A Thousand years without you

The night sky wept stars as if mourning what had yet to be lost. Rain clung to the temple roofs in silver threads, dripping into stone basins carved centuries ago. The entire palace slept under the hush of midnight—except for one soul, immortal and cursed, standing motionless beneath a pavilion’s curved roof. Lucien watched the rain as if it might erase the ache in his chest. He had lived for centuries. Seen empires fall. Witnessed men born and buried before their second breath. But no amount of time could prepare him for this night. The night she would die. He wasn’t meant to love her. She was royalty—the princess, Anya of House Virak, chosen daughter of the Celestial Court, destined from birth to marry the Crown Prince of Saekor. He was a vampire. Immortal. Bound by a truce with the court that was more superstition than law. A walking relic in a world that feared him. Yet none of that mattered when she entered the gardens barefoot, her silk robe clinging to her skin, hair loose like midnight mist. The rain paused for her. “I knew you’d come,” Anya whispered, her voice like temple bells. “Even though you shouldn’t.” Lucien’s voice was gravel and thunder. “You shouldn’t be here.” She smiled. “Then we are both fools.” She came to him without hesitation, barefoot over wet stone, her palms pressing to his chest as if memorizing the shape of his heart. He touched her face, cool fingers trembling. Her warmth always startled him. As if he could melt, just from loving her. “You’re cold,” she said. “I always am.” “You weren’t last night.” His throat tightened. He remembered every stolen second—fingers laced, lips trembling, silk robes falling to the floor like flower petals. In her arms, time had stopped. He had almost forgotten what he was. But the fire in his chest reminded him. It had begun as a flicker. An ache. Now, it simmered. Hungry. Ancient. Princess Anya Virak had been born under a crimson moon. Before she could speak, the royal astrologers declared her fate: She would unify kingdoms. Birth golden heirs. Die tragically before her twenty-fifth year. They never told her that last part. But Lucien knew. Everyone did. The court wore masks of joy but waited for death to come claim her like a debt owed. And to ensure legacy, they bound her to the Crown Prince—a proud, cruel man with a tongue dipped in venom and hands that left bruises beneath silk. Anya endured. Until she met Lucien. They met when she was nineteen. He was summoned to the palace to speak with the king’s high priest—who wished to confirm the immortality that legend claimed he possessed. Lucien hadn’t cared for their rituals or doubts. But she had been watching. Anya had stood behind a screen of gold-threaded silk, curiosity painted across her face like moonlight on water. When their eyes met, the world tilted. He was a creature of night. She, a flower destined to bloom and wither in daylight. And yet, they found each other again and again—through courtyards, secret libraries, late-night prayer halls. He taught her things forbidden by etiquette: how to wield a blade, how to speak forgotten tongues, how to read the stars beyond the sanctioned charts. He showed her freedom. And she gave him something he didn’t know he still had: a reason to stay. But nothing in the royal court remained secret for long. Her mother, the Dowager Queen, had eyes in every shadow. The servants spoke in whispers. The priests watched. And then, her father found her letters. They weren’t poems. They were plans. Escape routes. Maps of trade ports. Bribes prepared. Identities forged. She was going to run away with him. “You are the Moon’s chosen,” her father spat as he struck the scrolls from her hand. “And you throw yourself into the arms of a cursed beast?” She stood tall, trembling but defiant. “He treats me like a person. Not a pawn.” “He drinks blood.” “He gives me life.” They locked her in the Lotus Tower, guarded day and night. But Lucien was smoke and shadow. He found her. Every night, he came. And every night, they planned. Until the final one. They were to leave at midnight. Horses waited beyond the jade gate. Clothes prepared, hair cut short, her jewelry melted into coin. But the Crown Prince had been listening. He came with a sword. Lucien met him in the garden—silent, towering, unafraid. "You think she'll live in the gutter with you?" the prince sneered. "She was mine to ruin." Lucien said nothing. He stepped forward. The prince struck. The blade moved faster than sound. A blur of silver meant to split Lucien’s chest. But it never reached him. Because Anya stepped in its path. Time fractured. Lucien didn’t see the moment she moved—only the sound of silk tearing, a gasp, then silence. The prince stumbled backward, as if he too couldn't believe what he had done. Anya stood for a breath longer, her expression one of stunned peace. Her eyes met Lucien’s. She reached out, blood blooming like a red lotus across her pale robes. And then—she fell. Lucien caught her before she touched the earth. “No,” he whispered, shaking, rocking her against him. “No. No, no, please.” The prince had fled. A coward’s legacy. Lucien pressed his palm to her wound. Blood soaked through his fingers. Her blood. So warm. So alive. “Don’t you leave me,” he begged. She smiled, barely there. “I’m sorry... I couldn’t let him take you.” “You were supposed to live.” “You were supposed to be a myth,” she whispered. “But you’re the only real thing I’ve ever known.” And then she stilled. The stars above flickered. The wind died. The entire world seemed to mourn with him. Lucien screamed. Not loud. Not rage. But grief so deep it cracked the sky inside him. He stayed with her body until dawn. Cradling. Whispering. Weeping. He tried to bite her—force her into undeath. But she had always refused it. Her soul wasn’t meant for the dark. Still, he begged the gods, the earth, the spirits. “I’ll give anything,” he rasped into the ground. “Anything. Take me. Take my eternity. Just bring her back.” That’s when the forest shifted. The rain stopped falling. And from the trees came a being older than the empire itself. It appeared in silence—no footsteps, no breath. A creature with nine tails trailing behind it like veils of smoke. Its eyes glowed amber, ancient and knowing. A fox. But not a beast. A spirit. A god. The thousand-year fox. Lucien did not flinch. He had seen many things in his time, but nothing like this. “You bleed fire,” the fox said, its voice both male and female, echoing like wind in a hollowed shell. “You have disturbed the threads.” Lucien fell to his knees, still holding Anya. “Can you save her?” “No.” “Then take me. Let her live again.” The fox tilted its head. “You ask for what cannot be undone. But the soul… that can be reborn.” Lucien’s breath hitched. “Reborn?” “Yes. Her soul is stubborn. It will return—but not as you knew it.” The creature’s tails shimmered like candle flames. “But you must pay the price.” Lucien nodded. “Anything.” The fox's eyes narrowed. “Then listen well, immortal.” {“From this night forward, you have one hundred years. One century to find the soul you lost. It will not remember you. It will not look the same. But you must find it, protect it, and make it love you again. Every ten years you fail, the Eternal Fire will rise in your veins. It will not only burn your body and your blood… it will burn your soul. And if, by the end of one hundred years, you still have not found her...” “Your immortality will end. And you will live in eternal misery. Until death—finally—claims you.”} Lucien said nothing. Just nodded, teeth clenched, as the fire in his chest roared to life. The fox stepped back into the mist, vanishing as if it had never been. And Lucien remained—on his knees, cradling the girl who once called him hers. He buried Anya beneath the magnolia trees outside the city walls, where no one could claim her body or tarnish her name. No funeral rites. No royal mourning. Her family declared it a tragic accident. A fever. A quiet passing in her sleep. But Lucien knew better. He carved her name into stone with his own hands—no title, no crown—just Anya. And he made a vow. Not to the gods. To her. “I’ll find you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to her grave. “Even if you come back in pieces, in storms, in fire. Even if I don’t recognize you. I’ll know your soul.” The fire came with the first decade. He screamed for nights, locked in ice to keep from burning alive. The pain didn’t fade—it learned him. Devoured him. Became part of him. Ten years later, he hadn’t found her. The fire returned stronger. Twenty years. Thirty. Fifty. Seventy. Ninety. He searched kingdoms, cities, slums, temples. He studied faces. Tasted blood. Listened to souls. And still… he couldn’t find her. The world changed. He didn’t. Until now. The air smelled different. The sky looked strange. The fire had already begun to build in his chest again—but something told him... This is the final decade. If he failed now, it would all be over. But something had shifted. A presence. A whisper. A heartbeat too familiar. And far away—across the sea, across lifetimes—a soul was beginning to stir.