The museum after hours had always felt different.
Quieter, yes. But not empty.
The objects hummed differently in the dark. The galleries that bustled with school groups and tourists during the day settled into a kind of watchful stillness.
Isla had stayed late a hundred times.
She’d walked these halls alone, lights dimmed, her footsteps echoing.
She’d never felt them watching like this.
Her nerves buzzed.
The keys clipped to her belt jangled softly as she moved through the medieval wing. The beam of her flashlight cut a narrow path through the semi-darkness, catching on gilt and glass, on the pale faces of wooden saints.
Her heart thumped too loud.
She wished she could turn it down like she could the lights.
“Breathe,” she whispered to herself. “Just breathe.”
Her breath fogged faintly in the cool air.
Down the hall, the red light over the security camera blinked once, then winked out.
Tim’s voice crackled softly in her earpiece. “You’re clear. Two minutes.”
Her throat was dry.
“Copy,” she whispered.
She moved to the first case.
The sword.
It lay on its mount like a sleeping animal, the dragon coiled around its hilt picked out in faintly polished relief.
Her fingers shook as she slid the key into the discreet lock at the base of the case.
“Last chance to back out,” Tim’s voice murmured.
She thought of Cael in the staff lounge, sitting impossibly still in a chair too small for him. Of the way his fingers had tightened around the list when she’d slid it toward him. Of the flash of something like… hope that had crossed his face.
Of the scale in the drawer.
Of the way her blood had answered it.
She turned the key.
The lock clicked.
“We’re in,” she whispered.
She lifted the glass lid.
Cold air from the climate-control system washed over her face.
She reached in, hands careful, and closed her fingers around the sword’s hilt.
Heat flared up her arms.
Not enough to burn.
Enough to *tingle*.
A faint, insistent hum climbed into her bones, into her teeth.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“What?” Tim asked sharply.
She swallowed.
“He’s right,” she whispered. “It… *hums*.”
It was like touching a live wire. Like resting her hand on the throat of a big cat and feeling the purr reverberate up her arm.
She lifted the sword with both hands, mindful of its weight, of the balance.
She’d handled countless weapons over the years, for condition reports and displays.
None of them had ever felt… *aware*.
She laid it gently in the padded case she’d set on a cart behind her and moved to the next object.
The chalice.
The same hum. The same flare of heat.
Her thumb throbbed in rhythm.
Her breath came shallow.
Something in her chest unfurled with each piece she lifted. A knot she hadn’t known was there loosening.
“Thirty seconds,” Tim murmured.
“I know,” she whispered.
The necklace was trickier. Its mount had been designed to deter exactly this kind of removal. She cursed under her breath as she coaxed the delicate chain over the hidden hooks without snagging.
“Twenty,” Tim said.
“Do you want to come do this?” she hissed.
He wisely shut up.
The last piece—the reliquary—was small, deceptively simple. A palm-sized silver box with a carved agate inset in the lid. Her fingers brushed the cool stone.
For a second, she saw a face in it.
Not literally. Not a reflection. A woman’s profile in miniature, the curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose.
She blinked.
The image vanished.
Her skin prickled.
She set the reliquary gently beside the other objects.
“Done,” she whispered.
“Cameras coming back online in ten,” Tim said. “Get out of there, Reyes.”
She shut the case lids.
Turned the key.
Checked, automatically, that no fibers or smudges marred the glass.
Old habits, clinging stubbornly even in the middle of a crime.
She pushed the cart out of the gallery on quiet wheels.
Her heart pounded all the way down the back corridor to the service elevator.
When the doors closed behind her, she finally let out the breath she’d been holding.
Her legs shook.
“You did good,” Tim’s voice crackled in her ear.
“I just stole from my own museum,” she whispered.
“Borrowed,” Jay’s voice chimed in. “We’re going to think of it as *borrowing*.”
Cael’s voice slid through the channel like smoke.
“Bring them,” he said.
Her pulse jumped.
“You’re not supposed to be on this channel,” Tim said, exasperation and resignation mingled.
Cael made a low, amused sound.
“You cannot keep me out of simple whispers,” he said. “Hurry, curator.”
Isla swallowed.
The elevator hummed down to the sub-basement.
When the doors opened, the air that met her was warmer, thicker.
Heavier.
She pushed the cart into the staff lounge.
Cael rose to his feet as soon as he saw the objects.
His eyes burned.
Jay, perched on the edge of the counter, muttered, “Okay, yeah, that’s a murder gaze. Remind me not to get between him and a sale bin at Target.”
Tim elbowed him.
Isla ignored them both.
Her hands were steady now.
Maybe it was the adrenaline.
Maybe it was something else.
She lifted the sword from the cart.
Cael crossed the room in two strides.
He stopped just short of touching it, fingers hovering over the blade.
The air around him crackled.
His throat worked.
Slowly, reverently, he wrapped his hand around the hilt and took it from her.
The hum she’d felt climbed into the room, a low, thrumming note that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the walls.
His shoulders dropped.
His spine straightened.
He sucked in a breath like a drowning man breaking the surface.
“Mine,” he whispered.
The runes along his ribs flared bright.
The faint lines on his face—ones she hadn’t consciously registered until now—smoothed.
Isla watched, transfixed.
She hadn’t realized, until this moment, how *dim* he’d been burning.
Like a bonfire banked to embers.
With the sword in his hand, his presence sharpened. The edges of him focused. The air seemed to bend a little closer.
“Whoa,” Jay said softly.
Tim’s gaze flicked between Cael and Isla.
The weird sensation that had risen in her when she’d touched the objects swelled as he lifted each piece.
Chalice.
Necklace.
Reliquary.
With each contact, something inside her echoed.
Her thumb burned.
Her vision swam for a heartbeat as another flash of elsewhere flickered through her mind: a cavern awash in gold, the gleam of jewels in firelight, the shadow of huge wings against stone.
She staggered.
Cael’s free hand shot out, fingers closing around her elbow.
He steadied her without thinking.
The moment his skin touched hers, the hum roared.
Her breath caught.
For a second, they were both there.
In the staff lounge.
In the cavern.
His hoard around them in both places at once, shimmering across realities.
Her hand—the one he didn’t hold—ached with the phantom weight of coins.
His eyes locked on hers.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He leaned in, just a fraction.
Heat washed over her.
Jay made a faint, choked sound.
Tim cleared his throat so loudly it might as well have been a gunshot.
The spell of the moment shattered.
Isla yanked her arm back.
Color flooded her face.
“We need to catalog these,” she blurted, because if she didn’t retreat into procedure, she was going to do something phenomenally stupid. “Off the books. If anyone notices they’re missing, we’ll need to… control the narrative. Say they’re in the lab. Or on loan. Or—”
“You are adorable when you’re panicking,” Jay said sotto voce.
She threw a crumpled napkin at him.
Cael watched her, expression unreadable.
Then, unexpectedly, he bowed his head.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words were simple. Sincere.
They punched through her defenses more effectively than any compliments on her bravery or skill could have.
“You’re welcome,” she said awkwardly.
“You ensure I remain sane,” he went on, almost clinically. “You keep your people alive. It is… practical.”
Of course.
Of course he’d ruin it.
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” she said.
Jay snorted.
Tim smiled faintly.
The moment hung there, balanced on a knife edge between tension and something lighter.
Isla cleared her throat.
“Okay,” she said briskly. “Short-term crisis averted. You’re a little more grounded. Great. Now what?”
Cael’s hand tightened around the sword.
“Now,” he said, “we go hunting.”
Her stomach dropped.
“For the rest of your hoard,” she clarified quickly. “Not… people.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Depends who stands in the way.”
“No,” she said sharply.
He frowned.
“No,” she repeated. “That’s not how this works. We do this my way, or not at all. No bodies. No fire. No… dragon rampages.”
“Your way is slow,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Slow is how we don’t end up on the news. Or arrested. Or dead. You slept for three hundred years. You can give me three weeks.”
He flinched at the number.
“I do not know if I have three weeks,” he said quietly. “This”—he lifted the sword slightly—“helps. But it is not enough. The hollow places are still there.”
Her chest tightened.
“Then we prioritize,” she said. “We start with the pieces closest. Ours. Then we move out. We plan. We practice. We…”
She trailed off.
“Plot,” Jay supplied helpfully. “We plot. Like villains in a heist movie.”
“We are *not* villains,” Isla said, scandalized.
Jay arched a brow. “We just stole a priceless medieval sword and gave it to a dragon.”
“A dragon it belongs to,” she shot back.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
“Touché,” he said.
Tim rubbed the back of his neck.
“I can only cover so much,” he said. “Within this building? We can work around the cameras. Fudge some logs. But once we start going off-site…” He shook his head. “That’s a different ballgame.”
“What’s a ballgame?” Cael asked.
“Later,” they all said simultaneously.
Isla chewed her lower lip.
“There are… other ways,” she said slowly. “Loan requests. Research visits. I have colleagues at some of the other institutions. If I request access to certain objects for study, we could… get close. Assess. Maybe even negotiate.”
Cael’s expression sharpened.
“Negotiate,” he repeated with the same disdain he’d reserved for *asking*.
“People repatriate artifacts all the time now,” she said. “Or, okay, not *all* the time, but it’s becoming more common. Institutions recognize that certain pieces don’t belong to them. That they were acquired under dubious circumstances and should go home.”
“My hoard is not a country,” he said.
“It might as well be,” she said. “Legally, ethically… we could make a case. We just have to… be creative.”
Jay groaned. “You’re going to make me help write a grant application for a dragon, aren’t you.”
Her lips twitched.
“Think of the CV line,” she said. “‘Assisted in the repatriation of non-human cultural heritage.’”
He brightened. “Okay, yeah, that does slap.”
Cael frowned. “You would… stand in front of your human leaders and say, ‘These things belong to a monster in the basement’ and expect them to… listen?”
“Monster is harsh,” she said.
He looked pointedly at the sword.
She sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “Dragon. Whatever. And no, of course we can’t just tell them that. We start smaller. We build a narrative. We argue that Schmiedler’s acquisitions were unethical. That the objects should be returned to their… original site. The… the cavern. Under the old fort.”
He made a low, incredulous sound.
“You want to turn my hoard into a… heritage site,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed.
“When you say it like that…”
“That is *exactly* what you just proposed,” he said.
She bristled.
“Look,” she said. “Do you want help or not? Because if you vanish into the wilderness with a stolen sword, there’s only so much I can do for you.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His jaw worked.
“I do not like this,” he said. “Begging.”
“You’re not begging,” she said. “You’re… collaborating.”
He snorted.
“Your human words.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We have a lot. It’s how we overcompensate for not having scales.”
His gaze flicked down her body.
“Shame,” he murmured.
Heat flared in her cheeks.
Tim looked pained.
“On that note,” he said, “we should all go home before we start saying things we can’t walk back.”
“I have already said things I cannot walk back,” Cael said.
Isla’s stomach flipped.
Tim scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Sleep,” he said firmly. “All of you. We reconvene tomorrow. No one does anything… drastic… without running it by the group.”
His gaze lingered on Cael.
“I make no promises,” Cael said.
Tim’s expression hardened. “You already did,” he said quietly. “Twenty-four hours. Don’t make me find out what happens if you break it.”
For a moment, something like respect flickered in Cael’s eyes.
“You are… inconvenient,” he said.
“Story of my life,” Tim replied.
Jay hopped off the counter, gathering his things.
“I’m going to go home, have three beers, and pretend I spent my day fixing the Wi-Fi,” he said. “Text me if the dragon goes feral or the board moves up the annual review meeting again. Honestly, not sure which is worse.”
Isla laughed weakly.
“I should… go too,” she said. “I have a hot date with my couch and leftover empanadas.”
“Alone?” Cael asked.
Her brows shot up.
“Yes,” she said pointedly. “Alone.”
“Good,” he said.
The possessive curl of the word did something strange to her insides.
She refused to acknowledge it.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, then hesitated.
Her gaze slid to the cart where the empty mounts lay.
Something tugged at her.
“Cael,” she said. “The scale. In the archives.”
His attention sharpened.
“What about it?”
“I ran tests,” she said. “It doesn’t match anything in our database. Not bone. Not shell. Not… any known polymer. It’s… unique.” She chewed her lower lip. “And it… reacts. To me. To you.”
He nodded slowly.
“It is our… bridge,” he said. “A piece of me. Now also a piece of you.”
Her skin prickled.
“Should we… move it?” she asked. “If it’s… connected.”
He considered.
“No,” he said finally. “Not yet. It binds you to this place as much as to me. If we move it, the webs of your security, your… politics… might tangle differently.”
“You’re worried moving your *scale* will trigger an audit,” she said, incredulous.
He shrugged, unconcerned.
“I am worried that touching it again will pull you deeper,” he said. “Before you are ready.”
Her throat went dry.
“How deep is… deep?” she asked.
His eyes burned.
“Deep enough that when I call, you come,” he said softly.
A shiver went through her.
She squared her shoulders.
“I don’t answer to you,” she said.
His lips curved.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he murmured.
She turned on her heel before she could say something she’d really regret and stalked out of the lounge.
Her heartbeat didn’t slow until she stepped out into the night air.
The city roared around her.
Car horns. Shouts. Sirens in the distance. The smell of hot asphalt and food carts and the river.
Normal chaos.
Grounding chaos.
She sucked in a deep breath.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Maya: *Empanadas in the oven. You alive?*
Isla exhaled.
*Define alive,* she typed back.
She hesitated.
Then added: *I have so much to tell you and you are going to think I’m high.*
Typing bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
*I already think you’re high,* Maya wrote. *On medieval dust. Get your butt over here. I’ll bring the wine, you bring the drama.*
Isla smiled, something in her easing.
She started walking.
Behind her, in the sub-basement of the museum, a dragon wrapped his hand around a stolen sword, surrounded by four small fragments of his heart, and plotted the next move.
He was not used to waiting.
He was not used to asking.
He was not used to wanting anything as much as he wanted his hoard back.
Except, perhaps, the unexpected, infuriating, intriguing human who had woken him.
He tightened his grip on the blade.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured to the empty room.
The runes on his ribs pulsed.
Far above, in a small studio apartment with peeling paint and a view of a brick wall, Isla Reyes poured wine into a chipped mug and tried to explain to her best friend that dragons were real without bursting into hysterical laughter.
Outside, the city moved on, oblivious.
Inside the museum, cameras blinked. Alarms slept.
In drawer B-14, under outdated tissue and new labels, a single scale shivered.
The bond between dragon, hoard, and human thrummed like a plucked string.
Somewhere in the dark, something old enough to remember when dragons had not been the last of anything stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Interested.
***
End of Chapter Four.