The pavement catches his foot at the worst possible moment.

Aurelian stumbles, arms flailing uselessly, and goes down hard in the middle of the street. The sound of his impact echoes sharper than it should. For a heartbeat there’s silence—then laughter.

“Careful there, pretty boy,” one of the men snorts. “Watch where you’re walking,” another adds, amused, already circling like it’s entertainment.

Aurelian pushes himself up on shaking hands, cheeks burning, heart racing. He can feel the weight of their attention pressing in on him, ugly and sharp. Words knot in his throat. He doesn’t look up.

“Enough.”

The voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

It’s low, controlled, and dangerous in a way that doesn’t need volume. The men turn—and stop smiling.

She steps forward from the edge of the crowd, posture relaxed but unmistakably dominant. Her hair is a deep wine-red, braided into two thick plaits that fall over her chest, catching the autumn light. Her eyes—golden-brown and sharp—fix on the men with a warning that promises consequences. She’s dressed in a fitted black leather coat, belted at the waist, the material creasing as she moves. Silver crosses hang from her ears and throat, stark against her skin, not decorative so much as deliberate.

“Didn’t your mothers teach you to shut up when someone gets hurt?” she says calmly.

No one answers. One of the men scoffs weakly, but the sound dies when she takes a single step closer. Whatever they see in her expression convinces them. They mutter, retreat, disperse.

Only then does she turn back to Aurelian.

She kneels in front of him without hesitation, leather creaking softly, her focus shifting instantly from threat to concern. Up close, her makeup is subtle but precise—dark lashes, flushed cheeks, lips parted slightly as she studies him.

“Hey,” she says, gentler now. “Look at me. Are you hurt?”

He blinks, startled by the softness after the steel. “I—I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” she interrupts, already checking his hands, his knees, her touch firm but careful. “Falling isn’t a crime.”

She offers her hand. For a moment he hesitates, then takes it. Her grip is strong, steady, anchoring. She pulls him to his feet with surprising ease, keeping a hand at his elbow until she’s sure he’s standing.

“There,” she says, eyes meeting his, searching. “You good?”

Aurelian nods, breath unsteady. Something warm settles in his chest—protective, instinctive, dangerous in its sincerity.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.