated through the floorboards and up into her bones. She didn't move towards the door immediately. Her gaze flicked to the window, the fire escape a rusty skeleton against the brick of the next building. An unnecessary thought. The locks were solid. Eva had insisted. After Evan, Rory had learned to appreciate the comfort of multiple, well-maintained barriers. Another knock, harder this time. She placed the book on a teetering stack of scrolls, her movements fluid and silent. She padded across the floor, avoiding the creaky board by the hearth. Ptolemy, her tabby cat, lifted his head from a cushion, his yellow eyes narrowing. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Rory leaned her eye against the peephole. The fisheye lens showed her a distorted slice of the hallway. A charcoal-grey shoulder, tailored to perfection. A flash of platinum-blond hair, slicked back from a high forehead. She knew that suit. Knew the cost of it, knew the man who filled it as if it were a second skin. Her breath caught. Her hand hovered over the chain, then the last lock. The urge to slam the final bolt home, to retreat into the safety of her books and the lingering scent of curry from downstairs, was a physical impulse. But she didn't. She couldn't. A part of her, the part she kept locked away with memories of him, was too curious. The chain slid free with a scrape. The last deadbolt turned with a heavy click. She pulled the door open just enough to see him, the chain still taut between them. Lucien Moreau filled the small doorway. He seemed taller than she remembered, broader. The amber of his left eye was dull, clouded with exhaustion. The black of his right was a void, pulling in all the light from the single bulb in the hallway. He held his ivory-handled cane loosely in one gloved hand, but he leaned on it slightly, a subtle betrayal of fatigue. “Aurora.” His voice was the same. Low, smooth, with the faintest trace of a French accent that usually curled around her name like smoke. Tonight, it was just flat. A statement. “Lucien.” Her own voice was steady, a surprise to her. She kept her grip firm on the edge of the door. He stood there for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over her face, her hair, the chaotic clutter of books visible just behind her shoulder. He looked like a king surveying a particularly messy peasant’s hovel. “May I come in?” The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken history. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been in a room much like this one, though far cleaner, the air thick with the scent of ozone and regret. He had left. Or she had made him leave. The lines were blurred, even now. Rory’s jaw tightened. She could feel Ptolemy winding around her ankles, his tail twitching, a low, continuous warning growl emanating from his chest. The cat had always hated him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Aurora.” He said her name again, and this time there was a fracture in the polished veneer. A plea. “Please.” She searched his face, the handsome, impassive mask she knew so well showing cracks around the eyes and mouth. He wasn’t here for a social call. Lucien only ever appeared when he needed something. When a problem was too tangled, too human, for his usual methods. With a sigh that felt like it dragged up every memory she’d tried to bury, she unhooked the chain and pulled the door open wider. He stepped inside, and the small flat immediately shrank around him. The scent of expensive cologne and something else, something metallic and ancient, washed over the familiar smells of old paper and dust. He closed the door behind himself, the sound of the three bolts sliding home echoing his own entry. He was trapping them both in here. He didn’t move further into the room, just stood by the door, his cane resting against the floor. His gaze drifted over the mountains of books, the maps tacked to the walls, the half-empty mugs of cold tea scattered on every available surface. “You’ve been busy.” “I live here.” Rory crossed her arms, a defensive barrier. “What do you want, Lucien? I have a delivery run in an hour.” He finally looked at her, really looked at her, and the intensity of it made her want to take a step back. She held her ground. “I need your help.” A bitter laugh escaped her before she could swallow it. “Of course you do. What is it this time? A rogue goblin stealing from the Crown Jewels? A nymph with a grudge causing a flood in the Tube?” “This is not a joke.” His tone was so cold, so sharp, that it cut through her sarcasm. She saw it then, the true depth of the weariness in his face. It wasn’t just a long day. It was a weight. “Then talk.” She gestured vaguely at a chair buried under a stack of what looked like medieval tax records. “If you can find a place to sit.” He moved with his customary grace, clearing the chair with a flick of his wrist and placing the pile of papers on the floor. He sat, placing the cane across his lap, his hands resting on the ivory handle. Ptolemy, from a safe distance under the sofa, hissed. Lucien ignored the cat. His attention was fixed on her. “There was an artifact. A reliquary. It was stolen from a private collection in Mayfair two nights ago.” “And? You’re a fixer. Go find it. That’s your job.” “It’s not that simple.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “The reliquary contains a shard. From Avaros.” Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. Avaros. The demon realm. His father’s realm. She hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in three years. “Okay,” she said, her voice softer now. “A demon artifact is stolen. Still sounds like your area of expertise.” “It was sealed. With a cipher. A sequence of symbols I’ve never encountered. I have contacts, resources, Aurora. I’ve tried everything. No one can read it.” She finally understood. He wasn’t here for her muscle or her connections in the city. He was here for her brain. For the countless hours she’d spent buried in languages dead and forgotten, for the obsessive, out-of-the-box thinking that he’d once called her greatest asset. “So you want me to translate it for you.” “I want you to try.” He stood up, closing the small distance between them. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from him. “There’s something else. The people who took it… they know about you, Aurora.”