Florence, Spring 1493
The forge breathed like a beast in its sleep—deep, glowing, and hungry. Inside the modest workshop on Via del Moro, firelight flickered across the stone walls and danced along shelves lined with stained glass, delicate vials, and half-finished creations too fragile to touch.
Esmé Loredan stood with her sleeves rolled high, her hands wrapped around a long metal rod, slowly spinning a glowing orb of molten glass at its tip. The weight of it pulled against her wrists, but her grip was sure. Beads of sweat slid down her spine beneath her linen blouse. Her hair—fiery red and long enough to brush the small of her back—was tied in a loose knot, though strands clung stubbornly to her cheeks.
Outside, Florence bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon. Inside the workshop, Esmé breathed the thick heat, her green eyes locked on the swirl of color blooming within the molten glass.
"Keep the rhythm, figlia mia," her father murmured from behind. "Not too fast."
"I know," she replied through gritted teeth.
He didn't respond, but she felt his gaze linger. Esmé knew he still watched her the way he'd watched his apprentices: with a protective caution, as though afraid she might burn herself—or worse, burn too brightly.
But she wasn't a child anymore. Not the girl who had once hidden in the corners to steal glances at the flames, mimicking the artisans with sticks and sand. She had earned her place at the furnace. The city didn't know her name, but her hands could shape fire.
With a final breath, she pulled the rod from the heat and shaped the end with wooden paddles, forming the petals of a glass lotus. It caught the light and shimmered—crimson at the edges, gold at the center.
Her father stepped forward, his usually stern face unreadable. Then he gave a short nod.
"That one could sit in the window of a duke's study," he said.
"I'd rather it sit in someone's hands," Esmé replied, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
He smiled—barely—but Esmé caught it before he turned back to the counter.
The momentary peace was broken by a sudden clamor in the street: distant horns, bells, and the low rumble of hooves on stone. Esmé stepped to the doorway, squinting into the sunlit haze as the procession neared.
Crimson banners flared in the wind, stitched with silver thorns. Musicians played delicate fanfares while servants scattered flower petals across the road. Behind them came the carriages and riders—men and women in layered velvet, heavy with jewels, their faces obscured by silk veils and broad hats.
"Who is it this time?" she asked, arms crossed.
Her friend Fiora, breathless and already flushed from hurrying, appeared at her side. "The House di Rosso," she whispered. "A new engagement to some noble from Siena, they say. But the real reason everyone's watching is him."
Esmé raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Before Fiora could reply, he came into view.
At the head of the procession, on a black horse that moved like a shadow through the crowd, rode a man dressed all in deep gray—so dark it looked almost black. No jewels, no embroidery, no plume on his hat. Only a long cloak that rippled in the wind like smoke.
Luca di Rosso.
He sat straight, eyes hidden beneath the curve of his brow, mouth unreadable. His skin, even from a distance, looked too pale against the afternoon light. And his presence—still, commanding, almost… unnatural—parted the crowd without a single word.
Then, as if drawn by instinct, he looked toward the forge.
His gaze met Esmé's. Not just passed over her—but found her. Held her. The world seemed to hush. The distant music faded.
His eyes were the color of garnet in shadow. Deep, dark red—not a bright or garish hue, but rich and ancient. They flickered, just slightly, and a single corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. Not mockery either. Just recognition.
Then, as quickly as it happened, the moment passed. He looked away, the procession continued, and the street filled once more with noise and color.
Esmé stood frozen, heart thudding.
Fiora was still chattering beside her. "They say his last fiancée vanished before the engagement could be announced. Some think he killed her. Others say he sent her to a monastery. Or maybe—" she lowered her voice dramatically, "—she fell under his spell."
"I don't believe in spells," Esmé muttered, still staring down the road.
"Everyone believes in something," Fiora replied.
————————————————————
Later that evening, Esmé worked in the quiet after the shop had closed. Her father had retired early, and the forge was now a gentle glow instead of a roaring inferno. She sat by the side table, drawing lines across a page with a piece of charcoal, designing patterns for a commission they could never afford to accept—one requested by the cathedral, but inevitably assigned to a guildsman's son.
A breeze drifted through the high window, cool against her flushed skin. The city beyond the glass was fading into darkness.
A sudden prickling sensation crawled along her spine.
She turned.
There was nothing in the doorway, no sound at all—but the sensation remained. A pulse beneath her skin. A whisper she couldn't quite hear.
She stood slowly, moving toward the shutters. Outside, the alley was empty.
But just as she reached for the latch, a shadow moved across the far rooftop—swift, silent, inhumanly fast. Esmé's breath caught.
The figure paused—only for a second—and turned.
Two glints of red met her gaze in the dark.
Her hand fell from the window.
The shadow was gone.