Chapter 168: Chapter 168: The Tradition

A SOFT KNOCK.

Mailah’s breath stopped mid-inhale.

She didn’t move at first—didn’t dare. The single, polite tap echoed through the hallway like the universe inhaling with her. Shadows stretched toward the door as if expecting someone. As if he stood on the other side.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

Grayson.

It had to be him.

Who else knocked like the night itself asking permission to enter?

She crossed the hallway slowly, pulse steadying into a hopeful, reckless rhythm. She smoothed her hair. Wiped her palms on her robe. Took one last breath she wanted him to steal from her.

Mailah opened the door—

—and all hope instantly withered.

“Wow,” Lucien said, taking in her expression with a dramatic wince. “Try not to look too disappointed.”

Mailah stared at him. “You’re not Grayson.”

Lucien placed a hand over his chest, feigning injury. “I am wounded. Mortally. Someone summon a healer.”

“You’ll live.”

“Unfortunately.”

Lucien—the fallen angel—stood leaning against the doorway like he owned it. His white hair was pulled back, jacket half-unbuttoned, and his ever-present aura of “devoted guardian who regrets signing up” glowed faintly around him.

He tilted his head. “So. Are you going to invite me in, or are we doing all of this on the doorstep like a dramatic soap opera reveal?”

Mailah stepped aside, because she didn’t have the spiritual stamina to argue with a fallen angel who thrived on commentary.

The moment he entered, the temperature shifted—like the air learned better posture in the presence of someone once divine.

Mailah folded her arms. “Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Straight to the point. How un-Grayson of you.”

She ignored him.

He rolled his eyes skyward, muttering something in a language that sparkled in the air—probably a celestial curse—before finally answering.

“I’m here,” Lucien said, “because he sent me.”

Mailah’s stomach dropped. “Grayson sent you? Why? Where is he?”

Lucien lifted a hand, palm out, as if stopping traffic. “Before you launch into a dramatic monologue—and I know you want to—let me get the worst part out of the way.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, utterly serious.

“You won’t be seeing him until the wedding.”

Mailah blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…What?”

Lucien shrugged like he was relaying mundane gossip. “Tradition.”

Mailah stared, jaw unhinging. “Since when is Grayson traditional?! He barges into dream realms.”

Lucien smirked. “And yet—demons are remarkably old-fashioned.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

She paced, robe swishing around her legs. “But he didn’t tell me! He just—vanished! He left a note! A tiny, vague, infuriating note!”

Lucien pressed his lips together in sympathy. “He’s… nervous.”

Mailah froze. “Grayson? Nervous?”

“As a sinner at judgment. He’s pretending he isn’t, but trust me—I’ve seen him polish his cuffs for fifteen minutes while muttering your name like a spell.”

Mailah’s heart thudded. Hard.

Lucien continued, “He wants the wedding to be flawless. Which, frankly, is hilarious, because chaos follows him like scent trails.”

Mailah dropped onto the nearest chair, burying her face in her hands.

“I can’t believe he’s doing the whole ’no seeing the bride’ tradition.”

Lucien tapped his fingers against the wall. “Demons can be sentimental. Even romantic, when properly threatened.”

Mailah peeked at him. “Threatened?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lucien said. “He’d burn three realms if tomorrow goes wrong. He’s balancing on the emotional edge of a cliff.”

Mailah nearly melted into the chair.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Anyway. Before I forget—he sent something.”

He reached behind him and pulled forward—

—a box.

A big box.

Big enough that it required both of his hands to hold it. Wrapped in shimmering white paper that changed color depending on the angle—sometimes silver, sometimes starlight blue, sometimes pure void black.

Mailah stared at it. “What… is that?”

“His version,” Lucien said, “of something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.”

Her mouth fell open. “He… knows that tradition?”

“Demons,” Lucien repeated flatly, “are very traditional.”

She eyed the parcel. “Is it dangerous?”

Lucien thought for a moment. “Possibly. But lovingly so.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“I’m here for moral support, not practicality.”

The box vibrated faintly.

Mailah stepped back. “Lucien—why is it moving?”

“Because everything in your life is dramatic,” he replied, unfazed.

She glared.

Lucien sighed and softened, just a fraction. “Look. I know you’re overwhelmed. I know the rituals, the guests, the vows—it’s a lot. But Grayson asked me to bring this because he wanted you to feel… connected.”

Mailah swallowed.

Lucien shifted on his feet. “Anyway, I’ve delivered what I came for. I need to return before someone sets something on fire. Probably Oliver or his cat. Or the kitchen.”

Mailah approached the door as he prepared to leave.

“Lucien?”

He paused.

“…Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He blinked, visibly thrown off. “Oh. Uh. You’re welcome. Don’t get used to it.”

He started walking away, then stopped and turned back, his voice gentler, stripped of sarcasm.

“You’re good for him. He knows it. And tomorrow… the worlds will know it too.”

Mailah felt something in her chest fold inward, like a bloom curling into itself.

Lucien nodded once, then vanished—no wings, no theatrics. Just with long strides..

Mailah was alone again.

Except—she wasn’t.

The box sat on the table, glowing faintly with promise. Threat. Mystery. Love. Something else she couldn’t name.

She approached it cautiously.

Her fingers hovered over the lid.

Something inside shifted. Like a heartbeat. Or a whisper. Or a memory.

Mailah’s breath trembled out of her.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what you’ve done, Grayson.”

She lifted the lid—

—and her breath broke apart.

The box didn’t contain jewels or enchanted relics. No glowing sigils. No demonic artifacts humming with power.

Instead… it held pieces of her.

Pieces she had never spoken aloud.

Pieces she thought she’d lost.

Right on top lay a folded piece of paper. Familiar handwriting. Hers.

Mailah blinked hard. It took a moment for her brain to register what it was.

A list.

Her list.

Her private, embarrassingly sentimental list from her tiny apartment —the list of things she wanted “one day,” written during a night she believed no one would ever choose her.

She remembered writing it and hiding it inside a book.

She remembered losing it after she decided to go to Grayson’s estate and pretend to be her twin sister.

She had never told him it existed.

Her fingers shook as she unfolded it.

The same ink blot on the corner.

The same messy spacing.

The same vulnerable handwriting:

“Things I wish for, even if they never happen.”

Mailah’s throat tightened painfully.

How did he find this?

Before she could process further, something soft brushed her knuckles. She startled, nearly dropping the list.

It was a scarf.

A faded, hand-woven scarf the color of twilight smoke.

Her mother’s.

Her eyes stung. She hadn’t seen it since she hid it at the back of her closet. She used to share it with Lailah when they were young so they would stay warm on her long commutes.

“How…?” she whispered to the empty room.

Mailah pressed the scarf to her chest, throat tight enough to choke.

She dug gently through the items, afraid the next one would break her.

It almost did.

A tube of watercolor paint.

The exact shade of the sky she used to paint when she was fifteen.

She hadn’t touched the color in years—not since life hardened and art felt like a luxury. She never mentioned it to him. Not once.

Mailah’s fingers trembled as she set the paint aside.

There were still more items inside—neatly arranged, deliberate, unmistakably organized in a sequence.

The next item glinted faintly under the light.

A hairpin.

Simple. Gold. Smooth. Minimalist.

But when she picked it up, her breath stuttered—because she realized exactly what it resembled.

It matched a design she had once doodled absentmindedly in her sketchbook.

A simple, elegant pin shaped like a rising sun.

She traced its edges.

He remembered the drawing.

He recreated it.

Attached was his handwriting:

“For tomorrow. A new beginning—your design, not mine.”

Mailah pressed the pin to her lips, overwhelmed.

The next item made her blink hard.

A book.

But not one of Grayson’s ancient tomes.

It was her favorite—the book Grayson caught her reading in the library that first time they met.

Pride and Prejudice.

Mailah clutched it, fingers trembling.

Inside the cover, a small note:

“Borrow it one more time.Finish it after the ceremony.”

Her chest folded into itself—tender, aching.

The last item sat nestled in a velvet cloth.

Mailah lifted it—

—and her breath broke.

It was a delicate blue friendship bracelet. Beaded. Awkwardly knotted in the middle. The kind she used to make with Lailah when they were teenagers and determined to believe in better days.

Mailah hadn’t seen it since she was seventeen.She thought it was gone forever.

This might be Lailah’s bracelet.

Mailah’s vision blurred.

Underneath, a final note:

“She would want it with you tomorrow.”

Her knees threatened to give.

Mailah curled forward with a sound that was part sob, part laugh, part disbelief. Her heart hammered wildly, painfully, beautifully.

How did he know?

And when did he find and collect these items?

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