By the time Lucian returned to the square, dusk had collapsed into full dark. No stars—just clouds, thick and pale like breath held too long.
The fire-pit still burned. It always did now. Someone had fed it in his absence—pine bark, maybe dry moss. The smoke smelled wrong. Sweet. Almost artificial.
He scanned the benches. A few regulars lingered—quiet, guarded. One man picked at his nails with a bone-handled knife. Another murmured to the fire like it might answer.
Lucian stepped forward to rake the pit, to mark the close of offerings for the night.
Then he saw the crate.
Wooden. Rough. Sitting just beyond the fire's edge.
Something inside shifted.
He stopped.
Alice was already moving. She'd appeared as if summoned—her eyes fixed on the box, mouth pressed to a flat line.
Then came the sound.
A low, desperate bleat.
Lucian's stomach turned cold.
A goat.
Someone had brought a living animal.
Alice reached the crate just as a figure shoved past her and hoisted it.
