Chapter 5

The sight of blood on the linen was a light snuffed out. Elara staggered, her knees buckling.

“Elara!” Lucien’s composure finally fractured. He surged forward, catching her shoulders and pulling her against him. “Summon the blood physician—now!”

His palm pressed against her back, the grip firm as if to hold her very bones together. The corridor erupted into chaos as servants scattered.

Maeve darted forward, face ashen. “I’ll fetch the physician, I’ll—”

Without another word, Lucien scooped Elara into his arms and carried her swiftly back to her tower, laying her upon the bed.

He leaned over her, his gaze holding a new, unfamiliar panic—not born of love, but of control slipping away.

“Why are you coughing blood?” he demanded, voice low and tense. “Are the scourge wounds from last night reopened? Have you neglected the salves again?”

Elara clutched the stained handkerchief, knuckles bone-white. She remembered the voice from her dreams: as the Crimson Eclipse neared, her mortal vessel would weaken. Until the Black Gate opened, and she returned.

She had said it countless times.

No one listened.

So she merely shook her head, her voice a faint whisper. “It is nothing.”

The elder blood physician arrived swiftly. His cold fingers pressed against her wrist, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he held the pulse.

“The silver-lash wounds are festering, aggravated by a disturbance of the vital humors,” he murmured, his tone grave. “Her blood-song… it frays, as if pulled taut toward some end. She must endure no further penance. No more kneeling vigils.”

Maeve’s eyes welled. “But the Lady insisted—three kneelings at the old cathedral tonight, for the young mistress’s blessings…”

The physician gave no answer, only pressed a folded parchment into Maeve’s hand. “Brew this. Ensure she drinks it. Keep her from the night air.” At the threshold, he glanced back at Lucien, seeming to weigh words, then departed with a sigh.

Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire painting Lucien’s profile in shifting light—a cruel mimicry of the man he used to be.

Lucien sat at the bedside. The silence stretched, a performance of belated guilt.

Finally, he spoke, his voice softening into the sugary cadence he used to pave over broken promises.

“My words earlier… were too harsh.”

He paused, selecting his placations with care. “If you would simply… refrain from challenging Celeste henceforth.”

“After she is… gone, things will return to how they were.”

How they were.

The last ember of warmth in Elara’s chest died.

She looked at him, her question slow, each word dragged from a well of pain.

“And after she is gone… when do you intend to swear the Oath with me?”

Lucien’s throat worked.

He was silent for several heartbeats, as if deciding at last to give her the unvarnished truth.

“I gave her my word,” he said. “When she departs, I shall keep a decade of mourning for her.”

Ten years.

Elara’s lips curved into a faint smile, brittle as cracking ice.

Her “eternity” was eleven nights long.

And he spoke of a decade as if bestowing upon her a future she would never live to see.

She asked no more.

The answer was sufficient.

She closed her eyes, seeking respite, but sleep would not come. In the past, silence between them was never like this—a cold, barren expanse. They used to speak of everything: lunar phases and mist-laden forests, Council politics and shared futures, the treaties with Hunters, even which memorial candle might one day bear both their names.

Now, they had gone from sharing every thought to having nothing left to say.

The door creaked open.

Fragrance preceded her—sweet, cloying, deliberate.

Celeste glided in, holding a steaming bowl of medicine. Her white gown was immaculate, a stark contrast. A thin bandage adorned the back of her hand—a minor burn worn like a badge of honor.

She moved to Lucien’s side, her voice a soft caress. “You have cared for sister long enough. Let me tend to her now.”

Lucien’s gaze instantly softened. “Of course.” He rose, relinquishing his place—and by extension, Elara’s care—to her without a second thought.

Celeste settled on the edge of the bed, lifting a spoonful of the dark liquid to Elara’s lips.

“Sister, I prepared this myself. You must drink it to recover.”

The steam was scalding. Even before it touched her, Elara flinched back from the heat.

A flicker of something cold passed through Celeste’s eyes, gone in an instant. Then, with a sudden movement, she tipped the spoon, forcing the liquid toward Elara’s mouth.

The searing pain made Elara jerk her head away, her hand coming up to push the bowl aside.

Clatter.

The medicine splashed.

Celeste gasped dramatically. “Ah—it burns!” A small, angry red bloom appeared on her pristine hand—a minor injury magnified into a tragedy.

Lucien was at her side in an instant, snatching the bowl and seizing Celeste’s wrist.

“Celeste! Are you hurt?”

Tears welled instantly in Celeste’s eyes. “It is nothing… only my heart aches.”

“I heard sister was ill and rushed to prepare her draught.”

“I did not realize… sister still resents me so, that she would refuse even the medicine I bring.”

A single tear traced a path down her cheek.

Sharp as a dagger.

Lucien wiped it away with a tenderness that was a physical blow. “Do not cry,” he murmured. “She will drink it.”

Then—

He took the still-steaming bowl and held it to Elara’s lips.

His eyes were the frozen surface of a midnight lake.

“Drink.”

“Do not spurn Celeste’s kindness.”

Elara’s throat tightened. “I will not. It is too hot.”

Before the last word faded—

A vise-like grip seized her jaw. Lucien forced her mouth open and poured the scalding liquid down her throat.

Fire lanced through her. She choked, coughing violently, tears springing unbidden.

His voice, thick with suppressed fury, grated in her ear. “Did you think of her being scalded when you pushed the bowl away?”

He slammed the empty vessel onto the bedside table.

Scooping Celeste into his arms, he turned and strode from the room, his steps sure and swift, cradling his treasure.

From the sanctuary of his embrace, Celeste glanced back.

The look held no apology. Only victory.

Their voices carried clearly down the hall.

“Lucien, we are to swear the Oath soon… yet thinking of how you and sister once… it pains me.”

Lucien’s reply was low, a vow. “In the past, my affection for her was true.”

“But for all the nights to come—my heart belongs only to you.”

The door clicked shut.

Elara lay amidst the damp sheets, her throat a ravaged conduit of pain.

She stared at the ceiling, and a profound quiet settled over her.

The quiet of something finally, irrevocably, dying.、