Ekchron watched the man tied up in front of him with the same distant curiosity one might use to examine a broken object. He spun the hammer lazily between his fingers and glanced at Nikandros, picking up a conversation that was, quite clearly, far more interesting to him than what lay before him.

  “She’s married,” he said. “Fourteen years.”

  He let the hammer drop onto the man’s hand. The dry crack of bone blended with a muffled whimper behind the gag.

  “Businessman husband. Money. Connections. Important surnames,” he went on, as if ticking items off a grocery list. “Several properties. Good reputation. No known scandals.”

  Another blow. This time to the wrist.

  The man’s body jerked violently, ropes creaking against the chair. Ekchron rested the head of the hammer against the broken bone and applied pressure, smiling at the wet sound of tissue giving way.

  “Trips. Events. Endless dinners,” he continued. “Everything very proper. Very… admirable.”

  The man was crying. Ekchron frowned, irritated by the background noise, and gave him a light slap on the cheek with his free hand—like one might shoo away something annoying.

  “From the outside, it’s a perfect marriage,” he added. “The kind that makes you believe love works, that stability exists, that the world isn’t a bad joke. The other slabs of meat envy it.”

  He lifted the hammer again, carefully measuring the next strike with excessive calm.

  “And you’re telling me this because…?” Nikandros finally said. “Do I look like a notary, or are you into social gossip now?”

  Ekchron feigned a sigh.

  “So little emotional support,” he replied. “I’m sharing relevant information.”

  “You’re obsessed,” Nikandros corrected. “And you expect understanding on top of that.”

  Ekchron clicked his tongue and brought the hammer down on the man’s knee. The muffled scream was so sharp Ekchron grimaced in annoyance.

  “But there’s one detail that doesn’t fit,” he said, ignoring him completely. “In an arrangement like that, they usually end up creating more meat.”

  The man barely reacted now. Ekchron leaned in and tapped his forehead lightly with the hammer’s handle, as if checking whether anyone was still conscious inside.

  “Those small things. Very loud.”

  “Children,” Nikandros clarified, without emphasis.

  “That.”

  Ekchron straightened.

  “They don’t have any. And the meat talks about it in whispers,” he went on. “That they missed their chance. That she’s no longer at an age where she can produce anything useful.”

  Nikandros let out a brief huff.

  “Right.”

  “I’ve never understood why anyone would want to create more things that scream,” Ekchron added. “But she seems like the type who would like them.”

  He finally focused his gaze on the man.

  “Anyway,” he murmured.

  He stepped closer, gripped the man’s head with one hand, and twisted sharply. The crack was brief and dry. The body slumped against the chair, completely limp.

  “Not everyone deserves to be touched,” he said, wiping his hands. “She does.”

  Lyciah stood right in front of the apartment door. She took a deep breath and raised her hand… only to lower it again.

  Caelan lived alone in that small apartment. It was normal. Too normal for a demon five millennia old.

  Elric had written down the address when she, in barely audible murmurs and with her face burning, confessed that she needed to talk to him about something important.

  Lyciah raised her hand again. This time she forced herself to keep it there a few seconds longer. She counted in her head. One. Two. Three.

  She didn’t make it to four. The door opened.

  Lyciah startled and stepped back on instinct, her heart immediately racing.

  Caelan stood there in the doorway, looking at her with the same neutral expression as always.

  “You’ve been hesitating for several minutes,” he said. “I thought perhaps you were waiting for me to leave.”

  Heat rushed up to Lyciah’s ears.

  “I… I didn’t…” She swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  Caelan crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly.

  “You’re not bothering me. Though breathing that intensely in front of my door is… noticeable.”

  Of course he could hear even her breathing. Perks of being a demon five thousand years old. Lyciah wished she could disappear. Or evaporate. Or turn into a rock. Anything but a person with functional lungs.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized again, fingers tightening around her dress. “I just… wanted to talk to you.”

  Caelan didn’t answer right away. He simply stepped aside, leaving the entrance clear.

  “Come in. We’ll talk inside.”

  Lyciah glanced into the apartment. Small. Tidy. Quiet. Too close. Too… private.

  Her nerves only worsened. Going in meant being alone with him in that small space. With his deep voice, his calm gaze, and that way he had of being present without trying to impose himself… and doing so anyway.

  She took a hesitant step. Then another. When she crossed the threshold, she felt something strange in her chest. An uncomfortable knot—but warm.

  Caelan closed the door behind her. Only then did Lyciah realize there was no turning back.

  She stood still, right in front of the closed door, unsure what to do with her own body. He gestured calmly toward the small couch, inviting her to sit. She nodded far too quickly. Several times.

  She walked with stiff, almost mechanical movements, and sat down very carefully. Back straight. Hands perfectly placed on her knees. Completely tense.

  Caelan sat in the adjacent armchair with ease. Arms crossed. Shoulders relaxed.

  “I’d offer you something to eat, but—”

  “I KNOW!”

  Lyciah clapped a hand over her mouth instantly, horrified by how high and loud her voice had come out.

  “S-sorry,” she cleared her throat, her voice now much lower. “I mean… I know. You're... undead. You don’t eat. And of course it wouldn’t make sense for you to have food because… well… because you don’t need it, and food goes bad, and it would be a waste, and—”

  She kept talking. And talking. And talking.

  About logistics. About nonexistent eating habits. About how some people cook out of habit even when they aren’t hungry. About how she herself wasn’t very hungry either.

  Caelan watched her in silence the entire time, without interrupting.

  When she finally ran out of air, he spoke.

  “I didn’t understand anything you just said,” he said calmly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  Lyciah dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning. Not even five minutes had passed since she’d come in, and she’d already humiliated herself beyond repair. She didn’t understand why he made her so nervous.

  “W-well…” she began, taking a deep breath. “Actually, I was talking to Momo about The Omen and…”

  Caelan’s expression shifted subtly.

  “Eresha,” Lyciah continued, “spent millennia containing it with your help. But my mom…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. Sadness hit her all at once.

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  “Your mother fought alone because Heliora ordered it,” Caelan said. “It was the first time we weren’t informed of The Omen’s awakening.”

  Lyciah fidgeted with a strand of her hair, wrapping it nervously around her fingers. Caelan noticed immediately.

  “Do not fear,” he added. “The Omen was sealed barely a decade ago. It’s unlikely to awaken again for centuries.”

  He looked down at the floor, letting the silence settle for a few seconds, doubt flickering across his expression.

  “And even if it were to awaken sooner than expected…” he continued at last, running a hand through his hair, “you wouldn’t be alone. I will protect you, as I promised.”

  Lyciah let go of the strand of hair at once and looked up, eyes wide. She knew he said it because he wanted to uncover her secret. And yet… every time he said it, her heart raced without permission.

  “You’re…” she murmured. “You’re like a knight from the stories I read in Elyndra. So… protective.”

  She let out a small, sincere nervous laugh.

  “Maybe I should call you Sir Caelan,” she added, fingers interlacing. “Just kidding.”

  Caelan leaned back slightly in his armchair and closed his eyes, as if searching through very old memories.

  “I was a knight for many years.”

  Lyciah blinked in surprise.

  “R-really? I didn’t expect that. I mean—it’s not that it doesn’t suit you, it’s just—sorry, that sounded awful. I didn’t mean you don’t look like one, because you do, but—”

  “That’s how I met Elric,” he interrupted gently.

  Lyciah fell silent at once.

  “It was in the year 1248,” he continued. “In the north of the Crown of Aragon, during the campaigns near the French border. We fought together for years.”

  Lyciah watched him in silence, imagining him in armor, sword in hand.

  And for the first time since she had crossed the door, she realized something:

  She was standing before someone who had lived stories straight out of a book… and yet, he looked at her and listened as if she genuinely mattered.

  She brought her hands to her chest.

  “I… When you speak like that… when you say you’ll protect me…” she pressed her fists against her chest. “You make me feel… safe. In a way I shouldn’t.”

  The words slipped out on their own. Too honest. Too intimate. She realized it immediately.

  “I—I didn’t mean to say it like that, sorry, it’s just—”

  She stood up abruptly. He was about to say something, but she was faster.

  “R-really, that’s all,” she said in a rush. “Thank you for reassuring me about The Omen. I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ll go now, sorry, thank you—”

  She stepped back. And then it happened.

  Her foot caught on the edge of the low table. Everything happened in a second: the loss of balance, the air leaving her lungs, the certainty that she was going to fall.

  But she didn’t hit the floor.

  In a fast, inhuman movement, Caelan was already there. His hand closed firmly around her, holding her by the waist and back. Lyciah was suspended for a moment, trapped against him. Too close.

  She felt the warmth of his hand through the fabric. The steady pressure of his fingers holding her. His forearm firm against her back. His chest just inches from hers.

  The world shrank to that. To that contact.

  Caelan helped her upright gently, setting her back on her feet.

  Lyciah looked up at him. She barely reached his shoulders. She had always known that, but now… now she felt it more than ever. The difference in presence. Him looking down at her, unmoving, while she tried to remember how to breathe.

  Caelan didn’t speak, but he could hear her heart racing.

  Lyciah didn’t speak either. There was no nervous rambling, no rushed apologies. Just a deep blush spreading across her cheeks.

  “Th-thank you…” she murmured at last, her voice very low.

  She slowly stepped away, lowering her gaze, hands pressed to her chest.

  “I… I’m leaving.”

  “I can walk you home.”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “No, no, I’m fine!”

  She turned and almost fled, not waiting for Caelan’s reply or saying goodbye. She closed the door softly behind her.

  Inside the apartment, Caelan remained still. He lowered his gaze to his hand—the same one that had held her. He stayed that way for a few seconds, in silence.

  Outside, Lyciah walked quickly, her heart still pounding.

  What was that? Why did she feel like this? She had never experienced so many emotions at once. So intense. So chaotic. So… new.

  She didn’t know what to think. But she knew she wanted to hear his voice again. That calm voice promising protection.

  That feeling stayed with her, even as night fell.

  Ekchron walked down the lamplit street with his hands in his pockets.

  The bakery was still open. He pushed the door, and the chime of the bell greeted him as usual.

  “Azul!” Lorena’s voice rang out at once, warm and genuine. “I thought you weren’t coming today.”

  She stood behind the counter, apron on, her hair tied back carelessly. She was smiling, but something was different—a soft weariness, as if the whole day weighed on her.

  “I like coming when it’s quiet,” he replied with the practiced smile he knew how to wear so well.

  It was true. He also liked it when she was alone. No customers.

  Lorena set the trays aside and leaned against the counter. Ekchron scanned the surface in a fraction of a second: the blue cup with the small forget-me-not was half-full, still steaming; beside it, several pills arranged in meticulous order.

  He frowned. He knew broken things took pills. That meat tried to fix itself with chemicals, routines, and hope.

  He said nothing. His brown eyes slid from the pills to her.

  “It’s been a long day,” she said softly. “But I’m almost done.”

  “I can offer you my unmatched company until you close,” he replied. “If I’m not in the way.”

  Lorena smiled. It was that small, genuine smile she didn’t give to just anyone. Tired, she rested her head on the counter and looked up at him.

  “You’re never in the way,” she said softly. “Actually, I surprised myself wondering when you’d show up today.”

  Something tightened inside him. Something uncomfortable. Like a tiny crack in a wall that had stood intact for millennia.

  He kept acting.

  “Wow,” he said with the lopsided smile he used as a shield. “I thought you came here to sell bread, not to develop emotional dependence on suspicious customers.”

  It was a joke. A neat retreat.

  Lorena let out a small laugh and shook her head.

  “It’s not dependence,” she replied. “I’m just glad to see you. When you show up, the day feels a little less heavy.”

  Silence settled between them.

  Ekchron stopped smiling. He looked away, as if the bakery floor had suddenly become fascinating. A faint warmth rose to his face, so unexpected it took him a second to recognize it.

  A blush. Real. Human. Annoying.

  “That’s statistically unlikely,” he muttered at last. “My presence doesn’t improve anything. I usually make things worse.”

  But his voice held no sarcasm now. It came from somewhere much deeper. A place he almost never opened.

  Lorena noticed. She watched him with her usual calm attentiveness, as if reading between the lines. As if she could see a little past the fa?ade he insisted on maintaining.

  “Well, my day improves,” she said simply.

  Ekchron clenched his fingers inside his pockets. For the first time in millennia, he had no clever reply ready.

  “Though…” Lorena added, this time clearly joking, trying to ease the tension, “don’t let it go to your head. Your ego already takes up half the bakery.”

  Ekchron looked back at her, frowning. For a moment, he looked different. More human. More like a normal nineteen-year-old making a slight pout.

  Lorena laughed at the sight, covering her mouth with one hand.

  “Alright,” she said once she calmed down, as she stood up. “Help me finish cleaning up.”

  “And what makes you think I’m going to—”

  He didn’t get to finish. Lorena tossed him a broom, which Ekchron caught on instinct.

  “I’ll organize the trays,” she said casually. “You sweep the floor.”

  She winked and turned away, starting to tidy up while humming a tune under her breath.

  Ekchron tightened his grip on the broom handle. His jaw clenched. His frown deepened.

  “I am the Seventh Ancestral. The Ancestral of Time. I could kill her right now and it wouldn’t matter.”

  That thought crossed his mind. What he did instead was very different.

  Ekchron, the Seventh Ancestral, swept the floor of a small shop owned by a forty-one-year-old human baker. Obeying her.

  And little by little, his expression softened. A faint blush returned to his cheeks as he moved the broom in silence.

  When they finished, Lorena closed the bakery. She pulled down the shutter tiredly and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “See you tomorrow, Azul,” she said.

  Ekchron leaned against the door with practiced nonchalance.

  “Don’t make plans without me,” he replied. “I’d be deeply offended.”

  She sighed.

  “Good night,” she said at last, laughing.

  “Good night, baker.”

  Ekchron stayed where he was, watching her walk away. He didn’t move until she disappeared from sight.

  Night settled into silence again, broken only by the voices in his head threatening to surface now that he was alone.

  Lorena arrived home shortly after. She unlocked the door and opened it carefully, as if she didn’t want to make noise. The interior was dark. No lights on. No voice greeting her. No television murmuring in the background.

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She set her bag on the table, slipped off her shoes with a tired sigh, and turned on a small lamp in the living room.

  “Javier?” she called, not raising her voice much.

  A sound came from the bedroom.

  “I’m here,” he replied a few seconds later.

  Lorena walked into the room. Her husband sat on the bed, laptop open, phone in hand. He didn’t look up when she entered.

  “You’re late,” he said flatly.

  “I closed later today,” she replied. “It’s been a long day.”

  Javier let out a short, humorless laugh.

  “Isn’t it always? Everything’s exhausting for you.”

  Lorena pressed her lips together slightly.

  “I took my medication,” she added, as if she needed to justify herself. “The doctor said—”

  “You don’t need to keep me informed,” he cut in. “I’m not your doctor.”

  Javier finally closed the laptop and looked her up and down with that expression that always seemed to be judging something he didn’t like.

  “By the way,” he said. “I have an important work dinner tomorrow. Don’t be late, and don’t say anything strange. You know… I don’t want people wondering whether you’re still ‘functional.’”

  Lorena said nothing. She nodded, as always.

  “I’m going to shower,” she murmured.

  “Do whatever you want.”

  Lorena left the bedroom without another word. She walked down the hallway with her heart tight, more exhausted than when she’d left the bakery. She paused in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at herself.

  And for the first time all day, her smile disappeared completely.

  Under the hot water, her mind drifted back to the bakery. To the sound of the bell.

  She thought of him. Of how easy it had been to breathe for a while. And, without quite knowing why, the last thing that came to her mind was the orange color of his hair.

  Something that beautiful had no place in her reality.