Chapter 3

Elara held the empty copper cup, her fingers trembling faintly from the lingering silver burn.

She turned slowly to face Lucien.

For a moment, she doubted her own hearing.

“What did you say?”

Lucien’s expression held no guilt, no apology.

He drew her aside, away from the grateful gazes, into the shadow of the arch. His voice was low, the tone one used to placate someone being ‘unreasonable.’

“Elara, don’t make a scene.”

“Celeste has only thirteen nights left.”

He avoided speaking the words ‘will die,’ as if they carried a contagion.

But the utter ‘rightness’ in his eyes was more cutting than any explicit statement.

“Your mother sends you here to gather blessings for her.”

“Letting her have the credit… it’s a small thing. Do not quarrel with her over it, understand?”

At the word ‘quarrel,’ a fresh wound seemed to tear open in Elara’s chest.

“A small thing?” She gave a short laugh, the sound as cold as frost on glass. “Last time, you asked me not to contend with her for the Blood Oath that was rightfully mine.”

“This time, you ask me not to contend for the credit of my own deeds.”

Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

“What next?”

“Will you ask for my face, my name, my very self—to give to her next?”

Lucien’s brow tightened, a flash of impatience finally breaking through his controlled facade.

“Elara.”

His voice hardened, taking on the weight of command.

“You have always been the understanding one. You could not bear for her to depart with regrets.”

“Thirteen nights. Be patient a little longer.”

He reached for her wrist, as if to press her back into her role as the ‘dutiful intended.’

Elara recoiled a step, evading his grasp.

She looked at him, her eyes dry, holding only a slow-cooling disappointment.

“I have told you, time and again, Celeste will not die.”

“The nightmares, the callings she claims to hear—they are not hers.”

Lucien’s gaze turned to ice.

“Enough.” The words were a sharp whisper. “Do not speak such lies.”

“To say such things now only sounds like a curse upon her.”

Elara gave a slight nod.

“So, in your eyes, even my truth is a sin.”

She turned and walked back to the relief station, continuing to serve the broth.

Her movements remained measured, her voice calm.

But the hand holding the ladle shook uncontrollably.

By the time the charity work ended, night had fully descended.

The old city streets were damp and cold. The sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones echoed dully, each revolution a weight upon her heart.

Elara leaned back in the carriage, closing her eyes, but found no peace.

She remembered the voice from the Underworld that had spoken to her in dreams as a child:

“Your acts of mercy in the mortal realm are recorded in the Scrolls.”

“Those who receive your grace shall answer with candlelight and prayer.”

“When you return to your station, you shall possess your own devotion and protection.”

But today, Lucien had publicly given Celeste’s name.

The Underworld was not blind.

The Reaper did not make errors in his ledgers.

One who performed no good deed yet reaped its spiritual reward.

In the oldest laws of the Kindred, that was called—the theft of votive pledges.

Stolen votive pledges breed backlash.

Pilfered reverence cuts short a lifespan.

Elara pressed a hand to her chest, where a pain bloomed, hollow and sharp, as if claws of nothingness were scraping her insides clean.

Upon returning to the Voss estate, out of ingrained habit more than hope, she found herself heading toward the main house.

But at the threshold, she stopped.

Laughter spilled from within.

Her father’s, her mother’s, Celeste’s.

It was a dull blade, slowly sawing through her composure.

She stood outside, uncertain whether to enter.

In the next moment, her mother’s voice shifted, becoming mournful.

“Celeste… I fear we have but a few nights left of such happiness.”

Celeste’s voice hitched with a sob. “Mother, I don’t want to die… I wish to stay with you.”

Her mother began to weep, the sound of a world ending. “The Night is cruel… why must it take my most beloved child!”

My most beloved child.

Elara stood in the corridor, the draft from the hall chilling her to the bone.

Then, she heard Celeste ask their father through tears, “Father, you sit on the Council… is there nothing to be done?”

“To let me stay… by your side.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Then her father’s voice, grave and thick with pain, answered. “The Seer spoke true—my fate is to lose a daughter.”

He paused, the words seeming to cost him dearly. “I went to the old cathedral. I knelt for seven nights.”

“If fate demands I lose one… Celeste, I prayed it would not be you.”

Hearing this, Elara did not immediately shatter.

She only felt something inside her—something that had long propped up her will to live—finally crumble to dust.

The smile that touched her lips was silent, a private verdict.

“Father… in twelve nights, you shall have your wish.”

She turned and walked away, her steps leaving no sound, as if she had never been there at all.