Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9QYNPW27Y9HJ93Z2X4GFW

The third deadbolt clicked, then the final one. Rory hadn’t expected him to actually *come*. She’d figured Lucien would send a text, maybe a raven. He was a dramatic man, prone to flourishes, but usually preferred to observe from a comfortable distance. She hadn’t braced herself for the sight of him filling her doorway, charcoal suit immaculate even after braving the London drizzle. He wasn’t smiling, but his mouth tipped slightly at the corners, a habitual expression that didn’t quite reach his amber and black eyes. He held his cane casually, the ivory gleaming faintly in the dim hallway. “Surprise,” he said, the single word a silken rasp. Rory stared. “You didn't knock.” “I did. Three times. Rather insistently, if I recall.” She hadn’t heard anything over the bass thrumming from the street below, a weekly Friday night drum circle that did little for her temper. “Right. Well, you’re here.” “Indeed.” He stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation, though the space felt immediately smaller with him in it. Ptolemy, roused from a nap on a tower of books, arched his back and hissed, then retreated under the sofa. “Charming reception.” “He’s discerning,” Rory said, crossing her arms. She hadn’t quite managed to shed the delivery uniform—Yu-Fei was short-staffed as usual—and she felt distinctly underdressed in faded jeans and a Golden Empress t-shirt. Lucien, as always, looked like he’d walked straight out of a magazine. He glanced at Ptolemy’s hiding place. “A creature of excellent taste.” He turned his gaze back to her, and the corner of her mouth twitched despite her best efforts. “I need your help.” She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “That’s rich. After… everything? You need *my* help?” The color drained from his face. “Don’t. Not tonight, Aurora. Please.” She flinched. He rarely used her full name. It always felt like a deliberate act, a stripping away of the familiar ease of ‘Rory’ that revealed the cold distance he preferred to maintain. “So, you just show up and expect me to fall into line?” she asked, her voice tight. “I wouldn’t expect anything of you,” he said, and the lie hung heavy in the air between them. Their history was built on expectations, on unspoken promises, on a simmering tension that had finally, spectacularly, imploded six months ago. “That’s new of you.” He ignored the jab and moved further into the flat, his eyes sweeping over the organized chaos of Eva’s life, now temporarily hers. Books overflowed from shelves, spilling onto the floor. Maps covered one wall, annotated with swirling script and strange symbols. Empty teacups sat precariously on stacks of research papers. He looked… right at home, strangely. "Eva’s been busy." “She is. Prepping for the symposium next month. Something about thaumaturgical resonance in ancient Mesopotamian textiles.” He raised a brow. “Of course she is.” Rory bristled. “Don’t mock her.” “I wasn’t. I simply find her pursuits… fascinating.” He paused. “The details are immaterial. I need somewhere secure to meet someone.” “Secure? What are we talking about?” She knew better than to push, but she couldn’t help it. He’d pulled her into enough messes over the years, always with a cryptic explanation and a promise of excitement. This felt different. It felt… urgent. “A client. A delicate transaction. I trust your friend’s wards.” Eva had spent years reinforcing the flat’s defenses, layering enchantments and protective sigils into the very structure of the building. It was practically a fortress, albeit a cluttered one. “What kind of delicate transaction?” He met her gaze, his heterochromatic eyes unwavering. "Information. Highly sensitive information." Rory's gut clenched. Lucien dealt in information. It was his currency, his power. But sensitive information usually meant dangerous people. “Whose information?” “That’s not something I can disclose.” “So you expect me to risk my neck—and Eva’s—for a secret?” “I expect you to help a friend.” He said it softly, but the words carried weight. Friend. They’d been something more, once. The memory stung. “We’re not friends, Lucien.” That seemed to genuinely hurt him. His expression shuttered, the carefully constructed composure cracking. “Yes, we are. Or, we were. And even now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Even now what?” she prompted, hating the tremor in her voice. He didn’t answer, turning instead to examine a particularly precarious pile of books. "It’s… complex." “Your life is complex,” she retorted. “Mine is relatively straightforward. I deliver noodles. You run with demons.” “A slight exaggeration.” “Is it?” She remembered the pale, ethereal figure she’d seen lingering in his shadow during a gala, the hushed whispers about his father, a powerful entity from a realm she didn’t even want to contemplate. He sighed, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. This concerns… a potential disruption to the balance.” “The balance?” “Between realms. Avaros is… restless. There’s a collector. Acquiring artifacts. Things he shouldn't have.” Avaros. The demonic realm Lucien’s father called home. It was bad news if Avaros was restless. Very bad news. “And this collector…?” “Claims to have a piece of something. Something that could unravel the treaties. Unleash chaos.” Rory wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. This was bigger than a delicate transaction. This was the kind of mess that could end the world. Or at least, this corner of it. “And you need my help because…?” “Because I need a neutral ground. Somewhere untraceable. Somewhere… safe.” His gaze met hers again, vulnerability flickering in the amber depths of his eyes. “And because I trust you, Aurora. More than I trust anyone.” The words were a balm to a wound she thought had long since healed. Trust. He’d broken that trust, hadn't he? Walked away without a word, leaving her to pick up the pieces. Yet, here he was, admitting he trusted her. She looked at him, really looked at him. The lines around his eyes, the subtle weariness in his expression. He was a creature of power, of shadow and secrets, but he was also… lonely. Terribly, achingly lonely. “What time is this meeting?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. A flicker of relief crossed his face. “Tonight. Within the hour.” “Great.” She managed a wry smile. “Just another Friday night in Brick Lane.” He allowed a genuine smile to touch his lips this time. "Indeed." He paused, then reached into his pocket, drawing out a small, intricately carved silver box. He held it out to her. "A token of my gratitude. And… an apology." She hesitated, then took the box. It was cool to the touch, radiating a faint energy. “What is it?” “Open it,” he said, his eyes fixed on her. She lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a single, perfect blue iris. Her breath caught in her throat. It was her favorite flower. He remembered. “Lucien…” “Don’t,” he said, his voice suddenly rough. “Don't read too much into it. It’s simply a flower.” But she knew it wasn’t. It was a gesture, a silent acknowledgment of everything they’d shared, of everything they’d lost. And as she looked into his eyes, a dangerous hope began to blossom in her chest. A hope she knew she shouldn't indulge, but couldn’t seem to suppress. This night was far from over. And she had a feeling, a cold certainty, that it would change everything.