The streets were quieter than they had any right to be. The gas lamps flickered faintly, casting puddles of pale light that barely held back the encroaching darkness. Seraphina walked beside Lucien, her thoughts still tangled with the fragments of what had happened earlier. The warmth of his hand on her arm lingered in her memory, though he had let go the moment they reached the edge of the square.

He moved with an ease that was unnatural, every step deliberate and silent. She could almost believe he was not touching the ground at all. His attention seemed fixed ahead, but she could sense he was aware of every shift in the air, every shadow that breathed against the walls.

“Where are we going?” she asked at last, her voice low, careful not to let it echo.

“To a place where they will not find you,” he said, without looking at her. “For tonight, that is enough.”

“They?”

Lucien’s gaze finally flickered her way, his expression unreadable. “You have seen one already. The others are not as patient.”

They turned down a narrow lane where the stones were slick from recent rain. The buildings leaned inward as though they were conspiring to hide what passed between them. The sound of the city had faded until only their footsteps remained.

Seraphina slowed. “I am not sure I should trust you.”

“You should not,” he said simply, and then his eyes softened in a way that unsettled her even more than his warning. “But you will.”

Before she could reply, he stopped abruptly, one hand lifting slightly to signal her to be still. She followed his gaze to the mouth of the alley ahead, where a tall figure lingered just beyond the reach of the lamp. The shape was wrong — shoulders too narrow, limbs too long. It tilted its head, as though scenting the air.

Lucien’s voice was a quiet command. “Behind me.”

She obeyed without thinking, her heart thudding against her ribs. The figure moved, gliding forward until its face caught the light — pale, almost skeletal, with eyes like black glass. The smile it gave was devoid of warmth.

“I had hoped to find you alone,” it said, its voice like silk over broken glass. “The girl complicates things.”

“You will not touch her,” Lucien replied, his tone deceptively calm.

The creature’s gaze slid past him to Seraphina. “She smells of the old blood. Does she even know what she is?”

Seraphina’s breath caught. “What I am?” she whispered.

Lucien’s hand brushed her arm lightly, a silent command to stay silent. “Leave,” he said to the stranger. “While I still allow it.”

The pale figure’s smile widened into something jagged. “You are bound, Lucien. You cannot protect her forever. The Court will have her.”

Then, without warning, it vanished into the dark, leaving only the echo of its words behind.

Lucien stood very still for a moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned to her. “We need to move. Now.”

They walked quickly, his hand once more guiding her, though not unkindly. The streets gave way to an older part of the city, where ivy climbed the walls and the air smelled faintly of damp earth. Finally, they stopped before a heavy wooden door set into a crumbling stone arch. Lucien pushed it open, revealing a narrow hall lit by a single candle.

“This will do for tonight,” he said.

Inside, the air was warmer, though still tinged with the scent of age. A single room lay beyond, its walls lined with shelves of books that looked older than the city itself. A chair sat near the hearth, and above it, the faded portrait of a woman with dark hair and solemn eyes.

Seraphina felt the air shift as Lucien closed the door behind them.

“Who was she?” she asked, nodding toward the portrait.

He looked at it for a long time before answering. “Someone I failed to save.”

She wanted to ask more, but the weight in his voice stopped her. Instead, she crossed to the shelves, running her fingers along the spines. The leather was cracked, the gold lettering faded. Some of the titles were in languages she did not know, and others in scripts she had only seen in the margins of the monk’s diary.

Lucien came to stand beside her, so close she could feel the faint chill that seemed to follow him. “These are not books for you,” he said quietly.

“I thought you were hiding me,” she said. “Not keeping me ignorant.”

“Sometimes ignorance is the only shield left.”

She turned to face him. “And what happens when the shield breaks?”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment she thought she saw something in them — fear, perhaps, though she could not be sure. Then he stepped back, breaking the moment.

“You should rest,” he said. “I will keep watch.