Lysander did not sleep.
He lay awake on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams as rain tapped softly against the window. Eira's breathing drifted from the other room—steady, unaware, painfully normal. Every sound felt too loud, every thought too sharp. His lips still burned where Cassian had kissed him, as though the memory itself had teeth.
Tomorrow, I will find you.
The words echoed again and again, settling deep beneath his ribs.
When morning finally came, it did so reluctantly. Veyruhn woke under a sky of ash-gray clouds, the storm easing into a thin, persistent drizzle. Lysander rose before Eira, pulling on his boots with shaking hands. He avoided the mirror. He already knew what he would see: a man altered, though nothing visible had changed.
He stepped outside.
The city felt different in daylight—less forgiving. Guards patrolled the main streets, their armor dull beneath the cloud cover, eyes sharp for any sign of transgression. Lysander kept his head down, moving through alleys Cassian had shown him the night before. Each step felt deliberate, as though he were being guided by an unseen hand.
He did not know where he was going.
He only knew he would be found.
It happened near the old market square, where abandoned stalls sagged beneath rotting cloth and broken crates. Lysander paused, a strange pull tightening in his chest. The air felt colder here, thinner somehow.
"Lysander."
His name—spoken softly, precisely—slid along his spine like a blade wrapped in velvet.
He turned.
Cassian stood beneath the archway of a collapsed shop, untouched by the drizzle. He looked the same as the night before—dark coat, sharp features, eyes too knowing for daylight. And yet, seeing him under the pale sky made everything feel more dangerous. Less like a dream. More like a choice.
"You came," Cassian said.
"I didn't know where else to go," Lysander replied honestly.
Cassian's lips curved, faintly. "Good."
They walked together without direction, slipping through the quieter veins of the city. Cassian spoke little, but his presence pressed close, steady and consuming. People moved aside for him without knowing why. Even the guards looked away.
"You frighten them," Lysander murmured.
"No," Cassian said. "They remember me."
That should have terrified him. Instead, it sent a shiver of something darker through his bones.
They stopped before a narrow door marked with a faded sigil. Cassian pushed it open, revealing a stairway descending into shadow.
"Where does this lead?" Lysander asked.
"Below," Cassian replied. "Where truth is less polite."
The underground chamber was old—older than the city above. Stone walls were etched with symbols Lysander didn't recognize. Candles burned low, their flames steady despite the lack of air. A small gathering waited within: men and women, queer and unashamed, their gazes sharp with survival.
This was not a tavern. This was a refuge.
Cassian moved among them like a king without a crown. Hands brushed his sleeve in reverence. Eyes followed him with devotion—and fear. Lysander felt it then, unmistakably.
Cassian did not belong to the city.
The city belonged to him.
"Who are they?" Lysander whispered.
"Those who refused to disappear," Cassian said. "Those the Regent would rather see dead."
A woman stepped forward, her hair braided tight, eyes bright with curiosity. "Is this him?"
Cassian's hand settled at the small of Lysander's back—possessive, steady. "Yes."
The single word echoed.
Something inside Lysander shifted. Not fear. Not pride.
Belonging.
Later, when the chamber emptied and silence returned, Cassian led him deeper into the tunnels. They stopped where the walls opened into a vaulted space lit by a single iron chandelier.
"This is where I decide who stays," Cassian said.
Lysander's heart thudded. "And have you decided?"
Cassian turned to face him fully now. Up close, the daylight had not softened him. If anything, it sharpened the lines of his face, the ancient hunger in his eyes.
"You are already staying," Cassian said. "The question is whether you understand the cost."
Lysander swallowed. "Tell me."
Cassian stepped closer. He did not touch him. That absence was louder than any caress.
"I am not a man who loves safely," Cassian said. "I do not offer escape. I offer truth. Obsession. Hunger. If you walk with me, you will be seen—and hunted. Desired—and ruined."
Lysander's breath shook.
"And if I walk away?"
Cassian's gaze darkened, something like pain flickering through it. "Then you will live. Quietly. And you will always wonder what you were brave enough to leave behind."
Silence stretched between them.
Lysander thought of Eira's worried eyes. The guards. The pyres. The hollow years behind him.
Then he lifted his chin.
"I don't want quiet," he said.
Cassian's breath caught. Just once.
"That," he murmured, "is what will destroy you."
Cassian reached out then, pressing his forehead gently to Lysander's. The contact was brief, reverent, devastating.
"Go home," Cassian said. "Think. I will not cage you without consent."
Lysander nodded, though his chest ached at the distance already growing.
When he returned to the surface, the city felt colder. Smaller.
Eira was waiting when he opened the door.
"You're changing," she said immediately. "Your pulse. Your eyes. You smell like rain and—" She stopped herself, fear creeping into her voice. "Who is he?"
Lysander closed the door softly behind him.
"He sees me," he said.
Eira's face crumpled. "That's not enough."
"I know," Lysander whispered. "But it's everything."
That night, as the city settled into uneasy sleep, Lysander stood at the window, watching shadows stretch across the streets.
Somewhere below, Cassian waited.
And for the first time in his life, Lysander understood the danger of being chosen.
Not because it meant destruction—
—but because it meant he might say yes.
The first scream reached Lysander just before dawn.
It tore through the fog like torn fabric—raw, desperate, cut short far too quickly. He jolted awake, heart hammering, breath tangled in his throat. For a moment he didn't know where he was, only that something was wrong. Deeply, irreversibly wrong.
Then the city answered.
Boots thundered in the street below. Steel rang against stone. A voice barked orders, sharp with authority and hunger. Lysander rose from his bed and moved to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see.
Regent guards.
Five of them dragged a man through the street by his arms. The man's head lolled, blood streaking from his hairline, his clothes torn. Another guard followed, holding a torch though the sky had already begun to pale with morning.
Eira appeared behind Lysander, silent as a ghost.
"Don't look," she whispered.
But he already was.
The guards shoved the man to his knees beneath the old shrine at the corner. One of them unrolled a parchment and began to read—charges Lysander had heard before. Deviance. Heresy. Corruption of the natural order.
The torch was raised.
Lysander's stomach twisted violently. He stepped back, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The memory of Cassian's voice from the night before slid through his mind like a blade.
They remember me.
Eira caught his arm. "You know this is happening more often," she said, her voice tight. "The Regent is purging the city. Anyone who doesn't fit—anyone who refuses to kneel."
Lysander pulled free gently. His skin felt too tight, too sensitive, as if the world had sharpened overnight.
"I know," he said.
But knowing felt different now. Personal.
Cassian had warned him of the cost. Had laid it bare without softening the truth. And still, Lysander had walked straight into the dark.
By nightfall, the city buzzed with fear.
Candles were shuttered early. Lovers kept their distance. Even the taverns felt subdued, laughter muted, eyes darting toward the doors. Lysander moved through the streets with purpose this time, his steps guided not by uncertainty but by a quiet pull beneath his ribs.
Cassian did not make him wait.
He emerged from the shadow of a narrow archway, as though the darkness itself had exhaled him. His gaze flicked over Lysander—alert, assessing—before softening almost imperceptibly.
"You saw," Cassian said.
It was not a question.
"Yes," Lysander replied. His voice did not shake. That frightened him more than if it had.
Cassian's jaw tightened. "They're accelerating."
"They burned someone this morning," Lysander said. "In the street."
Cassian turned away sharply, one hand curling into a fist. For the first time, Lysander sensed something beneath the control—anger, yes, but also restraint. As though Cassian were holding back something vast and ruinous.
"Come," Cassian said. "You shouldn't be seen with me here."
They moved quickly, slipping through back ways and forgotten passages until the city noise dulled into a distant echo. Cassian led him into an abandoned archive beneath an old magistrate's hall. Dust coated the shelves, and broken scrolls littered the floor like shed skin.
"This is where I'll tell you the rest," Cassian said.
Lysander's pulse spiked. "The rest of what?"
Cassian faced him fully now. The candlelight caught in his eyes, revealing something old. Something endlessly tired.
"What I am," Cassian said quietly. "And what loving me costs."
Silence stretched between them.
"I am not simply immortal," Cassian continued. "That is the word people use when they don't want to understand. I am bound."
He lifted his hand and pulled his glove free. Symbols were etched into his skin—faint, old, scarred into flesh rather than inked. Lysander's breath caught.
"A covenant," Cassian said. "Forged centuries ago. I was given power to protect those the world sought to erase. In return, I became the thing they feared."
Lysander stepped closer despite himself. "The blood."
"Yes."
Cassian did not look away. "Not wanton. Not careless. But necessary. I take from those who would destroy others. It is the only reason the covenant still holds."
Lysander's thoughts raced. "And if it breaks?"
Cassian's mouth curved into something like a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Then the city will burn. And so will I."
The weight of that settled heavy between them.
"You should leave," Cassian said suddenly. "Tonight. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe."
Lysander stared at him. "That's it?"
Cassian's voice lowered. "The Regent knows my name again. Knows I'm active. He will bait me. And if you are near me when he does—"
"I don't care," Lysander cut in.
Cassian froze.
"You think I haven't been hunted my whole life?" Lysander continued, anger sparking now, bright and sharp. "You think safety ever belonged to me?"
Cassian turned back slowly. "This isn't the same."
"No," Lysander said. "It's worse. Because this time, I'd be running from something I chose."
Cassian stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Lysander—"
"You said you wouldn't cage me," Lysander whispered. "So don't push me out either."
For a long moment, Cassian said nothing. Then, quietly, "If you stay, they will use you against me."
Lysander lifted his chin. "Then teach me how not to break."
Something in Cassian's expression fractured.
He reached out—not to touch, but to hover his hand over Lysander's heart. Lysander felt it then, unmistakably: a resonance, a hum beneath his skin, as though something inside him recognized Cassian.
"You are already closer to the dark than you know," Cassian murmured.
That night, as they parted at the edge of the underground, Cassian pressed a small object into Lysander's palm.
A ring. Iron. Warm.
"If danger comes," Cassian said, "break it."
Lysander closed his fingers around it. "And then?"
Cassian's eyes darkened. "Then I will come for you."
Eira knew the moment Lysander stepped inside.
"What did he give you?" she asked softly.
Lysander hesitated, then showed her the ring.
Her face drained of color. "That's old magic."
"Yes."
Her voice trembled. "Lysander… whatever he is, whatever he promises—it always ends in blood."
He met her gaze steadily. "So does silence."
That night, Lysander lay awake again—but this time, not hollow.
This time, he felt watched.
Not by Cassian.
By the city itself.
And somewhere above, in a palace of black stone, the Regent smiled—
because the trap had been set.