Lucien woke to silence.
Not the hollow, screaming absence that had haunted him since the ritual.
But something softer.
Breathing.
His own.
The sound startled him.
For centuries, he had not been aware of it not truly. Immortality had dulled the need to notice such fragile rhythms. His heart had beaten endlessly, tireless, unquestioned.
Now, every inhale burned faintly. Every exhale carried weight.
He was alive.
And he could feel it.
Lucien lay still, staring at the wooden beams of his chamber ceiling, listening to the slow, imperfect cadence of his heart. The silver mark over his chest pulsed gently, warm against his skin.
Proof.
Not of power.
Of connection.
Seraphine had been here.
Even if the world believed otherwise.
He pushed himself upright, muscles protesting. Weakness
