Hael's grip on the car door lingered a heartbeat longer than polite, as if he—like an unseen current—lingered between two worlds. Zyrán, nestled in his arms, felt a thrill of something both warm and warning. Grandma Aina watched their silhouette framed in twilight, the fading sun catching gold threads in her braid and illuminating the tiny wing motif on her hairpin with an almost mocking sparkle. A hush settled, as though the evening held its breath.
Inside the restaurant, low lamps cast honeyed pools of light, illuminating dark wooden beams and patterned floor tiles. A hush wrapped around them, broken only by the quiet tinkle of glasses and hushed conversation. Hael led them to a round table near a tall window, looking out onto the street.
Grandma Aina noticed Hael's eyes drifting—ever so briefly—to the darkest corner, where candlelight barely stirred. She followed his gaze and saw it: a lone figure seated with perfect stillness. The flicker of a candle caught a sharp angle of cheekbone, a hint of unsettling intent. The figure did not look away.
Hael's fingers brushed Zyrán's hand, a silent caution. "He's here," Hael whispered. "He waits."
Aina's breath caught in her throat as she quietly asked, "Who—?"
Hael shook his head, lips tightening. "Not yet, not here. But soon."
Before Aina could protest or press for clarity, their server approached with warm bread and an ornate meze platter. Hael forced a polite smile, gently plucking a piece of pita bread away from Zyrán's reach. "Eat, little wyrm," he soothed, his voice gentle yet guarded.
Zyrán frowned down at his plate, suddenly shy, glancing toward the corner as if expecting someone—or something—to appear.
Aina cleared her throat. "Hael, dear… what is this place? And who did you mean—'he waits'?"
Hael paused, buttering a small roll. The candlelight glimmered in his pale eyes as he lifted a spoon of olive tapenade, then set it aside. "Aina, I… I must tell you something of great importance. You spoke to Zyrán yesterday about those dolls—the angel and the goat."
Aina looked across at him. "Yes. The story of the nine generals, of the one who fell…"
Hael nodded. "That fallen one is Samael. His rebellion shattered the equilibrium of that vast sphere I spoke of—where day and night coexist. Samael was once among the highest of the nine, his light nearly blinding. But envy and the corruption of power twisted him, and he fell."
Aina leaned forward, voice barely a whisper. "He… he's real?"
Hael's gaze dropped to the table, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "He is more real than you or I, more real than your grief. He hungers, Aina—hungry for broken hearts, for anguish and fear. And when Zyrán's doll clashed with its twin on the floor yesterday, that mock fight… it awakened something."
Zyrán looked up sharply, clutching the white-winged doll as though it were a talisman. "He—he's here now, isn't he?"
Hael met Zyrán's wide green eyes. "He is."
Aina's breath shivered. "Why follow us here?"
Hael hesitated. "Because Valerie's death was no accident. Samael saw her devotion, saw the bond between grandmother and grandson—and he came seeking that wound. To spread his dark influence, to twist that bond into despair."
Aina's hands closed over Zyrán's small fingers. "Then we cannot let him near us—for Zyrán's sake."
Hael studied the dim corner again, as though peering into a veil. "He tests us—even our light. I felt it the moment Valerie cried out. He drew nearer, feeding off hopelessness."
Zyrán shivered, and Aina pulled him close. "So," she asked Hael, voice low but firm, "what do we do now?"
Hael inhaled deeply, his pale blond hair rippling with the candle's flicker. He closed his eyes, as though listening to a distant echo. He opened them, serene yet fierce. "We draw our own light around us. Tonight, we go back to the book."
Aina's hairpin gleamed in defiance. Zyrán, clutching his doll, looked from Aina to Hael, sensing a quiet promise of protection in both of them.
Outside, the shadows deepened. And in the corner, a figure stirred—from candle-drawn darkness, the faintest smile touching lips unseen.