The entrance to the plague tunnels sat beneath a bakery.

Not metaphorically.

An actual bakery.

Warm yellow light spilled across rain-dark cobblestones while exhausted employees stacked trays behind fogged windows completely unaware that medieval death tunnels existed three floors beneath their feet.

Prague was full of things like that.

Beautiful architecture built on top of horrors people stopped talking about centuries ago.

Seraphina stood beneath the bakery awning around dawn with one hand tucked inside her coat pocket to hide the slight tremor still running through her injured shoulder.

The bite burned worse now.

Not visibly.

The wound itself had already started sealing at an unnatural speed.

That part bothered her more than the pain.

Lucien noticed immediately, of course.

He noticed everything.

“You’re pale,” he said from beside her.

“I haven’t slept.”

“That isn’t the only reason.”

Seraphina ignored that.

Across the street, early-morning trams rattled slowly through wet intersections while commuters moved along sidewalks clutching coffee cups and umbrellas. Nobody paid attention to the two strangers standing outside the bakery before sunrise.

Humans rarely looked directly at danger unless it interrupted traffic.

Lucien glanced toward the storefront windows.

“The owner opens at six.”

“You know the owner?”

“I know her grandfather.”

Seraphina looked at him flatly.

“You say things like that too casually.”

“I’m six hundred years old. Everyone’s grandfather becomes relevant eventually.”

That almost sounded like humor.

Almost.

The bakery door finally opened a few minutes later, releasing a wave of warmth and fresh bread into the cold morning air. An elderly woman stepped outside carrying empty flour crates before immediately freezing at the sight of Lucien.

Not frightened.

Annoyed.

“There you are,” she said in Czech. “You missed Tuesday again.”

Lucien inclined his head slightly. “I was occupied.”

“You’re always occupied. One day I’ll die and you’ll still owe me money.”

“You’ve been saying that since 1987.”

The woman squinted at him suspiciously before finally noticing Seraphina standing nearby.

Her expression changed instantly.

Not softer exactly.

Curious.

“You brought a girl.”

Seraphina blinked.

Lucien looked briefly inconvenienced by the conversation.

“She’s working.”

“Mmhm.”

The woman clearly did not believe him.

She waved them both inside anyway.

The bakery smelled overwhelmingly human after the night they’d had.

Yeast.

Coffee.

Sugar.

Warm ovens.

Seraphina hadn’t realized how tense her body remained until stepping into ordinary life again made her feel strangely disconnected from it.

Lucien moved through the kitchen like someone familiar enough not to ask permission. The old woman disappeared briefly into the back room before returning with an iron key attached to faded red string.

“Same rules as always,” she told him.

“We won’t stay long.”

“You never do.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward Seraphina’s shoulder beneath the coat.

Sharp eyes.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

The woman snorted softly in the universal language of older women who had raised stubborn people before.

“Of course you are.”

Lucien accepted the key and headed toward a narrow storage corridor near the back kitchen. Seraphina followed reluctantly, aware of the old woman watching them both with increasing interest.

“Your boyfriend looks exhausted,” the woman called after her casually.

Seraphina nearly walked into a shelf.

“He’s not—”

But Lucien had already opened the hidden cellar door before she finished.

Coward.

The staircase beneath the bakery descended farther than expected.

Stone steps worn smooth with age spiraled downward into darkness while old electrical wiring buzzed faintly overhead. The deeper they went, the colder the air became.

Not natural cold.

Buried cold.

The kind that settled into underground places where sunlight stopped mattering centuries ago.

Lucien walked ahead carrying one lantern while Seraphina followed carefully behind him, one hand resting near the pistol holstered beneath her coat.

“You trust that woman?” she asked eventually.

“I trust her bread.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“She’s harmless.”

“You say that very confidently for someone who drinks blood.”

Lucien glanced back briefly over one shoulder.

“You’re in an argumentative mood this morning.”

“I got attacked by experimental vampires six hours ago.”

“Fair.”

The tunnel finally widened into a massive underground chamber lined with old plague markings carved into stone walls.

Seraphina stopped immediately.

Ancient symbols covered nearly every surface.

Circles.

Prayers.

Protective seals.

Some faded with time.

Others disturbingly fresh.

Her attention sharpened.

“Those weren’t here centuries ago.”

“No.”

Lucien lifted the lantern higher.

More symbols emerged from darkness farther down the corridor.

Seraphina stepped closer carefully, fingers brushing against one of the carvings near the wall.

Silver dust clung faintly to the grooves.

Church silver.

Her stomach tightened.

“These are modern.”

“Yes.”

“Who put them here?”

Lucien didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he crouched near one of the lower symbols and ran his thumb slowly across the edge of the carving.

The expression on his face shifted subtly afterward.

Recognition again.

And underneath it—

anger.

“Your Church,” he said quietly, “has been coming down here for years.”

The tunnel suddenly felt smaller.

Seraphina straightened slowly.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You keep saying that.”

She opened her mouth to argue again before stopping herself.

Because lately impossible things kept becoming real in front of her face.

Lucien stood and continued deeper into the tunnel.

“This section was sealed after the Black Death,” he explained. “Originally it held infected bodies.”

“And now?”

“Something else.”

The deeper they moved underground, the stranger the markings became.

Some resembled old Church scripture.

Others looked almost biological.

Vein-like patterns spreading across stone in branching lines.

At one point Seraphina noticed dried blood embedded into the grooves.

Human blood.

Recent.

“You knew this was happening,” she said quietly.

Lucien slowed slightly ahead of her.

“I knew someone was experimenting.”

“And you did nothing?”

That made him stop completely.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

When he turned back toward her, the lantern light carved shadows beneath his eyes sharp enough to make him look older than usual.

“Twelve years ago,” he said, “I warned the Order that someone inside the Church was attempting artificial transformation trials.”

Seraphina stared at him.

“They listened politely.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the carved walls around them.

“Then they buried the evidence.”

Something unpleasant settled heavily beneath her ribs after that.

Because she could hear the truth in the way he said it.

Not bitterness.

Experience.

Farther ahead, the tunnel opened suddenly into a circular chamber large enough to resemble an underground chapel.

Ancient plague carts rusted along the walls beside broken medical tables and overturned crates.

In the center of the room stood a massive iron door covered in symbols.

Seraphina’s breath caught slightly.

She recognized them immediately.

Not from field work.

From Blackthorn archives.

Restricted pages her father once caught her reading after curfew when she was sixteen.

Containment doctrine.

Her pulse slowed sharply.

“How old is this door?”

“Older than the Order.”

Lucien moved toward it carefully.

The iron surface had been partially reopened recently. Fresh scrape marks cut through centuries of rust near the hinges.

Someone had forced entry.

Seraphina stepped closer beside him.

Then froze.

At the center of the door, hidden beneath faded plague scripture, sat the unmistakable crest of the Church.

Not modern.

Ancient.

But still there.

Her mouth went dry.

“No,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Lucien looked at her quietly.

Not triumphant.

Not smug.

Worse.

Patient.

Like someone waiting for another person to reach a conclusion he’d already survived years ago.

“You see it now,” he said softly.

Seraphina stared at the Church crest while her thoughts tried rearranging themselves around something they did not want to believe.

Because if the Church built this place—

then the creatures upstairs weren’t accidents.

They were projects.

The bite wound in her shoulder pulsed suddenly beneath her coat.

Sharp enough this time that she nearly reacted.

But Lucien was still watching her.

So instead, Seraphina clenched her jaw and folded her injured arm tighter against her side before stepping away from the door.

She did not miss the way Lucien’s eyes followed the movement immediately.

Noticed.

Filed away.

But after a brief pause—

he said nothing about it.