The lamps hum faintly tonight. Their pale, alchemical glow trembles on the glass vials that clutter my desk, a poor imitation of the light I imagine the surface world have. I lean closer to my notes, to the runes I have been tracing for hours, but my thoughts drift again to him.

Rerir should have been home by now. The streets of Kaenri’ah are silent at this hour, heavy with the stillness of stone and secret lives.

I tell myself he is on duty at the royal palace, as he always says. Guarding the King. Protecting order. But each night, when I touch the edge of his cloak and smell iron, too much iron, I wonder who he truly guards.

He carries death on his skin, though he thinks I do not notice.

When he comes in, the first thing I see is the dagger. Not directly, it is always hidden, wrapped and carefully stored, but the way his hand moves tells me where it rests. His fingers twitch near his belt when he lies.

“Long night?” I ask softly, pretending to stay buried in my research.

“As always,” he answers, his voice steady but dull. "The King’s moods grow stranger by the day.”

He sits beside me, and the distance between us feels like a cavern. I want to reach out, to tell him the truth about me, that I am bound to blood that should have been forgotten. But how could I? To speak of the Crimson Moon here, in Kaenri’ah, is to invite execution.

And perhaps… his hand would be the one to strike…