Morning came with the kind of light that made London look even colder than it was.
Morgana never slept well before an assignment; her brain kept replaying old missions like scratched records, skipping on faces she couldn't forget.
By the time she reached the same anonymous glass building, the rain had softened into a fine mist. Inside, the air felt warmer, charged with the hum of too many secrets.
The elevator carried her back to the top floor, her reflection sharp in the mirrored wall. She'd chosen a simple black suit today, no jewelry, no color. She wanted whoever they were pairing her with to see a blank slate.
The Director's door slid open. He wasn't alone this time.
---
A man stood by the window, hands in his pockets, studying the city like it owed him something. He was tall, with hair just long enough to look careless and a faint scar tracing his jaw.
"Morgana Thayle," the Director said, gesturing her inside. "Codename: Cilantro. Meet your new partner, Callen Shaw. Codename: Larkspur."
The man turned. His eyes were a pale gray, and they didn't blink enough.
"Larkspur?" she repeated, stepping forward. "That's a flower."
"And Cilantro is a salad garnish," Callen said, voice smooth but edged.
She arched a brow. "You have a talent for making an introduction sound like an insult."
"Comes naturally."
The Director ignored them. "You two will operate as a unit. Prague. A high-profile art auction. Our intelligence suggests that the Heretic fragment will be sold there. You will find out who's selling, why they want you involved, and intercept the piece before it leaves the auction house."
Morgana slid her hands into her coat pockets. "And if I refuse?"
"You won't," the Director said simply.
---
She crossed the room, picking up the second folder on the desk. Inside: a dossier of Callen Shaw. Former field agent, officially retired. Disciplinary notes she wasn't supposed to see.
A ghost. They'd pulled him back for this.
"You're not much of a team player either," she said, flipping the page.
Callen smiled without warmth. "Guess we'll have to disappoint each other together."
"Enough," the Director snapped. "You fly in four hours. Plane leaves from RAF Northolt under diplomatic cover. Once in Prague, you're art dealers representing a private collector. You have full surveillance clearance. Try not to burn the city down."
---
The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. In the corridor, silence stretched between them until Morgana broke it.
"Why'd you come back?" she asked, walking fast.
"Same reason as you," Callen said. "No one ever leaves, no matter how much they try."
She glanced at him. He carried himself like a man who'd seen too much and made peace with none of it. That was dangerous. People like that took risks because they didn't care what happened to them.
"Don't get in my way," she said finally.
He smiled, infuriatingly calm. "I was about to say the same thing."
---
Later – The Flight
The Gulfstream jet smelled like leather and fuel. She took the seat opposite him, pulling her laptop from her bag. He was already reading a slim file, silent.
For the first two hours, neither spoke. Clouds rolled beneath them like a gray ocean.
At last, Callen broke the silence. "So. The famous Cilantro. I've heard you never fail a mission."
"And I've heard you left the service because one went bad," she said, eyes still on her screen.
He chuckled once. "Touché. So, tell me—are you as reckless as your file says?"
"Are you as stubborn as yours?"
For a moment, their eyes met across the table. Neither looked away.
The pilot's voice came over the intercom: "Thirty minutes to Prague."
---
As the city lights came into view below, Morgana closed her laptop and studied the man across from her. He wasn't going to be an ally. He was going to be a problem. And in her line of work, problems had a way of getting you killed.
---
Somewhere in Prague, a seller waited with a fragment of a painting called Heretic. And that seller already knew Morgana's real name.