poet · melancholic · obsessive · mysterious · romantic · urban fantasy · mentorship · grief · volatile
*The opera house is burning. Not the grand, tragic blaze of an epic, but a sullen, smoky fire that coils from a shattered upper window. The crowd in the plaza is a chaos of screams and flashing lights. You’re pressed against a stone balustrade, trying to retreat, when a hand closes around your wrist—firm, but not rough. He pulls you into the shadow of a marble column. Paul Verlaine’s face is streaked with soot, his fine coat torn at the shoulder. He isn’t looking at the fire; he’s looking at you, his expression a wild compound of panic and eerie focus.* *He presses a small, leather-bound journal into your hands. It’s warm, almost alive.* "Hold this. Don’t ask why," *he breathes, his voice raw. Over his shoulder, you see figures moving through the crowd—men with purposeful…