Lucien's POVI found her again near the Dungeon entrance.
Not in armor.
Not in battle.
Just standing off to the side, watching a group of rookies fumble with their paperwork. They were loud, excited, stupid—everything she wasn't. She didn't speak. Didn't sigh. Just observed like a judge trying to decide how many seconds they'd survive on the first floor.
I leaned against the wall nearby.
Not close.
But not far enough to be polite.
"You know," I said, "I always thought you'd look more comfortable with a sword in your hand."
She didn't turn.
But I saw her eyes flick toward me—barely.
"Still stalking me?" she asked.
"I prefer 'admiring from a safe distance.'"
"I'm reconsidering how safe it actually is."
"Reconsidering's healthy."
That earned me a full look.
Sharp eyes. Tired. Beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with softness and everything to do with intent.
"You're persistent," she said.
"I've been called worse."
"You're also not an idiot."
"Not professionally, no."
"Then why are you wasting my time?"
There it was.
Cold. Straightforward. No games.
She wasn't brushing me off.
She was testing.
I didn't blink.
"Because you're useful," I said.
Dead honest.
She tilted her head. "Try again."
"I'm useful," I corrected.
"And?"
"You're interesting."
That gave her pause.
Not a lot.
But enough.
She stepped closer.
Slow.
Measured.
"If this is a game," she said, "you're playing it poorly."
"I don't think it is," I replied. "But if it were, I'd still be winning."
"How do you figure?"
"Because you're still listening."
That earned me something between a smirk and a scoff.
She turned slightly, keeping me in her peripheral, watching the rookie group file into the tower like cattle on a timer.
"Most people approach me with reverence," she said.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"Most people also get hurt when they touch things they don't understand."
I smiled.
"Good thing I've never cared about understanding people."
She looked at me again.
Longer this time.
Then she said, "What do you want?"
Not why are you here. Not what's your name.
Just: What do you want.
Dangerous question.
But I'd already thought through the answer.
"I want to survive in this city," I said.
"That's boring."
"Then I want to climb it."
"More honest."
"And I want to know who'll still be standing when it falls."
Now she really looked.
Not suspicious.
Not impressed.
But curious.
I took a step closer.
"People listen to you," I said.
"Because I've earned it."
"I know."
"You don't strike me as the type who earns things."
I shrugged. "I'm adaptable."
"Meaning?"
"I make people curious."
"Or uncomfortable."
"Same effect."
She let that hang.
And then—
"You talk like a man trying to be older than he is."
I blinked.
And that—that got under my skin more than I expected.
"Maybe," I said. "But you watch people like you've already decided none of them are worth remembering."
She didn't respond.
Not immediately.
Then:
"That's not entirely untrue."
A silence passed between us.
Not empty.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
Like both of us were quietly calculating where the lines were—and which ones might be worth crossing.
Then I said, quietly:
"I'm not asking for your trust."
"Good."
"I'm just asking you not to look away."
She didn't.
Her voice lowered.
"You're dangerous."
"I know."
"I don't like dangerous people."
"You didn't walk away."
Another pause.
Then:
"I'm still deciding what that says about me."
She stepped back.
Eyes sharp again. Focused. Dismissive—but less so.
"Don't get in my way," she said.
"No promises."
"Then don't get in over your head."
I smiled. Let a flicker of something more visible slip out.
"Too late for that."
She turned and walked off into the side streets, cloak trailing like a shadow that had teeth.
And this time?
She definitely looked back.