The vaults beneath the College were colder than a tomb.
Stone arches arced overhead like the ribs of some ancient god, casting long shadows between runes dim with age. Mo moved silently through the corridor, steps echoing, eyes scanning.
Aylen walked a pace behind him. Silent, as always. Watching.
She always watched.
They had fought together. Bled together. Crossed frozen rivers and burned cities. But something between them had shifted in the last few days—since Moon Vale. Since the night she'd stood beside him while the sword had whispered to him in a dead language.
Now, her eyes lingered longer. Her words were fewer. And Mo… he wasn't sure if the pull in his chest was instinct or something far more dangerous.
---
At the base of the stairs, they found the construct.
Ten feet tall, faceless, shaped like a figure from a lost age. Its chest held a circular mouth with glyph-teeth constantly turning—the Lie Maw. The flames inside it whispered old truths.
It didn't move when they approached. But it watched.
Aylen exhaled slowly, then turned to him. "You have to go alone."
"I know."
"You remember the passphrase?"
"I tell the truth," Mo said simply. "That's the test."
She nodded. "And what is your truth, Mo?"
He looked at her then—really looked. The faint scar at her collarbone. The silver tattoo just beneath her ear. The way she never quite stood still, like a caged flame. She didn't flinch under his gaze. She never did.
"My truth?" he asked quietly.
She gave a slight tilt of her head. A challenge.
"That I trust you more than I want to."
Her breath caught—but only for a moment. She stepped back, silent, letting him pass. But her eyes followed him with a new heat, a spark he hadn't seen in her before.
---
The construct accepted him.
Inside the inner vault, time felt warped. Runes flared as he entered. He found the relic—an obsidian shard with veins of red lightning running through it—locked inside a crystal prism. It pulsed in sync with his heartbeat.
He didn't touch it.
Not yet.
When he returned to Aylen, she was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shadowed.
"It didn't burn you," she said.
"No."
"What did you tell it?"
Mo stepped closer. "The truth. That I'm not ready for what's coming."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And it let you live?"
"Apparently the truth's more rare than power."
They were close now. Closer than the job demanded. The flickering light from the vault caught her features—sharp, strong, beautiful in a way Mo never allowed himself to consider until now.
"I used to think you didn't feel anything," she said softly. "Like the blade. Beautiful. Cold. Too sharp to touch."
Mo's voice was low. "Touch me anyway."
Her breath hitched. "Why?"
"Because I haven't stopped thinking about what would happen if you did."
A beat passed.
Then her hand was on his jaw, thumb brushing the line of his cheek. Her body leaned just barely into his, the tension between them taut as a bowstring. Mo didn't close his eyes. Neither did she.
"I won't break you," she said.
"I won't let you."
And then her lips were on his.
Not soft. Not tender. Hungry.
---
They didn't go further. Not yet. But when they pulled away, her breath was unsteady and Mo's hands had curled into fists at his sides, as though restraining fire itself.
"We don't have time for this," she said.
"No," Mo replied. "But when we do, I won't waste it."
Aylen smiled then—for the first time in days. Not the cold smirk of a soldier. Not the bitter curl of a fighter. A real one. Brief. Honest.
Then she turned away.
"We should move before the Crescent masks catch our trail."
Mo followed her, but something in him had already shifted.
The fire he carried wasn't just in the blade now.