Isadora:
Lucian’s arms are colder than I expect, like stone wrapped in midnight, but the chill seeps into me like a lullaby. The corridor blurs past in gray streaks of torchlight. My head lolls against his chest. I should protest, tell him I can walk, but the thought never reaches my tongue.
The scent of him, iron and something darker, anchors me. I hate that it feels safe.
My door opens without a sound. He lowers me onto the mattress with surprising care, as if I’m spun glass. The room smells of old paper and rain.
“Rest,” he murmurs, a command disguised as kindness.
I mean to thank him. My lips move; no sound comes.
Lucian straightens, already half way to the door, ready to vanish into the night.
That’s when the world fractures.
Flames roar across the ceiling—silent, furious. The
