"May I?"
The voice is low, clear. A bell cutting through chaos.
Elena blinks hard, lungs aching. She sees the nicks on his knuckles, the leather watch-strap dark with mist. Smells citrus, sharp and clean, with a trace of white musk.
Her chest loosens. The world is wide enough to breathe again.
She nods.
Her fingers, trembling, slide into his.
Heat meets heat. The sigil at her wrist flares, answering with a quick, bright throb.
He feels it too. Brows lift. But instead of pulling away, he steadies—thumb resting light against her hand.
"You're safe with me." His words fall like an oath. "Can you stand?"
"Yes."
And the moment she says it, it becomes true.
He rises with her. Not dragging. Guiding. Turning himself between her and the falling shards of light.
The sigil flares, bright enough to sting. He notices, softening his tone.
"We move. Slowly. I'll keep us covered."
He lifts his free hand. The air obeys.
Light curves into a barrier, translucent gold. Sparks rain against it, fizzing harmless like summer rain on canvas.
The glow warms his cheekbones. And Elena realizes—she's watching him instead of the storm.
"Lucus," he says, as if names belong even in chaos. "What should I call you?"
"Elena."
"Elena." He repeats it with care. "Stay close."
They move.
The barrier glides with them, a dome of safety through ruin. They pass a toppled cart spilling fire-peppers. Ribbons on the ground shift color as dust touches them. A lantern swings overhead, fractured light dizzying the street.
Each time the market lunges—splintering wood, stray bolts of magic—Lucus shifts between her and danger.
A sudden flare whips low. Fast as a knife.
He is faster.
Shoulder brushing hers, he plants his feet and fans the barrier wide. The strike slams into it, air ripping loud—then dies.
The recoil shudders through the shield and into his body. She feels it, a thump that travels into her palm. It matches the sigil's rhythm.
Pulse. Sync. Resist.
Outside, shadows ripple in the same cadence. Breathing. Alive.
Her skin prickles. As if something unseen has leaned closer to listen.
"Almost there," Lucus murmurs. He doesn't name her trembling. He doesn't need to. "Quiet alley ahead."
They slip into a narrow cut between warehouses. The wind dies. The air smells of damp rope and citrus peel.
Lucus lowers the barrier. Only a faint glow remains around them.
The hush rings loud.
Elena's legs give way, sudden.
"Easy."
He loosens their grip only to brace an arm at her back. He pauses—waiting. Asking without words.
"It's okay," she says. And when his palm settles warm against her shoulder blades, her breath remembers how to move.
Up close, he looks like gentleness given discipline. The careful part in his hair. The steady set of his posture. The way he makes space for silence.
Dust speckles his lashes, but his gaze never leaves her face.
"Tell me what you need."
She should ask for water. Or time. Or somewhere to sit.
Instead, the truth leaps out, mortifying. Don't go.
She swallows. "A minute."
"A minute is yours." His mouth softens, almost a smile. Not performance. Relief. "What happened out there?"
She lowers her gaze. The sigil has cooled, from wildfire to ember. Sun and crescent stitched in her skin like gold thread. Beautiful, in the wrong way.
"I don't know. It… chose me."
His eyes move to the mark. Neutral. Concern carefully hidden for her sake.
"Does it hurt now?"
"It… pulls. Like a tide."
He nods once, glances toward the alley's mouth. Dust drifts like smoke.
"You're not alone with it." His voice is quiet, nearly casual. But it lands with weight. "As long as I'm here, you're not."
Something tight in her loosens. She lifts a hand to her hair, sees the tremor still in her fingers.
Lucus sees it too.
Slowly, steadily, he lifts his hand beneath hers. Offering.
She lets her shaking rest in his hold.
His fingers cradle hers, warm against her pulse.
Color rises in her cheeks. She wishes for a defense. Finds none.
"Better?" he asks, soft.
"Better," she admits. Then, awkward, tips her head to the sigil. "When you touched me… it changed. Like it heard you."
His mouth tilts, thoughtful. "Then I'll keep talking to it."
Mild words. Fierce intent beneath.
The sigil flares. Sudden. Bright.
Elena stumbles, knees weak.
Lucus catches her instantly. His arm firms at her back, pulling her forward before gravity can.
She falls against him—palms to his chest. Heat. A steady thud beneath fabric. His scent—citrus and musk, clean and close.
For a long second, she stays.
"Sorry," she breathes, horrified by how much safety she finds there.
"Nothing to be sorry for." His tone leaves no room for argument.
He doesn't trap her. He makes a boundary and lets her choose where to stand inside it.
The mark dims, but the sense of being watched thickens.
A pressure, just at the edge of hearing. Breath where no body stands.
Elena's inhale falters—Lucus's too.
The world syncs. Two tides answering one moon.
"Did you feel that?" she whispers.
He doesn't lie. "Something." His shoulders shift, ready but not rigid. He places himself between her and the dark. "We leave when you're ready. Not before."
Elena should say now.
Instead, the truer word beats in her chest—stay.
The pressure grows colder. As if the night itself leans closer.
"Lucus," she says.
"I'm here." He squeezes her hand. Human against inhuman. "With you."
The laugh comes then.
Low. Not Lucus.
It threads into the alley like smoke, intimate at her ear though no one stands close.
Not mocking. Pleased. A claim, recognized.
The sigil flares. Violent. Pulse. Sync. Resist.
Lucus's barrier snaps brighter, bracing.
Elena's breath stutters.
Lucus steps forward, light blooming in his palm. Drawing a clean line between them and the dark.
The laugh fades into hush. Teeth behind it.
"Stay with me," he says. Not command. A bridge.
She nods. Heart hammering—hers, not hers. Light and shadow breathing the same air.
Beyond the alley's mouth, the day thins.
And Elena understands—something in the night has noticed her.
The world narrows.
Only Lucus. The steady warmth of his chest.
Elena clings to him. Breath shallow. Pulse fluttering where his hand steadies hers.
For a moment—she thinks she could dissolve.
Into the white musk at his coat.
Into the promise in his arm at her back.
Then the sigil surges.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Each beat heavier. Stronger. Not hers alone.
Her heart.
Lucus's.
And a third rhythm. Refusing to merge.
Not two. Three.
"Elena."
His voice cuts through, low and patient. "Look at me."
She forces her gaze upward. Finds his eyes—steady, unwavering.
"You're safe with me."
She almost believes him—
—until the alley exhales.
The warmth of Market Row dies behind them. Darkness swallows ahead.
Only a single slash of moonlight cuts the stones like a blade.
The laughter returns. Velvet. Close. Sliding along her skin.
"So fragile…"
The sigil blazes. Pain slices her wrist.
She gasps. Lucus tightens his hold.
But the mark drags her forward—toward shadow. Toward that voice curling like smoke.
"…mine."
Cold breath skims her cheek. She shudders.
Lucus shifts to shield her, light blooming. But the sigil thrums harder—pulse, sync, resist—yanking her toward the dark.
She clutches his sleeve. Torn. Safety or compulsion.
And in the moonlight she sees him.
A silhouette cut from night. Coat stirring like smoke. A glint of silver on his hand—a ring catching the blade of light.
No eyes visible. Yet she feels them. Sharp. Hungry.
Her lips part. Who are you?
The silence trembles. As though it answers.
Lucus's voice cuts firm: "Who's there? Show yourself."
Only a chuckle. Softer. More intimate.
The sigil pulses again—
Pulse. Sync. Resist.
Three heartbeats thunder in her chest. Hers. Lucus's. The other.
Wild. Magnetic. Inevitable.
The alley stretches taut. Day and night drawn tight as wire.
Lucus steadies her at the elbow, his breath brushing her temple. "Stay with me, Elena. Whatever this is—I won't let it take you."
She longs to drown in him. In steadiness.
But the mark sears hotter. Dragging her pulse toward shadow.
Not rejection of day—
but night, answering a call in her blood.
"So fragile…" The voice sighs. Closer. Lips against her ear. "…mine."
The figure dissolves into deeper dark. But the claim lingers.
Lucus curses, shield blazing. Gold hums, straining against shadow's press.
The tremor runs through his grip.
Her mind reels.
Lucus—the guardian of day.
Offering warmth without demand.
And the night—
reaching with dangerous promise.
Both forces breathe through her. Both hearts beat within her chest.
Pulse. Sync. Resist.
Her knees buckle. She clings harder to Lucus. But her gaze—refuses to leave the dark.
The unseen eyes burn closer.
The air thickens. Colder.
Even his shield feels fragile.
"Elena," Lucus whispers, fierce. "I've got you. Stay."
She nods. But the sigil scorches. Defiant.
Her breath tangles in rhythms not her own.
And then—
The whisper seals against her skin like an oath.
"Night is coming."
The words sink deep. Colder than bone.
The shield quakes. Lucus straining to hold it.
The sigil answers louder. Brighter. Alive with will of its own.
Light and shadow collapse inward.
Day and night colliding inside her.
Elena sways at the center—
caught between the warmth she clings to
and the hunger she cannot resist.
And the chapter ends here.
Her whisper—
swallowed by the dark.