Lucien did not return to the Night Court after leaving House Vespertilio.

Cassian sent three messages.

Morvena sent two.

One lesser noble apparently attempted to send flowers, which remained deeply embarrassing for everyone involved.

Lucien ignored all of it.

Instead, he stood alone inside an abandoned chapel near the river while rain tapped softly against the ruined roof overhead.

The chapel had burned sometime during the nineteenth century and never fully recovered afterward. Half the stained glass remained shattered, allowing Prague’s pale dawn light to spill across cracked stone floors and long-dead prayer benches.

Lucien liked the place because nobody came here anymore.

People eventually abandoned sacred spaces once enough tragedy accumulated inside them.

He understood that instinct.

A rusted lantern glowed faintly near the altar beside several old medical texts spread across a wooden table. Most were written in Latin. One in Arabic. Another in Greek old enough that the leather cracked if handled carelessly.

Lucien sat in silence for a long time without reading any of them.

His attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Rainwater slid slowly down the chapel windows.

Somewhere beyond the city streets, cathedral bells rang for morning prayer.

And despite every attempt at discipline—

he kept thinking about Seraphina standing beneath the ballroom chandeliers with silver hidden against her thigh and fury burning behind her eyes.

You should hate me.

The memory lingered unpleasantly.

Not because she said it.

Because part of him already knew she was right.

Lucien closed the medical text in front of him and leaned back slightly in the wooden chair.

Exhaustion settled differently when you stopped being human.

Not physical fatigue.

Accumulation.

Too many memories pressing against each other at once until the past stopped feeling chronological.

Sometimes all it took was a voice.

A pair of eyes.

A woman standing too close in the rain.

And suddenly centuries collapsed inward.

He hated when that happened.

The chapel door creaked softly behind him.

Cassian entered carrying two paper coffee cups and the expression of someone deeply prepared to become annoying before breakfast.

“I found you,” he announced.

Lucien didn’t look up.

“A tragedy.”

“You vanished after the ballroom.”

“You survived somehow.”

Cassian handed him one of the coffees anyway before settling onto the edge of a nearby prayer bench.

For several moments neither spoke.

Cassian studied him openly over the rim of his cup.

Then:

“You almost kissed her.”

Lucien stared at the coffee in complete silence.

Cassian nodded slowly.

“Ah. So we’re pretending not to hear things now.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“That’s a very technical definition of failure.”

Rain tapped steadily overhead.

Lucien took one slow drink before finally speaking.

“She pointed a gun at my throat.”

Cassian considered that.

“You looked happy about it.”

“That says more about your judgment than mine.”

“No,” Cassian replied lightly. “I think it says something about yours.”

Lucien ignored him.

Mostly because he disliked how accurate the observation felt.

Cassian leaned back against the pew afterward, stretching his legs out across old stone flooring.

“You know what the problem is?”

“I assume you’re about to tell me regardless.”

“You keep looking at her like someone returned something you buried centuries ago.”

The words landed harder than expected.

Lucien’s jaw tightened slightly around the coffee cup.

Cassian noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

They’d known each other too long for subtlety to survive.

“She isn’t Evelyne,” Cassian said more quietly this time.

“I know.”

“Then why do you keep staring at her like you forgot how breathing works?”

Lucien looked toward the ruined stained-glass windows overhead.

Morning light filtered through fractured colors across the chapel walls.

Beautiful things always looked slightly tragic broken apart.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

That answer surprised both of them.

Cassian sat up straighter.

“Well,” he murmured. “That’s terrifying.”

Lucien almost smiled despite himself.

Almost.

Then his attention drifted toward the old medical journals spread across the table beside him.

Cassian followed the movement.

“You’ve been rereading those again.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Lucien ran one finger absently across the edge of a worn page before answering.

“Because Prague feels familiar.”

And that was the problem.

Not the monsters.

Not the Church.

Recognition.

The infected creatures beneath the city moved too much like old failures he thought history had already buried.

Cassian watched him quietly now.

Less joking.

More careful.

“You really think they reopened the gate?”

Lucien remained silent for several seconds.

Then:

“I think someone’s trying.”

The chapel fell quiet again afterward except for rain and distant city bells.

Lucien stared down at the faded medical diagrams spread across the table.

Drawings of diseased lungs.

Blood infections.

Anatomical sketches.

Human suffering translated neatly into ink.

He used to make drawings like those himself once.

Before the turning.

Before immortality.

Before blood became hunger instead of medicine.

The memory arrived suddenly enough to hurt.

—

France

1347

The village smelled constantly of smoke and sickness.

Lucien crossed the crowded infirmary carrying fresh water while exhausted patients coughed themselves bloody into linen sheets nearby. The plague had already swallowed three neighboring towns by then.

Most physicians fled weeks ago.

Lucien stayed.

Not because he was brave.

Because leaving felt worse.

“You haven’t slept.”

The voice came from beside the doorway.

Lucien looked up to find Evelyne standing near the herb tables with dried lavender bundled loosely in one hand. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of her traveling coat while rainwater still clung faintly to dark hair escaping her braid.

Not armor.

Never armor with her.

Even back then she moved like someone who preferred healing over violence whenever possible.

Lucien remembered noticing that first.

And then noticing everything else afterward.

“I slept yesterday,” he replied.

“You passed out against medical records for two hours.”

“Still counts.”

Evelyne rolled her eyes before crossing the infirmary toward him.

God.

That expression.

Seraphina did that exact same thing when irritated.

The realization twisted unexpectedly through his chest even now, centuries later.

In the memory, Evelyne reached toward his sleeve and frowned slightly at the blood staining the fabric.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s not mine.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Lucien remembered laughing softly under his breath at that.

Not because it was funny.

Because she sounded annoyed enough to care.

Outside, church bells rang somewhere through the storm while plague victims whispered fever prayers in nearby rooms.

Evelyne handed him a small cloth bundle tied carefully with string.

“What’s this?”

“Food.”

Lucien looked genuinely confused.

“I ate this morning.”

“You drank wine and called it soup.”

“That is soup in several regions.”

“That’s deeply concerning.”

Again—

that exact same expression afterward.

That look halfway between frustration and reluctant affection.

Lucien closed his eyes briefly inside the ruined chapel as the memory faded.

Too clear.

Still too clear after all these years.

Cassian watched him carefully from across the pews.

“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly.

Lucien opened his eyes.

“Doing what?”

“Looking haunted.”

A faint smile touched Lucien’s mouth briefly.

“Occupational hazard.”

Cassian hesitated.

Then more carefully:

“She really resembles her that much?”

Lucien stared at the rain beyond the shattered chapel windows.

Not identical.

Never identical.

Seraphina carried sharper edges. More restraint. More loneliness.

But sometimes—

in certain lighting—

when irritation softened briefly into concern—

when she forgot to hide exhaustion behind discipline—

the resemblance became unbearable.

“Yes,” Lucien said softly.

The chapel settled into silence afterward.

Somewhere far across Prague, cathedral bells continued ringing through rain-soaked streets while morning slowly swallowed the city whole.

And despite six centuries of practice—

Lucien still couldn’t decide whether meeting Seraphina felt more like punishment or mercy.