Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAQ939NGGK3FT8FBMKSWG6

The deadbolts clicked, a surprisingly loud sequence in the stillness of the evening. Aurora peered through the small peephole, her breath misting the glass. Lucien. Of all the people. She hadn’t seen him in six months, not since… well, since things had imploded with a spectacular, messy crash. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the chain. Part of her wanted to ignore the knocking entirely, to pretend she wasn't home. But another, smaller voice, a persistent thrum beneath her defenses, whispered that ignoring him wouldn't make him disappear. And he had the unnerving habit of not disappearing easily. With a sigh that tasted like dust and regret, she released the chain and pulled the door open a crack. "Lucien," she said, the name a brittle sound. He stood there, bathed in the orange glow of the curry house below, looking impossibly elegant in a charcoal suit that seemed to absorb the light. His platinum blond hair was, as always, slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the unsettlingly mismatched color of his eyes – amber and black, a constant visual reminder of his fractured heritage. “Aurora,” he replied, his voice a smooth, low murmur, accented with the faintest trace of Marseille. “May I come in?” She didn't offer an invitation, didn't even move to open the door further. “What do you want?” She kept her voice even, though a tight knot had formed in her stomach. He tilted his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “A conversation. And perhaps a cup of tea.” “I’m not really in the mood for conversation, Lucien. Or tea.” She started to close the door. His hand, long-fingered and impeccably manicured, shot out and gently stopped the door from closing. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed in the dim light. “Please, Aurora. It’s rather important.” She looked at his hand, then back at his face. There was a seriousness in his gaze she hadn't seen before, a vulnerability that momentarily disarmed her. She opened the door wider. “Fine,” she said, stepping back. “But don't expect a party.” He stepped inside, his movements fluid and graceful. The flat smelled of old paper and Earl Grey, Ptolemy, Eva's tabby, immediately materialized from beneath a pile of scrolls, arching his back and emitting a protesting yowl at the intrusion. “Ptolemy seems displeased,” Lucien observed, offering the cat a cursory glance. “He doesn’t like surprises,” Aurora said, gesturing towards a precarious stack of books. “Or people rummaging through Eva’s research. Which you will not be doing.” He raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I assure you, my dear Rory, my intentions are purely conversational.” He surveyed the cluttered space, taking in the overflowing bookshelves, the scattered notes, the general air of organized chaos that was entirely Eva. “Impressive. Your friend clearly possesses a… dedication to her pursuits.” “She does,” Aurora agreed, her voice clipped. She busied herself with the kettle, forcing herself to focus on the mundane task of making tea. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words, with the ghosts of their past. “So,” Lucien said, breaking the quiet. "Let's talk about why I'm here." Aurora poured the boiling water into a teapot, the sound unusually loud in the small flat. "You always were rather direct, weren’t you?" He leaned against the bookshelf, his cane resting against his leg. "Directness is a virtue, Aurora. Especially when time is of the essence.” She slid two chipped mugs across the small table, handing him one without meeting his eyes. "And what precisely is of the essence?" He took a sip of tea, his eyes fixed on her. "There’s been… activity. Unusual activity. In Avaros." Her hand tightened around her mug. Avaros. His home, the realm of demons. A place she'd only ever heard about in hushed tones, a place that represented everything she didn’t understand about him. "What kind of activity?" "Disturbance," he said, his voice low. "A power shift. Someone, or something, is vying for control." "And this concerns me how?" she asked, hoping to deflect. The less she knew about his world, the better. He set his mug down, the delicate clink echoing in the room. "It concerns us both, Aurora. Because whatever happens in Avaros… it bleeds into this world. And the ripples are already being felt.” Aurora felt a chill run down her spine despite the warmth of the tea. She remembered the night they'd parted, the argument that had ripped through them like a storm. He'd accused her of not understanding him, of keeping him at arm's length. She'd accused him of being a creature of secrets, of never truly letting her in. Perhaps she’d been right. “What kind of ripples?” she pressed. “An increase in… instability,” he explained, choosing his words carefully. "Magical surges. Disappearances. There’s a growing sense of unrest among the… less savory elements of London’s population." "You're saying things are getting dangerous," she said, stating the obvious. "Potentially very dangerous," he confirmed. "And I need your help." She almost laughed. "My help? You're joking, right? I deliver Chinese food and occasionally untangle Eva’s spells. What exactly do you think I can do?” “You’re resourceful, Aurora. Clever. You have a way of seeing things others miss. And," he paused, his gaze locking with hers, "you have a certain… connection to the Veil.” The Veil. The barrier between the human world and the supernatural realm. A connection she’d always tried to ignore, to deny. It was a reminder of the strange, unsettling power that simmered beneath her skin. "I'm not a magician, Lucien," she said, her voice barely a whisper. “You possess a sensitivity, Aurora. A natural affinity. It’s a rare gift, and one that is increasingly valuable.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. “I need someone who can navigate the shifting currents, someone who isn't bound by the rigid rules of either world." She looked away, focusing on Ptolemy, who was now attempting to knead Lucien’s expensive trousers. “Why me?” she repeated, her voice strained. “Why not go to someone… qualified? One of your contacts?” He shook his head. "Many of my contacts are… compromised. Or simply lack your particular skillset.” He shifted, the movement causing the ivory handle of his cane to glint in the light. “And frankly, Aurora, I trust you.” That stung. Trust. It was a word that had been thrown around between them, a fragile promise broken months ago. She looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a depth in his eyes she hadn't noticed before, a vulnerability that belied his impeccable facade. “And what do you offer in return, Lucien?” she asked, her voice cold. "Besides a chance to relive the past?" He paused, considering her question. The silence stretched, heavy and laden with unspoken history. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and sincere. “A truth, Aurora. And the opportunity to protect the world that you care about. Your world.” He straightened, his gaze unwavering. “And perhaps,” he added, a flicker of something almost like hope in his amber eye, “a chance to salvage what we’ve lost.”