Morgana had barely closed her eyes when she noticed it:
a small square of folded parchment, slipped under her hotel room door.
She crouched, fingers careful. The paper was heavy, old-fashioned. No mark on the outside. Inside, a single line, written in precise, slanted handwriting:
You can't protect them all.
Midnight. Charles Bridge.
– E
Her pulse quickened. Emil.
---
The Planning
Callen was at her door within minutes when she showed him the note.
"You know it's a trap," he said.
"Of course," she said, already pulling a dark coat from the wardrobe.
"I'm coming with you."
"No. If he invited both of us, he would have said so."
"And if he shoots you in the back?"
Her eyes flicked up to his. "Then I suppose I'll need someone to take the shot first."
---
Crossing the City
The city was a maze at night, a labyrinth of stone and mist.
Morgana moved quickly, boots silent on the cobblestones, her senses tuned to every shifting shadow.
Prague at midnight was quieter than she'd expected; the tourists were gone, leaving the old city to its ghosts.
Callen followed—but at a distance. She knew he would. He was stubborn like that.
---
Charles Bridge
The bridge was almost empty, statues looming out of the fog like silent witnesses.
Halfway across, she stopped.
He was there, leaning against the stone railing, dressed not like a criminal, but like a patron at the opera: wool coat, leather gloves, a scarf knotted neatly at his throat.
"Morgana," Emil said, smiling as if they were old friends meeting for coffee.
---
The Conversation
She kept her hands visible, posture loose, eyes sharp.
"You enjoy games," she said.
"I enjoy seeing who's willing to play," he replied. "And you came alone. Mostly."
He glanced to the far side of the bridge where, somewhere in the fog, Callen lurked.
---
"Why the note?" she asked.
"Because," Emil said softly, stepping closer, "Lot Seventeen isn't just a painting. It's a key. To secrets that certain people would kill to bury—including your charming fiancé."
She froze.
"You know about him."
"I know everything," Emil said. "And I know that when the time comes, you will have to choose which man you trust. Him? Or the one standing behind you now?"
---
The Warning
"Why me?" she asked. "Why this? Why now?"
He studied her, expression unreadable.
"Because seven years ago," he said, "you destroyed something I loved. And tonight, I returned the favor. You will never find Seventeen before I want you to."
His voice softened.
"And Morgana—stop running from who you really are. It makes you predictable."
---
Before she could respond, a bright beam of light cut through the fog: a police patrol at the far end of the bridge.
When she turned back, Emil was gone—vanished into the mist as if he'd never been there.
---
The Aftermath
Callen appeared, breathless, angry.
"You let him get away," he said.
"No," she said, still staring at the empty bridge. "He let me find him. There's a difference."
They walked back in silence, the air thick with unsaid words.
At the hotel, as she peeled off her coat, she could still smell Emil's cedarwood cologne clinging faintly to the night.
And she hated that it unsettled her almost as much as the way Callen had looked at her afterward—
like he'd seen something break in her.
---
Foreshadowing
On her desk, she spread the note flat.
"You can't protect them all."
There was only one "them" that mattered:
her past, her fiancé, and the thin line of loyalty that held her together.
And Emil had just pulled at all three.