Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9A0HTGN77RNFY006ZWGV8

The deadbolts clicked, a series of metallic protests against intrusion. Rory squinted, the dim hallway light catching the bright blue of her eyes. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Not after… well, not after everything. “Lucien?” she asked, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. He stood there, impossibly elegant even leaning heavily on his ivory-handled cane. The tailored charcoal suit, the slicked-back platinum blond hair, the unsettlingly mismatched eyes – one amber, one black – all of it was a carefully constructed shield. He hadn’t aged a day. “Rory,” he replied, his voice a low, melodic rumble that still sent a tremor through her. He didn’t offer a smile, just that unsettling, assessing gaze. “Forgive the intrusion. I hoped you might be… available.” Available. As if she were a commodity to be bartered for. She crossed her arms, the familiar ache in her wrist throbbing faintly beneath the crescent-shaped scar. “I’m not. And you shouldn’t be here.” He didn’t argue. He simply stepped inside, the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something indefinably foreign and sharp, filling the small hallway. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, materialized from beneath a pile of scrolls, arching his back and emitting a low hiss at the intruder. “Ptolemy seems displeased,” Lucien observed, his gaze flicking to the cat before returning to her. “He has good taste,” Rory retorted, stepping aside to allow him entry into the flat. The space was, as always, a chaotic testament to Eva’s relentless research. Books overflowed from shelves, spilling onto the floor in precarious stacks. Scrolls lay unrolled on every available surface, covered in cryptic symbols and faded ink. The air smelled of old paper, incense, and the lingering aroma of last night’s curry from the restaurant below. Lucien surveyed the scene with a detached amusement. “A veritable labyrinth of knowledge. Your friend is… dedicated.” “She is,” Rory agreed, her voice tight. She gestured towards a worn armchair. “Sit. But I’m still not sure why you’re here.” He settled into the chair with a grace that seemed to defy the stiffness in his posture, the cane tapping lightly against the floor. “I require your assistance, Rory. A matter of some urgency.” “My assistance?” She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Last time I assisted you, it nearly got me killed.” The flicker of something – regret? – crossed his face, gone so quickly she almost missed it. “That was… unfortunate. A miscalculation on my part.” “A miscalculation that involved a rogue grimoire, a summoning circle, and a very angry demon,” she reminded him, her voice laced with sarcasm. The memory was still vivid, a knot of anxiety that tightened in her chest whenever she thought about it. He ignored the sarcasm. “This is different. This concerns… Avaros.” The name hit her like a physical blow. Avaros. His home. The realm he’d so carefully concealed from her, the source of his power, the reason for his guarded nature. “Why would I help you with anything related to Avaros?” “Because,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “it concerns you as well.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Rory felt a chill crawl down her spine, despite the stuffy warmth of the flat. “Explain.” He leaned forward slightly, his mismatched eyes fixed on hers. “There’s been a disturbance. A ripple in the veil between realms. Something… is escaping.” “Escaping what?” “Avaros is not always a place of order. There are… entities contained within its borders. Powerful entities. And one of them is attempting to breach the barrier.” Rory frowned. “And you think this has something to do with me?” “Your connection to me,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “makes you a potential conduit. A focal point.” She scoffed. “You’re saying I’m some kind of magical antenna?” “Essentially, yes.” He didn’t flinch at her disbelief. “The entity… it senses your presence. It’s drawn to you.” “Great,” she muttered. “Just what I needed. A demon trying to use me as a doorway to another dimension.” “It’s not that simple,” he insisted. “If it succeeds, the consequences could be… catastrophic. For both realms.” Rory looked around the cluttered flat, at the piles of books and scrolls, at Ptolemy, who was now cautiously sniffing at Lucien’s polished shoes. Her life was complicated enough as it was – delivering Chinese food, dodging Evan’s increasingly erratic calls, trying to keep Eva from accidentally summoning something she couldn’t control. She didn’t need a cross-dimensional demon on her plate. “I’m not doing this, Lucien,” she said firmly. “I’m not getting involved.” He didn’t argue. He simply looked at her, a long, searching look that seemed to strip away her defenses, to see straight into her soul. “You’re lying, Rory.” The words hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. She felt her cheeks flush, a familiar heat rising in her chest. He knew her too well. He always had. “I’m being realistic,” she countered, avoiding his gaze. “Realism is a luxury we can’t afford right now.” He paused, then added, softly, “You care, Rory. You always have.” She wanted to deny it, to lash out, to tell him to leave and never come back. But the words wouldn’t come. The truth was, she did care. Despite everything – the lies, the betrayals, the near-death experiences – she still felt a pull towards him, a magnetic force that defied logic and reason. “Don’t,” she whispered, the word barely audible. He ignored her plea. “I know you, Rory. You can’t stand by and watch something terrible happen, even if it means putting yourself at risk.” She looked away, focusing on a faded tapestry depicting a scene from Celtic mythology. The colors were muted, the figures indistinct, but she found herself tracing the outline of a warrior with her finger. “What do you need me to do?” she asked, the words escaping her lips before she could stop them. A flicker of something – relief? – crossed his face. He didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease slightly. “First,” he said, his voice regaining its usual composure, “we need to find Eva. She has knowledge that will be invaluable.” “She’s at the library,” Rory replied. “Researching something about ancient wards.” “Perfect.” He leaned back in the chair, his gaze fixed on her. “Then, we prepare. This won’t be easy, Rory. And it will require all of your… unique talents.” She met his gaze, the amber and black eyes piercing and intense. The past rushed back – the shared laughter, the stolen kisses, the agonizing pain of their separation. The hurt was still there, a dull ache beneath the surface. But there was something else too – a spark of something that hadn’t been extinguished, a flicker of hope in the darkness. “What kind of talents are we talking about?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. He smiled then, a slow, enigmatic smile that sent a shiver down her spine. “The kind that only you possess, Laila.” The use of her old alias, the name he’d given her, was a deliberate provocation. A reminder of their shared history, of the woman she used to be, of the woman he still saw beneath the surface. Rory didn’t respond. She simply stared at him, the weight of their past, and the uncertain future, pressing down on her. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that her life was about to become a whole lot more complicated. And that, somehow, she was already regretting saying yes.