Standing in his room, fragments of the past surfaced like bruises beneath the skin: an eight-year-old boy, shivering and half-starved, snow melting on his lashes as he waited for the cold to finish what the hunger had started.

Then, suddenly, warmth.

A stranger's arms, a soft bed, and the scent of bread. For the first time since his parents were murdered, Cain had felt safe.

A pity, really, how safety never lasts.

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After he walked away from the burning house, Cain had no destination, only smoke in his lungs and the crackle of life collapsing behind him. He wandered until the smell of fire gave way to rot, until the tears dried stiff on his cheeks. He didn't know where to go. He'd only really ever left the property to buy vegetables with his mother, or to follow his father down to the river.

He remembered his father's patience and kindness as he showed him how to bait a line. His hands were calloused, but gentle. Cain would always grow restless, throwing down the rod to chase minnows with his bare hands. The water was cold, the sun warm on his neck, and his father would laugh instead of scolding him. His parents never raised their voices. They let him be curious. They let him be a child.

That world was gone now.

He wandered into the damp and lifeless streets of Seviel. If this were a gentler city, perhaps some kind woman might have taken pity on him, brought him inside, given him broth and a blanket. But Seviel wasn't that kind of place. People here already carried too many burdens of their own. A hungry child was just another mouth to feed. So doors stayed shut. Curtains stayed drawn.

Compassion, in Seviel, was a luxury few could afford.

As days bled into weeks, Cain learned the rhythm of survival. When the sun fell, people cooked their suppers and tossed scraps into the alleys. When the lamps went out, he crept through the filth, scavenging what little was left: a half-peeled carrot, a chicken bone with a slick of fat, a sliver of bread. He ate what he could, and what he couldn't, he shared.

The stray cats became his family.

He named one Shadow. It was a tiny black thing with matted fur and bright, defiant eyes. She followed him everywhere, weaving between his legs as if she'd chosen him as her keeper. At night, she'd curl into the crook of his arm, purring softly until he drifted off to sleep. Her warmth reminded him of love, of what it felt like to be held.

Until one morning, she didn't move.

She was still in his arms, stiff and cold. Her little body finally gave in to the chill of Winter. Cain froze, his breath catching before the sob tore through him. He cradled her to his chest, whispering broken apologies to her, to the empty streets, to anyone.

Why does everything I love have to die?

He buried her in the snow behind a baker's stall, using his hands to dig until his fingers bled. He whispered a prayer he half-remembered from his mother's lips and left a crust of bread on the mound.

Life went on.

He grew thinner, weaker. His skin turned the colour of ash, and every cough burned like fire in his lungs. The snow kept falling, soft and endless. One evening, his legs gave out beneath him. His vision swam. He pressed a hand to the cold stones of the street, his breath trembling.

This is it, he thought.

I did my best. I'm sorry.

He closed his eyes.

The world faded.

When warmth returned, it was strange and unfamiliar. Cain thought he might be dreaming. Or perhaps he'd finally died and his parents had come to take him home.

He tried to open his eyes, but managed only a whisper of breath. Strong arms lifted him from the frozen street. His head nestled into the stranger's chest. For the first time in months, he didn't shiver.

The last thing he remembered before darkness claimed him again was the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, proof that he was still alive.

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Cain really didn't want to face the nightmares that inevitably waited for him tonight. He knew what they would bring: memories he'd spent years trying to bury, and faces half-burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Sleep never came without a price.

After bathing, he removed his makeup and changed into his simpler clothes: a loose black linen shirt and trousers that hung too long, cuffed neatly at the ankle. He tied his hair back, smoothed moisturiser over his hands and face, and stared at his reflection. Without the paint and perfume, he almost looked unfamiliar. Younger, maybe. Or just more fragile.

He signed, turned toward the window, and gently lifted the pot of lilies from the sill, placing it on his vanity. The gesture was small, almost meaningless, but he knew what it meant. He didn't want to be alone tonight, and a part of him foolishly hoped that Gabriel might actually come.

He didn't know why he'd offered last night, why his tongue had betrayed him like that. If Claudia ever found out, she'd never let him hear the end of it. And the other girls? They'd whisper in corners and let the story bloom like wildfire until it reached every ear in the Veil. He'd be the next scandal before morning: the courtesan who gave himself away for free.

And Madam... Madam would be furious. Her golden boy, entertaining a man without payment? Unthinkable. The Praecia Veil didn't run on affection; it ran on coin. If Lucinda discovered that her most prized courtesan was keeping male company without charge, she'd skin him alive, then find a way to make a profit off his ashes.

Nobody survived that kind of mistake.

Such a risk, for a man he barely knew.

And yet, there was something about Gabriel that lingered. Cain liked his company, though he couldn't explain why. At first, it was simple. Physical. The kind of attraction that came as naturally to him as breathing.

Gabriel had a presence that filled the room without demanding it: tall, composed, his shoulders broad beneath his coat. The cut of his jaw was sharp enough to look cruel in the wrong light, but his mouth softened it. It was a mouth made for silence, not sweetness. When he moved, he did so with precision, as though every gesture had been rehearsed for a life spent in control.

Cain had noticed the veins on his hands and the faint scars along his knuckles. There was quiet strength there. He'd caught the scent of tobacco and musky cologne clinging to his clothes, and embarrassingly, had wanted to lean closer just to breathe it in. It was instinct at first. Lust. Curiosity, maybe?

But then came something else.

It was in the way Gabriel's gaze held him. It was the kind of look that didn't strip him down, but truly saw him. It unsettled Cain more than any touch could have. Gabriel's presence dulled the noise in his head and quietened the constant awareness of his own performance. Around him, Cain forgot to smile at the right moments, forgot the practised tilt of his voice, and the precision of his charm.

With everyone else, he could play his part perfectly. But with Gabriel, the act faltered, and that was what frightened him the most.

He could sense that Gabriel wasn't telling him the whole truth. The man carried secrets like other men carried weapons. Cain had seen that look before, in soldiers and noblemen who came to the Praecia Veil to forget the things they'd done. That flicker in the eyes, and the faint hesitation before a lie. But Gabriel's deceptions were cleaner and more deliberate. His calm wasn't born of arrogance; it was the calm of someone who had killed and learned to sleep afterwards.

Cain noticed the way Gabriel's hand sometimes twitched near his coat, like it remembered the weight of something that wasn't there tonight. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long when others passed, as if he were assessing and cataloguing them. He was a man who didn't simply see a room, but who measured it, mapped it and planned exits before entering.

He knew about the merchant. Cain could tell. There was a knowledge behind his eyes that didn't belong to a passing stranger. And the way he spoke about the Veil was too careful, too interested. It wasn't the idle curiosity of a patron. He'd come here for a reason.

Lucinda's warning rang in his mind like a tolling bell: Be careful, Cain.

But he was tired of being careful.

Maybe he just wanted to do the opposite of what everyone expected. Maybe this was his way of taking something for himself, however reckless. If Gabriel wanted to use him, so be it. Others had before. If this ended badly, it wouldn't be the first time.

He leaned against the window, staring at the dark city beyond. The fog pressed against the glass, heavy and endless.

Whatever Gabriel's reasons for being here, Cain found that, for once, he didn't care. He wanted to feel something that wasn't fear.

And if that feeling destroyed him, then so be it.

Cain turned away from the window, letting the room settle into quiet. The air still carried the faint chill of winter, curling around the edges of the fire's warmth. He padded over to the hearth, knelt, and fed a few more logs to the flames. They caught slowly, rising into gold, their glow brushing against his skin like a touch he almost recognised.

He curled up beside the fire with a book, though the pages might as well have been blank. His eyes traced the words, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. To a low voice that still echoed in his chest, to dark eyes that held the kind of steadiness he'd forgotten men were capable of.

Gabriel.

The name felt dangerous even in silence.

Cain's gaze kept sliding back toward the window, watching how the moonlight gathered there.

In front of him, the fire crackled softly.

He closed his eyes and let the warmth slowly sink into his bones.

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Petals of the Sun God: In Greek Mythology, the sun god Apollo falls deeply in love with the beautiful Spartan youth Hyacinthus. The two spend their days together, with Apollo teaching him how to play the lyre and the discus. One day, while the two are playing discus, the wind god Zephyrus, who is also in love with Hyacinthus, becomes consumed by jealousy. In a moment of rage, he blows the discus off course, causing it to strike Hyacinthus in the head and kill him. Distraught, Apollo names a new flower after his lost love, growing it from his blood.