The train reached the city that housed Second Light’s headquarters just as the sky had deepened into a dark, velvety blue.

  They found a modest hotel a few streets from the station and booked two adjoining rooms: Caelan, Elric, and Momoru in one; Lyciah and Seliane in the other. Both rooms shared a balcony, divided only by a low railing.

  Seliane fell asleep almost instantly. Her breathing turned slow and steady, completely unaware of the storm still churning inside Lyciah, who lay wide awake.

  Careful not to wake her, Lyciah sat up and padded barefoot toward the balcony, dragging a blanket with her. She eased the door open and stepped outside. The sky was clear, scattered with stars.

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and let out a quiet sigh.

  “Of course, Lyciah…” she muttered under her breath. “You’re just going to see your deceased mother again after years. Nothing major. Go to sleep.”

  “Pretending it isn’t important won’t make it so.”

  Lyciah jolted so violently she nearly lost her balance. She swallowed a yelp, clutched at her chest, and spun halfway around in alarm.

  “Wha—?!” she blurted in panic, scanning the darkness as if she’d accidentally summoned a ghost.

  On the adjacent balcony, standing with ceremonial straightness against the railing, was Caelan. Tall. Impeccable. The night breeze moved faint strands of his blond hair.

  She pointed at him with a trembling finger.

  “You can’t just appear like that. That’s not human.”

  “I am not human.”

  That did absolutely nothing to help. She leaned both forearms on the railing and exhaled.

  “I thought I was alone…”

  He inclined his head toward her; a loose lock brushed his collarbone.

  “It was not my intention to disrupt your strategy of self-suggestion.”

  She looked at him, caught between indignation and embarrassment.

  The cold slipped easily into the space between them. She tightened the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Can’t you sleep?” he asked.

  Lyciah shook her head.

  “I’m… too nervous. I’ll get to see her again. And I can’t stop imagining it. What I’ll say. What I won’t say. Whether I’ll be able to look at her without falling apart…”

  Her voice thinned until the words dissolved into the night air.

  Caelan didn’t answer right away. Not because he lacked words, but because he seemed to weigh them before releasing them.

  “When someone important is waiting for you,” he said at last, “you do not require speeches. Only presence.”

  She nodded, pressing the blanket to her chest. Then she glanced at him sideways, lips pressed together, a faint blush warming her cheeks.

  Even at rest, he stood as though his body had been trained never to grant too much vulnerability.

  And suddenly Lyciah became acutely aware that although she knew what he was, she knew nothing about the life he’d lived.

  “Caelan…”

  She rocked slightly on her heels before continuing.

  “I’d like to… know more about you. You were born human, right? What was your life like?”

  He rested both hands on the railing.

  “It is curious. You prefer not to speak of your nature… yet you wish me to disclose mine.”

  Something tightened in her stomach. In seconds, her mind raced through every possible misstep—she’d been intrusive, inconsiderate, selfish. She had no right to pry.

  “I didn’t mean—” she rushed out, stumbling over herself. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be unfair. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I just—”

  “Lyciah.”

  Her name, spoken without harshness but with firm clarity, stopped the spiral.

  “I was not being serious.”

  Seliane would have burst out laughing. Lyciah simply turned red to the tips of her ears.

  Caelan shifted his gaze toward the sky before continuing.

  “I do not know precisely where I was born. I was an infant when my biological parents were transporting goods between cities and were attacked on the road. I was found beside the remnants of the convoy and taken to Uruk.”

  The name felt as though it belonged to a story far too distant to fit the modern night surrounding them.

  “The family who adopted me belonged to the administrative elite. My father served as commander of a unit within the royal army.”

  Lyciah stepped closer to the low railing between them. Her eyes shone with almost childlike curiosity, as if each word were something rare and newly discovered.

  “So… you grew up a noble.”

  “As someone with responsibilities,” he corrected.

  The wind slipped between them, humming faintly against the railing and lifting strands of her hair. She tucked one behind her ear.

  “From a young age, I excelled in training,” Caelan continued. “I was efficient. Disciplined.”

  That surprised no one.

  “At twenty-six, I inherited my father’s post. I commanded men older than myself. The city placed its trust in me.”

  Lyciah tried to picture him beneath a Mesopotamian sun, issuing orders among spears and wooden shields.

  “It was a good life,” he concluded.

  He didn’t say it with nostalgia or regret. Simply as one might list a fact already archived. Then, in that same steady tone, he added:

  “I would recommend it. With the exception of the ending. I died.”

  It took Lyciah exactly one second to process that. Then she stared at him in utter disbelief.

  “How can you say that so calmly?” she whispered, her voice tight with barely contained energy. “That is not a minor detail, Caelan!”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth—but she was already laughing. Not mockingly. Nervous. Warm.

  He regarded her with his usual, faintly puzzled expression.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  That did it. Lyciah broke into laughter she had to smother in the blanket to avoid waking half the hotel. She bent forward slightly, shoulders shaking.

  And in the middle of it, she realized something. The tight knot in her stomach—the one that had kept her awake—had quietly unraveled without her noticing.

  She looked at him again. This time without nerves, only with a genuine smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He frowned, even more perplexed. He had no idea what he was being thanked for, but he chose not to press.

  She hesitated before speaking again.

  “Caelan… how… how did you die? Y-you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to…”

  He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. The posture came to him as naturally as breath.

  “Uruk entered into an alliance. A princess of Kish was to marry the king of Uruk. It was a sound political agreement. Beneficial to both cities.”

  Lyciah nodded repeatedly, as though she were sitting in a lecture.

  “However, the princess and I… developed a relationship.”

  Her mouth fell open. The blanket slipped slightly from her shoulder without her noticing. She stared at him as if the perfect commander had just admitted to personally setting fire to protocol.

  He caught that look.

  “It was kept private,” he clarified with immaculate composure. “Until it wasn’t.”

  This time his expression shifted in a very specific way. His jaw tightened; he looked aside with a clipped movement, as though it still offended him that a Mesopotamian king had dared interrupt.

  “Palaces, it seems, have more ears than walls.”

  Something stirred in Lyciah’s chest. It wasn’t what he was saying—it was how he was saying it. That polished tone, that military straightness… and beneath it, unmistakable resentment. She had never seen him like this. He looked—almost—like a sulking boy. That was what made it funny.

  “We were discovered in her chambers.”

  The sentence was so direct it nearly sounded innocent.

  “In my defense,” he added with absolute seriousness, “we were not technically conspiring against the state. Merely against common sense.”

  Lyciah held her breath—and her laughter.

  “I was accused of treason. The trial was brief. I was not even permitted to finish dressing.”

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes briefly, as though the detail remained annoyingly precise.

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  “I was executed publicly… barefoot and without a shirt.”

  Her expression defied categorization: one brow raised, mouth pressed tight to contain laughter, eyes shining with compassion and disbelief.

  He continued in the same even tone.

  “In retrospect, falling in love with the king’s betrothed is not an optimal strategy if you intend to keep your head.”

  A small laugh slipped out despite her effort.

  “I… I don’t know whether I should apologize for laughing or for not knowing what to say right now.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed. He held her gaze with unshakable dignity.

  “It does not matter. I have had centuries to accept it.”

  She studied him carefully. That was not the face of someone who had accepted it. It was the exact expression of a man who had lost an argument five thousand years ago and was still mentally drafting his final rebuttal.

  “You haven’t accepted it.”

  “I have,” he stated with impeccable firmness. “It was a minor incident. Humiliating, certainly. Undignified. Strategically mismanaged on both sides. And entirely unnecessary.”

  He paused, folding his arms and falling silent for a beat.

  “But resolved,” he concluded.

  Lyciah finally gave up and laughed openly.

  And for the first time since she’d met him, the perfect knight looked less like a statue and more like a man. Strangely enough, that only made him more impressive in her eyes.

  He watched her in silence. She kept laughing, shaking her head, wind tugging at her hair while she tried clumsily to hold it in place.

  For weeks, part of him had been fixated on the source of her healing power, turning that question into something urgent.

  Yet watching her laugh, he understood that perhaps some questions could wait.

  Morning light fell straight across the balconies, exposing hanging laundry and half-lowered shutters.

  Ekchron was walking against all common sense. He walked backward along the sidewalk, arms laced behind his head, with that infuriatingly carefree swagger.

  “I don’t feel them,” he sing-songed, stretching the vowels as if savoring the words. “Not the eternal martyr, not the Dawnbringer. Nothing. Absolute silence. Doesn’t that sound beautiful?”

  Nikandros walked with his hands in his pockets, dark hair stirring in the winter breeze. He didn’t look at Ekchron; he already knew exactly where he was. He always did.

  “And?” he replied flatly. “You do the exact same thing whether they’re here or not.”

  Ekchron let out a sharp laugh, light and far too cheerful for that hour. He pivoted on his heel without breaking stride, now walking as though the street were a stage.

  “Oh, Nik…” he gave a mock sigh. “Don’t be so unromantic. I like to imagine they ran off hand in hand. Great Caelan, the world’s moral compass, whisking his princess away from the wolf. Maybe they’re on some dramatic rooftop right now, exchanging solemn vows.”

  Nikandros didn’t answer, only exhaled in tired resignation.

  Ekchron spun again and resumed walking backward, forcing a cyclist to swerve around him with an irritated huff. He didn’t even flinch.

  “Or maybe,” he continued, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, “they’re plotting how to get rid of me. ‘We must save Spain.’” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock emotion. “Adorable. I wonder if Caelan furrows his brow when he says it. It suits him. Very heroic.”

  A metal shutter rattled upward somewhere nearby. The day was properly beginning.

  “They could just be having breakfast,” Nikandros said dryly.

  Ekchron widened his eyes as though he’d just heard the century’s greatest blasphemy.

  “Breakfast?” he repeated, scandalized. “No, no, no. That’s far too human. I prefer to think they’re trading tragic speeches and destiny-soaked glances. If I’m going to have enemies, they should at least be aesthetically consistent.”

  A female voice, calm and entirely unbothered, slipped into the conversation.

  “Well, if they are having breakfast, I hope their coffee doesn’t go cold while they’re trading tragic speeches.”

  Ekchron froze, as if someone had pressed pause on him. Without turning, he spoke in a voice that was sweet and dangerous all at once.

  “Interrupting other people’s conversations is rude,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “And I’m very sensitive to rudeness. I could decide to tear out your vocal cords and string them up from the nearest lamppost. It would be… creative.”

  The woman answered as if she hadn’t just been promised a very specific piece of urban décor.

  “Azul, sweetheart, you’ve been begging me for a kiss for days. Threatening me isn’t helping your case.”

  Something shifted inside him at the sound of that name. The Seventh Ancestral—who feared neither death nor time—turned, for once, afraid.

  She was there. Brown hair pulled back. Clothes shielding her skin from the sun. Brown eyes watching him with steady calm.

  Lorena.

  Ekchron’s smile fractured instantly.

  “Ah,” he said.

  The edge vanished from his voice as though it had never existed.

  “Baker,” he greeted, quieter than usual. “Well… that’s a coincidence straight out of the oven. Lovely day, isn’t it? Perfect for…” He glanced around, scrambling for something absurdly normal to say. “…taking a walk without threatening anyone.”

  Nikandros looked away toward the other side of the street, clearly enjoying the show in silence.

  Lorena simply watched him with an expression Ekchron couldn’t quite decipher.

  “I’m glad to know your enemies have aesthetic standards,” she said at last. “It’s important to surround yourself with coherent people.”

  Silence settled between them, but for Ekchron it felt like someone had just dropped a piano from a fourth-floor window.

  “Uh…?” he managed, in a display of extraordinary refinement.

  She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

  “I liked the bit about the tragic speeches,” she added calmly. “Very cinematic.”

  Ekchron’s hands, still resting behind his head, slowly came apart. One slipped into his pocket. The other hovered awkwardly, as if he’d forgotten what gesture he was supposed to be performing.

  The thought pierced him like a pin: she heard more than she should have.

  “What are you doing here?” he blurted, too fast. “I mean. Here here. On this specific street. At this very specific time.”

  Lorena raised an eyebrow. He was changing the subject with all the subtlety of a lamppost crashing down. She noticed—and filed it away. She wasn’t going to start tugging on that thread. Not yet.

  “I always pass through here,” she replied with a small shrug. “I’m going to open the bakery. Like every day.”

  Ekchron went still, as if he’d just discovered routines existed without consulting him. The idea struck him as absurd. Almost offensive.

  Satisfied with his disorientation, Lorena shifted her attention with unnerving ease and turned to Nikandros.

  “I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves,” she said, offering him a warm smile. “I’m Lorena.”

  Nikandros tensed immediately. He wasn’t used to normal, human conversation. He preferred clear threats.

  “Nik,” he replied shortly.

  In his head, an extremely irritating little voice whispered: you sounded like you were about to execute someone. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

  “I’m the one who has to put up with him,” he added, jerking a thumb toward Ekchron.

  Ekchron was still processing the revolutionary revelation that bakeries opened every morning without consulting him.

  Nikandros continued, already knee-deep in a social hole and digging himself further down.

  “Ever since Ek—”

  “AZUL!”

  Ekchron snapped back to life. He stepped between them with a bright smile and dangerously alert eyes.

  “Azul,” he repeated, more controlled.

  Lorena said nothing, but she registered the near-slip toward his real name.

  Nikandros looked him up and down, impassive.

  “Azul?” he repeated, not even trying to hide his disdain. “That’s seriously the best you could come up with?”

  Ekchron yanked his jacket straight with unnecessary sharpness, clearly offended.

  “It’s minimalist,” he said, with forced patience. “Not everyone needs some over-the-top, baroque name to exist.”

  “No,” Nikandros shot back flatly. “Some people just need brain cells.”

  Ekchron stepped forward, crowding him. He stretched to his full height—as if sheer indignation might grant him a few extra inches—and tipped his chin up with regal defiance.

  Lorena listened in silence as they started arguing over a fake name like they were dividing up an empire’s inheritance.

  Azul was different. Looser. The way he moved when he argued, the childish glint in his eyes whenever he tried to get the last word, the theatrical sweep of his gestures…

  Before she realized it, she’d been watching him for far too long.

  The orange of his hair caught the morning light as if it carried its own flame. And when he frowned, a small line appeared between his brows—one that vanished whenever he smiled.

  Ekchron turned and caught her staring. Lorena’s pulse leapt at the suddenness of it. And for the first time, she was the one who looked away.

  Lyciah and the others left the hotel early the next morning.

  The city was already fully awake. It was nothing like the smaller, quieter one they had been living in. Here, everything felt taller, faster, louder. Lyciah walked with attentive curiosity. Seliane, meanwhile, had decided discretion was optional.

  “It’s so much bigger than the other one,” she said, tugging at Elric’s arm. “Do you see it? Even the cafes look like they’re competing.”

  “They are,” he replied with an easy smile, letting himself be dragged along. “Welcome to capitalism.”

  A few steps ahead, Caelan and Momoru moved at a steadier pace. They did, in fact, resemble the responsible adults of the group.

  Momoru glanced back at the sound of Seliane’s animated voice.

  “Second human city of their lives,” he murmured with a smile.

  Caelan did not turn.

  “It is only logical that they observe.”

  A few streets later, he slowed to a stop. Momoru noticed and halted beside him.

  Lyciah stopped short, causing Seliane to bump into her. Elric, who had been watching Seliane instead of the path ahead, collided gently with her back.

  “Lyciah…” Seliane and Elric muttered in exaggerated unison.

  Lyciah didn’t apologize. All her attention was fixed forward. Seliane and Elric lifted their heads—and then they saw it.

  A building of pale glass and white framing rose before them, tall and luminous. The windows reflected the blue of the sky. At the top, the company’s name crowned the fa?ade:

  Second Light.

  Lyciah stepped up beside Caelan and Momoru.

  “We’re here.”

  Momoru nodded, and the group moved toward the main entrance, where the automatic doors slid open in silent welcome.

  Inside, an orderly open space enveloped them. Light floors. White walls. A pristine reception desk facing steel elevators.

  Their footsteps echoed softly. A receptionist looked up with professional warmth.

  “Good morning. How may I assist you?”

  Lyciah glanced at Caelan, uncertain. In response, he placed his hand at the small of her back, just above her waist—firm, guiding her forward without pushing. The contact startled her, but instead of unsettling her, it steadied her. She straightened and stepped ahead.

  “Uh… I… we were invited. By Orion.”

  The receptionist’s smile didn’t vanish, but it lost a degree of ease.

  “Orion…?” she repeated, her courtesy now carefully measured.

  Caelan intervened gently.

  “Do you have confirmation of the invitation?”

  It wasn’t a reprimand. It was reasonable. Lyciah opened her bag.

  “Yes. I mean—I think so. He left me the letter and… and something else. I think.”

  She began rummaging with growing nervousness. Papers, a folded notebook, a pen, a small pouch… Everything seemed to multiply beneath the discreet yet unmistakable gaze of nearby employees.

  “I had it here,” she murmured, flushing deeper by the second. “I’m sure I—”

  “There is no need to trouble yourself.”

  A male voice carried clearly from the far end of the lobby. It wasn’t loud, yet it cut cleanly through the space. Everyone looked up.

  A man approached them at a measured, unhurried pace. A few steps behind him walked a woman with equal elegance.

  He wore an immaculate white suit, interrupted only by the deep navy of his tie, the broad lapels, the trim of his pockets, and the single button fastening the jacket. Along his left ear, a silver wing-shaped earring traced the curve. His hair fell to his shoulders, black on the left, white on the right—though rebellious strands of the opposite color slipped across each side. His golden eyes regarded them calmly.

  She wore a white dress with a full skirt that opened softly around her knees. From one shoulder, a black feathered design descended diagonally across her chest and waist, spreading over the skirt. On her right ear, the same wing—mirrored. Her long, wavy hair carried the same division of colors. Straight bangs framed a gentle face, her smile soft, her gaze equally golden.

  The employees reacted at once.

  “M-Mr. Orion,” the receptionist greeted, startled, bowing her head slightly. “Miss Astra.”

  The woman responded with a gracious smile and an elegant nod.

  Lyciah stopped searching through her bag.

  Orion.

  He halted before them and, without raising his voice, made a small gesture with his hand.

  “You may return to your duties. I shall attend to this personally.”

  The employees obeyed without hesitation.

  Only then did he turn his full attention to the group, offering a faint, impeccable smile.

  “Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he said with polished courtesy. “My name is Orion, Chief Executive Officer of Second Light.”

  His gaze settled on Lyciah. He looked at her as though no one else existed in the lobby.

  “Miss Lyciah. I am most grateful that you have chosen to come in person.”

  He placed a hand over his chest and inclined his head slightly, a pale strand falling forward to brush his cheek.

  “I have long anticipated this meeting.”