He knew—before the gates of the estate ever came into view—that two souls called to him.

One was faint, flickering like a dying candle. The other… pulled. Aurelian followed the Baron through the iron doors, his presence unremarked upon by the servants who shrank from his blackened robes and porcelain mask. To them, he was only a plague doctor—summoned in desperation. To the unseen, he was the guide who walked between the damned and the divine.

The leather satchel at his side was heavy with herbs and instruments, though he already knew none of them would be needed. The Baron’s wife had reached the end of her appointed hour. Fate, once written, did not waver.

The chamber was dim and thick with the scent of sickness. Candles burned low around the bed where the old woman lay, her skin ashen, her breath shallow and uneven. Her children surrounded her, murmuring prayers, clinging to what little warmth remained. It was a familiar sight—one he had witnessed countless times across centuries.

Still, it never ceased to wound something deep within him.

He stepped closer. At his approach, the children retreated as instructed, fear and reverence etched into their faces— all except one.

She remained at the bedside, fingers entwined with her mother’s, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Raven hair spilled forward as she bent over the frail hand she refused to release.

Aurelian paused.

Even for one who bore witness to death each day, the sight tightened his chest. “Miss,” he said gently, his voice measured, composed—human.

“I must ask that you withdraw. The contagion is grave, and prolonged contact places you in considerable danger.” She did not move.

Instead, her tear-blurred gaze lifted to him. And the world shifted.

Her eyes widened in horror—not at his mask, not at his words, but at him. At the shadow that clung too closely. At the truth no mortal had ever perceived.

Aurelian’s breath caught.

She gasped, clutching her mother’s hand tighter, shaking her head violently as fresh tears spilled free. “No,” she cried, her voice breaking. “No—please. You can’t take her away.” He froze.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his satchel, unseen beneath the long sleeves of his coat. No soul had ever spoken to him like that. No living being had ever looked upon him and known. The Baron rushed forward, arms wrapping around his daughter as he pulled her back from the bed. She struggled, sobbing into his chest, her grief raw and unrestrained. Aurelian forced himself to move.

He knelt beside the dying woman, maintaining the illusion—checking her pulse, murmuring words meant to soothe the living rather than alter the inevitable. His presence alone was enough. The soul had already begun to loosen its ties. Moments later, her breath stilled. Silence fell. With reverence, he reached up and gently closed her eyes.

Rising, he stepped away to address the Baron, offering quiet condolences, explaining what the household already knew. One by one, the family was ushered from the chamber, grief trailing behind them like a shroud.

All except her.

She remained by the bedside, soft sniffles breaking the hush of the room, her fingers still curled around her mother’s now-cold hand.

Aurelian hesitated. Then, against every rule he had ever obeyed, he turned back. He approached slowly, his footsteps soundless on the stone floor, and stopped beside her.

“…Tell me,” he said at last, his voice low, darkened by disbelief, “maiden with raven hair and onyx eyes—what is your name?” She did not look up. “And how,” he continued, something unfamiliar stirring within his chest, “Did you see me for what I truly am?”

For the first time in his eternal existence, the guide of souls found himself undone— by a woman who had seen him.