A narrow lamp hung from the ceiling like a dying star, its flickering light illuminating Lucien's sharp features as his body sat motionless, but his mind was a battlefield. The hideout was a hollow space constructed beneath the bones of a forgotten library, with books with pages eaten by mold and time leaning against walls lined with peeling plaster.
Crick bustled on the other side of the room, removing dust from a tattered trunk, putting books into stacks that no one would read. The boy's stillness was uncommon, but Lucien welcomed it. His thoughts still lingered on the encounter at the hazy mountain foot. The spirit's words still resonated in his skull—"Will you walk the path of the son of the Wing of Gold?"
Lucien had not given an answer. But something told him time wouldn't wait.
"You've been quiet," Crick said suddenly, breaking the thick silence.
Lucien's voice was steady. "Tired."
Crick nodded but didn't believe him. "I don't trust quiet. It always means you're hiding something."
Lucien didn't flinch. "I hide a lot of things."
Crick smiled, not sure if that was a joke. Then he dropped the topic. The flickering lamp continued to buzz softly.
Just then, a faint buzzing sound drifted from the hallway—sharp, soft, like the wings of an insect brushing stone. Lucien's gaze snapped toward the entry.
Footsteps. Light. Hesitant. Then a knock—two soft taps followed by silence.
Crick froze. Lucien was already moving.
He opened the door a crack.
A girl stood there, barely older than thirteen. Her hair was as white as bleached snow, messy and cascading down her back. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the lamp glow, and her golden pupils shimmered with a strange intensity. On her forehead sat a soft crescent-shaped mark, like the imprint of something celestial.
"Please," she whispered. "They're chasing me. I need help."
Lucien didn't move, but Crick rushed forward and pulled her inside. "Who's chasing you? Are you hurt?"
"They know I've seen something," the girl said, trembling. "They'll kill me."
"Who?" Crick demanded.
The girl shook her head. "I don't know their names. Just men with glass weapons and silver insignias. One had a badge that said... Adrek."
Lucien's entire body stiffened.
Crick didn't notice. He was too busy guiding the girl to a blanket on the floor. "You're safe now. Don't worry."
Lucien stepped into the corner, watching the interaction. His eyes narrowed, not at the girl—but at the mark on her head. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Zivah," she said without looking up.
Crick repeated it quietly. "Zivah."
Lucien noticed the way Crick looked at her—curious, compassionate... captivated.
"How did you find us?" Lucien asked, his tone neutral but firm.
"The old woman at the edge of the C-lass district told me," she said. "She said to find the boy with the burnt soles and the man without a past."
Lucien's gaze dropped to Crick's feet. His shoes were charred at the edges—from the day they escaped the fire at the shelter.
The man without a past.
The label hit harder than it should have.
"You're not lying?" Lucien pressed.
"No," Zivah said softly. "I just want to live."
Crick turned to Lucien. "We can't just leave her out there. You agree, right?"
Lucien said nothing for a long breath. Then he nodded once.
Zivah relaxed, if only slightly. Crick moved to the old trunk and pulled out a chipped cup, filling it with water from their tank.
Lucien walked to the far side of the room. His hands grazed the edge of his jeans. The pocket watch was still there, tucked deep in his side pocket—its ticking barely audible, but grounding.
He leaned against the wall, eyes still on the girl. She had brought with her not just fear—but prophecy.
"She can stay," Lucien finally said. "But if she brings trouble—"
"She won't," Crick interrupted quickly.
Lucien studied him, then turned his gaze away.
"She has a mark," Crick whispered to himself. "I've seen something like it in the older districts... in the Sun Churches. I can't remember where."
Lucien stayed silent.
The lamp hummed again, casting golden reflections in Zivah's eyes. She didn't look like a threat. But neither had Lucien when he first arrived.
He knew better now.
Whatever she knew, whatever hunted her—it would find its way to them eventually. And when it did, Crick's newfound affection would become a weapon, not a shield.
Still... he wouldn't stop it.
Lucien walked past them, brushing aside a curtain that led to the back room. "Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow, we decide what to do."
As he stepped behind the curtain, the watch ticked against his side, louder than before.
The oil lamp flickered, casting a dull orange halo across the cracked walls of the makeshift hideout. Shadows curled like sleeping spirits against the rusted corners, faint light dancing over half-unpacked crates, torn blankets, and loose stacks of paper. The flame sputtered once, sending a faint spark upward that flared and died like a firefly with nowhere left to fly.
Zivah sat curled in one of the corners, her knees pulled to her chest, the oversized jacket Crick had lent her nearly swallowing her whole. Her white hair, dulled by dust and fatigue, spilled over her face in unruly strands. Her yellow eyes—eyes that should have gleamed like polished citrine—were dim, lost.
Lucien leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, silent. Watching. Thinking.
Crick sat closer to her, on the edge of an upturned crate, his legs swinging restlessly. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his shirt as he glanced at Zivah, then back at Lucien.
"So," Lucien finally spoke, his voice soft but direct, "what did you see? What made them chase you?"
Zivah didn't look up.
Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her fingers gripped the cloth of her sleeve tighter. For a moment, it seemed she might not answer. Then she whispered, "I… I don't know."
Lucien blinked. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know!" she burst out suddenly, trembling. Her voice cracked, but her tone held desperation, not defiance. "They were shouting, and I was running—and then everything just… blanked. I don't remember anything before that. Just noise. Screams. Footsteps behind me."
Crick looked to Lucien, alarm in his face. "Maybe… maybe it's emotional stress," he said quietly. "Like… trauma. It happens, right? When something really bad happens and your brain just… blocks it out?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He was still staring at Zivah, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Or maybe someone made her forget," he muttered under his breath.
Crick's eyes widened. "Like mind magic?"
"No," Lucien said, pushing himself off the wall and stepping forward. "Nothing like that exists. At least… not that I've seen. But there's tech here. Nano that does things to people. Alters them. You said yourself,"—he looked at Crick—"some people got weird stuff in their bodies, right?"
"Yeah but—"
"Her eyes glow," Lucien said. "And that spot on her forehead? That's not just birthmark weird. That's special weird."
Zivah looked up then, slowly, her gaze flickering between the two. "I swear," she said, voice shaking, "I'm not dangerous."
Lucien crouched beside her now, not threatening, but curious. "Then what are you?"
She looked into his eyes and said nothing.
The lamp gave another sputter, sending new shadows clawing up the walls. The silence that followed pressed into the cracks between them like something physical.
"She needs rest," Crick said softly, almost defensively. "Whatever she saw… whatever happened—it was bad. That much is clear."
Lucien sighed and stood again. "We can't just take in everyone who's got a sob story."
"But we can help someone who's like us," Crick replied, his tone unexpectedly firm.
Lucien met his gaze. The kid didn't flinch.
"…Fine," Lucien said finally. "But if anything goes sideways, we leave. Understand?"
Crick nodded quickly. "I'll stay up with her. You should get some rest."
Lucien moved to the far corner of the room and slumped onto an old mattress, arms behind his head. His eyes stared at the ceiling, but his mind was racing.
He thought of the girl's eyes. That voice she spoke with, like a blade dulled by grief. Her sudden amnesia. And then, oddly, the emblem from the guards' uniform yesterday—the one scorched into their shields. He hadn't recognized it.
He closed his eyes, replaying the image in his head: a dragon, coiled in flame, wrapped inside a ring.
A Dragon Inside a Circle of Fire.
A symbol he'd never seen before.
He opened his eyes again, feeling the old tickle of unease crawl beneath his skin.
"Lucien Adrek," he murmured under his breath. "Who the hell are you really?"