The bell above the workshop door had not rung all morning.
Esmé sat at her father's worktable, a glass rod in her hand and a half-shaped bloom of violet and gold spinning before her. The petals rippled with heat, catching the sun streaming through the high windows, but her attention wandered.
Her hands moved on their own—muscle memory guiding the fire, her breath gentle and precise—but her thoughts were far from the forge.
The letter sat tucked beneath her sketchbook.
L.R.
She had reread the words a dozen times, each repetition deepening her certainty: Luca di Rosso wasn't a man. Or at least, not entirely. And if what she had found in the archives was true—if he truly had been alive in 1216—then the rumors weren't rumors at all.
They were warnings.
He had seen her.
More than that—he had written to her. Not to harm her. Not even to threaten her. But to warn her.
If you insist on looking into shadows… they will begin to look back.
He hadn't denied anything. That frightened her more than if he had.
And now, despite all her instincts telling her to stay away, to burn the letter and forget the name Luca di Rosso forever—Esmé felt something far more dangerous than fear.
She felt curiosity.
Not just about what he was—but about why he had watched her in the first place.
———————————————————
By the time the sun reached its peak, she had made her decision.
She would confront him.
Not with accusations or anger, but with the one thing she had always trusted more than fear: truth. And if she was wrong, if the danger was real—then she needed to know the shape of it. To understand what lived beneath the velvet of Florence's noble houses and the shadows cast by its cathedrals.
But she could not walk into the lion's den blindly.
She needed help.
And she knew exactly where to find it.
————————————————————
Ser Anselmo lived in a crooked house behind San Marco, surrounded by stacks of parchment and bitter herbs. His shop was half-library, half-apothecary, and entirely cloaked in the smell of dust and dried citrus.
He opened the door with a scowl. "You again."
"I need information," Esmé said, stepping past him before he could argue. "And possibly a way to protect myself."
"That's what swords are for."
"Swords don't work on shadows."
He closed the door behind her with a sigh. "And what sort of shadows are you hunting now?"
"Not hunting. Facing." She lowered her voice. "I'm going to speak with Luca di Rosso."
Anselmo froze.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"You plan to confront a creature that might be two centuries old? One tied to the oldest noble house in Florence? And what? Ask him nicely what he is?"
"I plan to give him a chance to tell me the truth. And if he doesn't…" she lifted her chin, "then I'll decide what to do next."
Anselmo rubbed his temples. "You're mad."
"Possibly. But I won't be mad and unprepared."
He stared at her for a long time before finally grumbling, "Come with me."
———————————————————-
In the back room, behind a curtain of woven beads, Anselmo pulled open a small iron chest. Inside were vials of silvery powder, dried herbs, and a roll of parchment inked in ancient symbols.
He handed her a small vial of liquid—clear, with a faint shimmer. "This is argento radice. Silver root. If he tries to glamour you, drink it. It'll sharpen your mind. Might also make you violently ill. Use it wisely."
She tucked it into her satchel.
Then he handed her a charm—a carved piece of bone on a thin chain. "From the northern coast. Etched with protective runes. Worn by sailors who crossed through cursed waters."
Esmé slipped it around her neck, the bone cool against her collarbone.
"And this," he added finally, holding up a folded scrap of vellum. "His house is old, but its foundations are older. There's a chapel underneath it—long abandoned. You'll find an entrance behind the fountain in the eastern courtyard. If things go badly… that's your way out."
She stared at him.
"You've been there before."
"I've seen more than I care to admit," Anselmo muttered. "And lived because I knew when to run."
————————————————————
The next night, Esmé dressed simply.
No bright colors. No jewelry. Just a deep blue cloak, a dark gown, soft leather boots. She braided her hair back tightly and tucked her satchel beneath her cloak. The vial, the charm, the note—all hidden close to her skin.
She left the shop after dusk, telling her father only that she was visiting Fiora.
That was not a lie.
She would stop by her friend's house on the way—not for company, but for a note. A small piece of parchment she would leave behind, sealed in Fiora's hands.
If she didn't return by dawn, Fiora was to bring it to Anselmo.
————————————————————
The Palazzo Rosso loomed above the city's southern quarter like a fortress of marble and crimson stone. Esmé had never seen it up close. Its gates were guarded, its gardens watched, and its windows always shuttered.
But tonight, the gates stood open.
Two men in silver-trimmed livery bowed her through without a word.
Her heart thundered.
Inside, the courtyard was lit by torches that burned without smoke, casting warm, golden light across statues of angels and wolves. She followed the path toward the main doors, boots silent on the stone.
The door opened before she could knock.
And there he was.
Luca.
Dressed in midnight black, hair slicked back, no cloak tonight—only the sharp lines of a man who looked carved from shadow. His eyes met hers and held.
No smile.
No greeting.
Only quiet gravity.
"I was beginning to wonder," he said. His voice was low, smooth, but wrapped in something sharp.
"You invited me," she replied.
"And you accepted. That makes you either very brave… or very foolish."
"Both," she said.
And then she stepped inside.
————————————————————
The air inside the palazzo was colder than Esmé expected.
Not from drafts or stone walls—but from something else. The kind of cold that settled in the spine. The kind that lingered, even near fire.
The entry hall stretched wide and high above her, lined with arched ceilings and silk draperies that moved without wind. A silver chandelier floated above, casting flickering light without candle or oil.
Luca said nothing as he led her down a quiet corridor. His footsteps were soundless. Esmé had to walk faster just to keep up.
They passed no servants. No guards. No voices. Only silence, deeper than any church, and the echo of her own heartbeat in her ears.
He finally stopped before a tall double door of black wood, then opened it with one pale hand.
"After you."
She hesitated—but only for a second.
Inside, the room was a library, vast and richly decorated. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, hundreds of books. A fire burned low in the hearth, though it gave off little warmth. In the center stood a table with two chairs.
Luca gestured to one.
Esmé sat.
So did he.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"You've been asking questions."
"I received your letter."
"I expected you to heed it."
"I don't like being told what not to do."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face—faint, like the breeze that shifts candlelight.
"I should warn you," he said. "This conversation may change everything you believe about Florence. About the world."
"I came prepared."
"I doubt that."
He leaned forward, folding his hands. "Start, then. Ask what you came to ask."
Esmé met his gaze.
"How long have you been alive?"
He didn't blink.
"Long enough to know that question is the wrong place to begin."
"Then where should I begin?"
He studied her for a moment. "With the truth. Yours, not mine."
She frowned.
"You're not just curious," he said. "You're searching for something. Not just me. Yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then allow me to illuminate." He rose and crossed the room. From one of the upper shelves, he pulled a slim leather-bound volume, then placed it before her.
It was a birth record—from 1473.
The year she was born.
She opened it slowly.
And there, beneath the Loredan family entries, was a mark.
A rose. Encircling a drop of blood.
Her breath caught.
"I found this symbol in a crypt beneath Santa Lucia," she whispered.
Luca nodded. "It's older than Florence. Older than even Rome. It belonged to the Veilborn—a bloodline capable of seeing through illusion. Of resisting glamour. They were meant to balance the world between the living and the night.
"But they're gone."
"Not all."
Esmé looked up sharply.
"You're saying I—?"
"I'm saying your blood is old. Older than the guilds or the glass or your father's name." He stepped closer. "And that's why you saw me. Why you felt the shadow on the rooftop. Why the letter reached you."
She rose slowly, heart pounding. "You knew from the beginning."
"I suspected. Then I watched."
"Watched me?"
"Not for pleasure," he said softly. "For proof."
"And if I wasn't what you thought?"
"Then you would've forgotten me by now."
She shook her head. "You speak in riddles. Half-truths. Why not just say what you are?"
He hesitated.
Then: "Because words shape belief. And once something is spoken, it becomes real to the one who hears it."
"Say it anyway."
He stepped closer. The fire behind him flared briefly, casting his pale skin in golden light. His eyes were crimson—deep, fathomless, impossible.
"I am not alive as you understand life," he said. "And I have not breathed as a man breathes for nearly three hundred years."
The silence pressed against her like cold stone.
"Vampire," she whispered.
He flinched—barely. But it was there.
"Yes."
Esmé didn't move.
She studied his face—not for fangs, or monstrous hints—but for something far stranger.
Sadness.
Not weakness. But weight. Burden.
And underneath it, something else.
Loneliness.
"Why warn me?" she asked. "Why not just stay hidden?"
"Because I saw what you are. And I knew others would, too."
"Others?"
He didn't answer.
But the air grew colder.
"Someone is coming," she said quietly.
He nodded once.
"The Solstice awakens old power. And some seek to tear down the veil between night and day."
"And you?"
"I was sent to protect it. Long ago. Before Florence. Before memory."
They stood now, face to face, shadows coiling between them.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Esmé admitted. "I'm just a girl from a workshop. I shape glass. I deliver orders. I lie to my father."
"You see truth," he said. "That is more than most can say."
She took a breath.
"Then tell me everything."
Luca held her gaze.
"I will."
He reached out—slowly—and brushed his fingers just over her wrist.
Not touching. Not quite.
But she felt it.
Like lightning under skin.
Like fire held in place.
———————————————————
Outside, the wind howled.
In the catacombs below the city, something ancient stirred.
And far beneath the Palazzo Rosso, the rose of blood began to burn.