The child had been hiding behind a collapsed stall, knees pulled to her chest, eyes wide and watchful.
Liora noticed her because no one else did.
People passed the broken stall without looking twice—too busy arguing about miracles, too wary of being seen helping the wrong person in the wrong place. The city had learned suspicion quickly. Kindness, less so.
Liora slowed, then stopped altogether.
"It's okay," she said softly, crouching down so she wasn't looming. "I'm not here to take anything."
The girl didn't answer. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her coat. It was too thin for the season, sleeves frayed, one shoe held together with string.
Liora felt something twist in her chest.
"What's your name?" she asked.
A pause. Then, barely audible, "Mirel."
"That's a good name," Liora said with a small smile. "I'm Liora."
Mirel glanced past her, toward the street. "You shouldn't talk to me," she whispered. "They'll think you're… with them."
"With who?" Liora asked.
"The miracle people. Or the no-miracle people." The girl frowned, clearly unconvinced either group was safe. "Everyone's mad."
Liora huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. "That part's true."
She reached into her bag slowly, deliberately, pulling out a piece of bread wrapped in cloth. She held it out—not pushing, just offering.
Mirel stared at it like it might vanish.
"You don't have to," she said.
"I want to," Liora replied.
After a long moment, the girl took it. Ate quickly, guiltily, eyes never leaving Liora's face as if expecting judgment.
There was none.
When she finished, Liora helped tie the girl's shoe properly, fingers gentle, practiced.
"You should stay near the old library," Liora said quietly. "People still look out for each other there."
Mirel hesitated. "Why are you helping me?"
Liora thought about it.
"Because the city's loud right now," she said. "And someone should still be quiet enough to notice."
The girl nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
When Mirel ran off, Liora stayed crouched for a moment longer, breathing slowly.
She felt watched—but not threatened.
Something distant.
Something old.
She ignored it.
---
Across the city, Aiden stared at the menu like it might bite him.
"This place is… nice," he said, unsure.
It was a small café tucked between two apartment blocks, lights warm, windows fogged slightly from the cold. Not fancy. Not hidden. Just… normal.
"That's the point," Seris said, trying—and failing—to hide her smile. "We're doing something completely unremarkable."
"This is a date," Aiden blurted.
Seris froze.
"I mean—not a date-date," he rushed on. "Just—an unofficial one. Like—if someone asked, we could deny it. But not convincingly."
She laughed then, the sound soft and unguarded.
"Unofficial is fine," she said. "I'm still deciding if I like the idea of 'official' in general."
Aiden relaxed, wings shifting slightly behind him before he tucked them back in with an embarrassed glance around.
They ordered tea. Something sweet. Something warm.
For a little while, the city stayed outside.
They talked about nothing important—bad street food, old books, the strangest rumors they'd heard about themselves. Aiden admitted someone had tried to pray at him earlier.
"I panicked and told them I was just tall," he said.
Seris nearly choked on her drink.
"I wish we could do this more," Aiden said quietly after the laughter faded. "Just… be."
Seris met his eyes. "We will. Even if it's messy."
That felt like a promise.
---
In a quieter place, beneath older stone and deeper shadow, Inkaris listened.
Caelum did not bother with pleasantries.
"I shielded her during Malvane's ascension," the fallen angel said, tone casual, as if discussing a solved equation. "The corruption would have marked her otherwise."
Inkaris' eyes narrowed slightly. "You acted without consulting me."
"Yes," Caelum replied easily. "And you would have agreed."
Inkaris exhaled. "Explain."
Caelum leaned against the wall. "She is Nephilim-adjacent. Angel blood. Her mother was—"
"I know who she was," Inkaris said quietly.
That stopped Caelum.
"…Then you understand why her face unsettled me," Caelum said after a moment.
Inkaris nodded once.
"She does not know," Caelum continued. "And she should not. Not yet."
A brief silence settled between them.
"She was the one ordered to cast you out," Inkaris said. Not accusation. Just truth.
"Yes," Caelum replied. "Unwillingly."
"Do you resent her?"
Caelum considered the question longer than expected.
"I resent the war that demanded obedience over mercy," he said at last. "And the heavens that called it balance."
Inkaris closed his eyes briefly. "Then watch. Do not interfere."
"I was already planning to," Caelum said lightly. "But I admit… I'm curious how much of her survives this city."
Inkaris' jaw tightened. "She will."
Caelum smiled faintly. "Confidence. From you. Noted."
---
Later that night, the city hummed with unresolved tension.
But in three separate corners of it—
A child slept with a full stomach.
Two people shared warmth and quiet laughter.
And a truth remained unspoken, waiting.
Not everything needed to be loud to matter.
Some mercies were small.
And sometimes, that was enough.
---