Florence, dawn
The morning tasted like iron.
Not the sharp sting of blood—but of metal cooled too quickly, of breath caught in the lungs and held too long. Esmé opened her eyes to gray light streaming through the window above her bed, her limbs stiff beneath the covers, her mind already racing.
Sleep had come only in fragments.
Not because of nightmares—those, she knew well—but because of the weight of truth still coiled in her chest like glass half-formed in the flame.
She sat up slowly. Her legs ached from walking, her back sore from leaning too long over stone floors in the Palazzo Rosso's library. But it was her mind that bore the real ache.
"I offer you my trust," he'd said.
"You're already real to me."
She wrapped her arms around her knees, fingers gripping the worn linen of her nightdress. Her room was silent. The forge below hadn't been lit. Her father had left early for the docks. Fiora hadn't knocked, hadn't called. There were no distractions. Only stillness.
And the memory of him.
Luca.
The way his voice had softened—not as a man seducing or lying—but as someone giving a piece of himself he had long ago buried.
He had shared his past.
And now it lived inside her, too.
———————————————————
By midday, she was in the workshop, halfheartedly arranging a tray of delicate vials to be delivered across the Arno. Her hands moved out of habit, but her thoughts drifted.
She didn't know what frightened her more: what Luca was… or what she now felt when she thought of him.
Not fear. Not fascination.
But recognition.
As if something ancient had stirred in her the moment he had said her name aloud.
"Esmé."
It had sounded different in his voice—heavier, rooted in something older than language.
She dropped a vial. It shattered, scattering pale blue shards across the floor.
She didn't curse.
She simply knelt, picked them up, and watched her reflection fracture into dozens of tiny pieces in the glass.
———————————————————
Fiora arrived shortly after, uncharacteristically quiet.
She sat on the windowsill while Esmé swept the shards away.
"Something's changed," Fiora said.
Esmé didn't deny it.
"Does it have to do with him?"
"Yes."
Fiora swallowed hard, then stood and crossed the room. "Tell me the truth, Esmé. Not as gossip. Not as fantasy. As your friend."
Esmé looked up, green eyes steady.
"He's not what they say."
"And what is he?"
"A man who's lived too long. Who carries things he doesn't speak of. Who watches the world and tries not to touch it. But touches it anyway."
Fiora blinked. "That's a riddle, not an answer."
"It's the best I can give."
Fiora studied her. "You're not afraid of him."
"No."
"You should be."
"I know."
———————————————————
That evening, Esmé walked through the gardens behind San Lorenzo.
She needed air. Movement. She needed to feel something other than the heavy pressure in her chest.
She paused beneath an old olive tree, resting a hand against the bark, eyes closed.
And then she heard it.
A rustle.
Not leaves. Not wind.
Steps.
She turned quickly—too quickly—and found herself face to face with a stranger.
Not Luca.
Not a noble.
A man in a dark robe, face hidden beneath a cowl. Not quite cloaked like the priests. Not quite like the guildsmen.
But he reeked of intent.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
He said nothing.
Then, slowly, he raised one hand.
Between his fingers gleamed a signet ring—silver, etched with a thorned rose.
Not like Luca's seal.
Cruder. Corrupted.
The symbol twisted, as if burned. Its petals sharp, the drop of blood at its center cracked.
Esmé's breath hitched.
She stepped back.
The man didn't follow.
He only whispered something—inaudible—and vanished into the trees.
She turned and ran.
————————————————————
She returned home breathless, locking the door behind her, heart in her throat.
What had she just seen?
Not Luca.
Not the Council.
But something else.
Something watching.
Something that knew.
She rushed to her desk and opened her notes—flipping past sketches of runes, symbols, Luca's words, old Latin phrases—until she found the page with the original seal. The one from his letter. Elegant. Balanced.
Then she drew the one from the man's ring.
Twisted. Broken. A mockery.
A different faction.
A rival.
One that had begun to move.
————————————————————
She didn't sleep.
She waited until dawn, then slipped out of the house and made her way through Florence before the bells rang.
She needed to see him.
Luca.
Not for answers.
But for warning.
Whatever game she had stepped into—it was no longer quiet.
And she was no longer just an observer.
————————————————————
She arrived at the eastern courtyard of the Palazzo Rosso just as the first slant of sunlight touched the stones.
To her surprise, Luca was already there—standing beneath the colonnade, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly as if he'd been expecting her.
"You came," he said without turning.
"I saw someone," she replied. "Someone wearing the mark. But it was wrong. Twisted."
Now he turned.
His expression darkened—not with fear, but recognition.
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing I could hear. Just… presence. Intent."
Luca exhaled slowly. "Then they've begun to move."
"Who are they?"
He hesitated.
"We called them the Crimson Faith. Once. A sect that believes the old ways should return—that the veil between our worlds should be torn, not protected. They are extremists. Outlaws. Exiled long ago."
"Why show himself to me?"
"Because you're the key."
"To what?"
He stepped closer. "To Florence. To the seal. To the last true bloodline of the Veilborn."
She shook her head. "I'm just—"
"You're not just anything," he said firmly. "You never were."
Silence.
Wind rustled through the courtyard.
"I'm not ready for this," she said.
"No one ever is."
"But you expect me to fight?"
"No," he said quietly. "I expect you to choose."
She looked up at him.
For the first time, he looked less like a creature of legend and more like a man—tired, wary, but still standing.
She stepped forward.
"I choose to stand."
And that, somehow, made him smile.