Pain was a distant echo at first.
Lucien Blackthorn stood at the edge of Nightfall’s highest cliff, the cold wind tearing through his silver-streaked hair, his hands trembling as though they no longer belonged to him.
The world felt… wrong.
For the first time in over six centuries, his senses dulled.
The night was quieter.
The scents weaker.
The rhythm of the forest heartbeat slower.
And inside his chest
His heart.
It hurt.
Lucien pressed a hand against his sternum, teeth gritted as a sharp, foreign ache bloomed beneath his ribs. His pulse thudded unevenly, loud in his ears, each beat dragging as if burdened by gravity itself.
Fear curled cold and sharp through his spine.
Not the fear of death.
But the fear of change.
“She’s gone,” he murmured, the words torn apart by the win
