AI The second deadbolt slid back with a screeching protest of rusted iron. Before I could even finish twisting the handle, the door swung inward with enough force to bang against the peeling wallpaper of the hallway.
Lucien stood there, framed by the dim, flickering light of the landing. His charcoal tailored suit looked like it had been pressed by a ghost, not a wrinkle in sight, and his ivory-handled cane rested against his palm like a sceptre. One amber eye locked onto mine, while the other—that unsettling, void-like black—seemed to be cataloguing every single tremor in my chest.
"You’re late," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Traffic in London is a fickle mistress, Aurora," he replied.
He didn't wait for an invite. He swept past me into the flat, his presence immediately shrinking the room. The air suddenly smelled of sharp cedarwood, cold rain, and something metallic, like the ozone before a lightning strike. Ptolemy, the ginger tabby, bolted from his spot on the stack of pre-law textbooks, tail puffed to twice its normal size, and retreated beneath the divan.
"I didn't say you could come in," I muttered, slamming the door shut and engaging the brass locks again. Every one of them. My hands were shaking, so I shoved them deep into the pockets of my oversized jumper to hide the crescent scar on my wrist.
"The locks are a nice touch, though hardly effective against someone with my specific heritage."
He tapped his cane twice on the floorboards, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cramped space. He moved toward the window, his gaze scanning the overflowing table of research notes Eva had practically wallpapered the room with. He didn't pick anything up, but his fingers drifted inches above a crinkled scroll, hovering in a way that made my skin prickle.
"Why are you here?"
"A bird sang, Rory. A little thrush mentioned your name in conjunction with a very messy, very public incident at the docks."
"I was delivering a late-night feast for Golden Empress, not burning down the city."
"The restaurant owner is remarkably loyal, or remarkably paid off," Lucien countered. He turned, the heterochromatic contrast of his eyes pinning me to the spot where I stood. "Neither explains why a group of Avaros-blooded thugs were tracking your delivery route."
I walked to the small kitchen nook, keeping the scratched wooden table between us. I needed something to do with my hands. I grabbed a chipped mug and filled it with tepid water from the tap, refusing to offer him anything. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with the weight of that night in Marseille we never spoke about. The way he had left—no note, no explanation, just a cooling room and the lingering scent of his cologne.
"If you're here to lecture me on my career choices, you can find the exit," I said, taking a slow, steadying sip.
"I am here to ensure you don't end up as a permanent resident of the Thames, though my motivations are purely professional, of course."
"Professional." I laughed, but it came out jagged. "You haven't been professional since the day you decided my life was a curiosity to be toyed with."
He stopped pacing. He leaned heavily on his cane, his posture shifting, losing that rigid, untouchable grace. He took three long strides until he was standing just inches from me. Now, the heat radiating from him was palpable , a low-frequency hum that vibrated in my teeth.
"Toyed with?" He reached out, his gloved hand catching my chin, forcing me to look up. His touch was cold, precise, and entirely too familiar . "You have no idea what I kept you from, Aurora. You were a lamb playing among wolves, and I was the only thing preventing you from being torn into ribbons."
"I never asked for a guardian."
"No, you simply insisted on being a disaster."
He leaned closer, the scent of him overwhelming my sense of caution. My pulse hammered against my throat. I could see the reflection of the room in his black eye—distorted, miniature, and chaotic . He smelled of old secrets and expensive ink.
"Why did you leave?" I whispered. The question had been rotting in the back of my mind for months, a splinter I couldn't pull out.
His hand slipped from my chin to the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin just below my hairline. He didn't pull away. He didn't move closer, either. We just stayed in that charged space, the world outside the flat forgotten, the creak of the floorboards under our feet the only sound in the suffocating stillness.
"Leaving was an act of mercy, Rory," he murmured. "Though not for me."
"Don't lie. You don't know how."
"Perhaps not."
He shifted his weight , and the cane clattered against the table, sending a stack of journals sliding to the floor. Neither of us reached for them. His gaze dropped to my lips, briefly, then snapped back to my eyes. His expression hardened, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of cool, aristocratic dispassion.
"The thugs at the docks," he began, his voice lowered to a dangerous, silky rasp. "They weren't working for a local gang. They had seals burnt into their skin—Avaros marks, older than the ones I wear."
"So?"
"So, they aren't looking for a delivery driver." He released me, finally, stepping back as if burnt. "They’re looking for a Catalyst. And unless you’ve been practising the arts in secret, you have no idea why they think you are one."
"I’m a law student, Lucien. I deliver noodles. I’m not a mythological battery."
"Are you?" He pointed his cane at the pile of books on the floor. "Then explain why, every time you grow frustrated, the electronics in this building surge."
I looked toward the corner. The neon sign of the bar downstairs, which had been flickering for weeks, suddenly sparked, crackled, and flared with a blinding, white-hot intensity that filled the room. The smell of burning plastic surged, followed immediately by the wail of a communal fire alarm in the common hallway.
"That wasn't me," I stammered, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold brick of the wall.
"It’s starting, isn’t it?" His voice was cold, detached, but he moved toward the window, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the street below. "They’re outside, Aurora. Three of them, crossing the street. They aren't hiding anymore."
I peered past the curtain. Three figures, draped in heavy, dark coats, were standing perfectly still in the middle of the busy road. They were staring directly up at our window, their shadows stretching long and unnatural against the damp pavement, ignoring the honking horns and the screech of tires as a black town car swerved to avoid them.
"I need to go," I whispered, reaching for my coat.
"Going is a tactical error," Lucien said, his hand flashing out to grip my wrist, his fingers circling the scar. "The moment we step outside, we’re outmatched. We wait."
"Wait for what? Them to finish the job?"
"Wait for the signal."
Just then, the glass of the window spider-webbed, a single, precise impact from the street below sending cracks radiating outward. A heavy, metal bolt flew through the gap, embedding itself deep into the wooden doorframe with a sickening thud, pinning my coat sleeve to the wall.
"They aren't knocking," I breathed.
Lucien pulled a thin, gleaming blade from the ivory handle of his cane, the metal singing as it caught the light.
"No," he said, his eyes turning entirely black . "I believe they are declaring war."