The line between the wild, tangled forest and the manicured lawn of the Academy was as stark as a border between worlds. Lucius stood in the shadows of the tree line, a ghost of a man, watching her window. Zephyra held her breath, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. This was it. The point of no return.
With a final, searching glance at the silent, moon-bathed buildings, he moved. He didn't run; he flowed across the open grass, his form a low, dark ripple that seemed to absorb the moonlight. For a being of his size and power, his silence was profound, but Zephyra noticed the slight stiffness in his gait, the careful way he held his left arm against his body. He was hiding his pain well, but he was not uninjured.
Her dorm room window was already slid open, a dark mouth waiting to swallow him. He reached it in seconds, vaulting over the low sill with a grace that belied his injury and landing on the floor of her room with no more sound than a sigh of settling dust.
The door clicked softly as Zephyra slid the lock into place. She turned, her back pressed against the wood, and took in the sight. The Demon King was in her bedroom.
The sheer absurdity of it was staggering. Lucius, the Morningstar, a name whispered in horror stories, stood mere feet away, looking utterly alien amongst her neatly stacked textbooks, the row of scented lotions on her vanity, and the soft, plush rug on the floor. He dominated the space, his height and the sheer breadth of his shoulders seeming to shrink the walls around him. His snow-white hair was stark against the shadows, and his strange, beautiful eyes—blue fire ringed with gold—scanned the room with a hunter's vigilance.
"The risk you are taking…" he began, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that barely disturbed the air.
"The risk we're taking," she corrected him, her own voice hushed. "Get away from the window."
Suddenly, a sliver of light appeared under the door, followed by the soft, shuffling sound of footsteps in the hallway. Both of them froze, every muscle tensed. Zephyra's mind raced—Willow? Kira? She held a finger to her lips, her eyes wide with panic. Lucius melted back into the deepest shadow beside her tall wardrobe, becoming one with the darkness.
The footsteps padded past her door and continued down the hall towards the kitchen. The light vanished. They waited, listening to the silence that descended once more, heavy and absolute.
When she was sure the coast was clear, Zephyra let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. As she turned, the faint moonlight from the window caught Lucius's profile. He was leaning against the wardrobe for support, his head bowed, and she saw him press a hand tightly to his side, his knuckles white. The dark, wet stain on his tunic was far more prominent up close.
"That's worse than you let on," she whispered, crossing the room to him.
"It is a scratch," he insisted, his voice tight with a pride she was beginning to understand. He tried to straighten up, to pull away from the wardrobe, but a sharp wince betrayed him.
"Stop," she commanded softly, but with a tone that brooked no argument. "Sit. On the bed. Now."
He looked from her determined face to the neatly made bed and back again, his expression a mixture of irritation and surprise. No one ordered him to do anything. But the authority in her voice, combined with a wave of pain that pulsed from his wound, made him relent. He lowered himself stiffly onto the edge of her mattress, the springs groaning in protest under his weight.
"Stay there," she ordered, before tiptoeing to her ensuite bathroom. She returned a moment later with her first-aid kit, a small bottle of water, and a few clean washcloths. She knelt on the floor in front of him.
"This is unnecessary," he growled, though the protest lacked conviction.
"The only thing unnecessary is you bleeding out on my rug because you're too proud to admit a seven-foot monster nearly gutted you," she retorted quietly. "Shirt. Off."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second before complying, pulling the dark tunic over his head with a carefully controlled groan. Zephyra's breath caught. His torso was lean but powerfully muscled, a tapestry of old, silvery scars that told stories of countless battles. But it was the new wound that drew her eye. A trio of deep, ragged claw marks raked across his ribs, angry and inflamed, still oozing blood.
"Hold still," she murmured, her voice softening. She dampened a cloth and began to gently, carefully clean the edges of the gashes.
The room fell silent, filled only with the sound of her movements and their shared breathing. The air was charged with a new kind of tension—not of danger, but of profound intimacy. He was completely still under her touch, his muscles coiled tight. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the faint, clean scent of ozone and cold night air that clung to him. She worked with a focused efficiency, her touch gentle but firm. This was a side of her he had not expected—not the fierce warrior or the wary girl, but a healer, a caretaker.
He watched her, his golden-ringed eyes tracking her every move. He watched the furrow of concentration on her brow, the way she bit her lip as she applied the antiseptic. The sting of it made him flinch, a sharp, involuntary hiss escaping his lips.
"Sorry," she whispered, her eyes flicking up to meet his. They were so close now. She could see the intricate, swirling black markings on his temples and cheekbones, the faint silver scars that crossed his lips. He was beautiful, in a way that was both terrifying and breathtaking.
"It is the first time in a very long while that anyone has…" he began, then trailed off, unable to find the words.
"Taken care of you?" she finished for him softly.
He gave a slow, single nod.
When she was done cleaning the wounds, she applied a healing salve from her kit and covered the area with large, clean bandages, taping them securely in place. Her fingers lingered for a moment on his skin before she pulled away, gathering her supplies.
"Thank you," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. The words felt heavy, earned.
She just nodded, her throat suddenly tight. The act of tending to him, of being trusted in his moment of vulnerability, had forged a bond between them stronger than any conversation could.
Returning to the mission at hand, she retrieved the burner phone from her desk drawer. The transition from intimate caregiver to tech support was jarring. "Okay," she said, her voice still a little shaky. "This is the next step."
She sat on the edge of the bed next to him, a little further away this time, and showed him the device. She explained its function, how to charge it, how to make a call, how to send a text. He listened with a fierce intensity, memorizing her instructions like a battle plan. She programmed her number in and had him send her a single-word message: Safe.
The word appeared on her own phone's screen, a tiny beacon of their impossible new reality.
"Why?" he asked, his voice low as he looked from the phone to her face. "Why are you doing all of this?"
"Because I have to believe there's more to the world than the stories they teach us in school," she said honestly. "And because I don't think you're my enemy, Lucius. I think the real enemy is still out there, and we're the only two who know it."
He looked at her for a long moment, then slipped the phone into a hidden pocket in his trousers. He stood, his movements less strained now that his wound was properly dressed. It was time to go.
At the window, he paused and turned back to her. The moon cast his face in silver and shadow. "No one has ever shown me such kindness, Zephyra," he said, his voice imbued with a sincerity that made her chest ache. "I will not forget it."
And then he was gone, melting back into the night as silently as he had arrived, leaving her alone in the quiet of her room. She sank onto her bed, the spot where he had sat still warm. She clutched her phone, staring at the single word on the screen. Safe.
It was a lie, of course. For both of them, safety was now the last thing on earth they could expect.