Luca stood on the rooftop of the Palazzo Rosso, still as a gargoyle, watching the rain draw silver lines across the slate tiles. His cloak whipped behind him, drenched but weightless, like a second shadow peeling off his frame.
The city below moved in flickers of light and sound—horses clattering over cobblestones, bells marking the hour, the smell of smoke drifting from chimneys and alchemist shops.
He did not blink. He had not blinked in five full minutes.
His eyes, deep and nearly black, were trained on a window across the river.
Her window.
She hadn't closed the shutters tonight.
He knew she wouldn't.
Esmé Loredan. A name he hadn't heard until last week, and now couldn't get out of his thoughts. It should have been nothing—just another bold-eyed girl with sharp words and stubborn blood. But there was something else. A thread pulling tight between them. A familiarity that made his skin prickle.
And worse—she wasn't afraid.
Not in the right way.
Not of him.
Luca clenched a gloved fist and stepped back from the edge.
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Inside the palazzo, the fire in his study had long gone cold. He preferred it that way. The room was lined with leather-bound volumes and relics older than most of the city's churches: a flint blade from Mesopotamia, an oil lamp from Carthage, a dagger once dipped in holy blood. None of them comforted him. They only reminded him of time—how much he had seen, how much he could never forget.
He poured a glass of dark liquid and drank without savoring it.
It wasn't wine.
It never was.
As he sat, the door creaked open. A figure entered—slender, cloaked in violet, moving with predatory grace.
Livia di Rosso, his sister. Older by two centuries, colder by nature.
"You're watching her again," she said without preamble.
Luca didn't look up. "You sound concerned."
"I'm more than concerned. I'm irritated. You've been drawing attention, Luca. There are whispers—among the Council, among the old bloodlines. Even the mortals are starting to notice things." She leaned against the doorframe. "A girl like her? Not worth the risk."
"She saw something," he said softly. "She sees through the glamour."
"Then erase her memory. Or her life. You've done it before."
Luca's jaw tightened. "She's different."
"They're all different until they're dead."
He turned then, slowly. "I'm not you, Livia."
"No," she said. "You're not. You're still pretending to be one of them. Drinking the stored blood like a penitent monk. Sleeping in silks. Mourning names you can't even remember."
"I remember them all."
She flinched at his tone.
Silence bloomed between them.
Livia stepped closer, her voice lower. "She's a danger. If she speaks—"
"She won't," Luca interrupted. "She's too clever. She wants answers, not attention."
"And what do you want?"
He looked back toward the window. The rain had stopped. Her window was still open.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I only know I should have walked away the moment she looked at me like she saw me."
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Later that night, he descended into the catacombs beneath the palazzo. The walls here breathed differently—older air, damp and iron-scented. Torches flickered against faded carvings. At the far end of the passage stood a heavy door, marked with a rose carved in obsidian.
He pressed his hand to it.
The seal recognized him.
It always did.
Inside, the chamber opened like a tomb. Candles burned without ever being lit. Stone benches circled a central table of black marble. Around it sat three figures.
The Council of the Veiled Blood.
None of them spoke.
Not with mouths.
She is marked, came the first voice—a cold whisper in Luca's mind. She walks close to the edge of what should not be seen.
The blood of the watchers runs in her veins, said the second. She carries the scent of truth. And death.
You are drawn to her, accused the third. You know what that means.
Luca bowed his head. "She has not spoken. She is no threat."
Yet she sees you. That makes her a risk.
A pause. The air thickened.
End it, said the first.
Or bind her, said the second.
Or be exiled, said the third.
Luca straightened. "I will do neither. I will observe."
You will regret waiting.
He turned and left the chamber, heart burning.
He already regretted a great many things.
But not her.
Not yet.