In the sterile quiet of the royal hospital room, machines beeped a steady, mechanical heartbeat—mocking the silence where Lilith’s once thrived in Jackson’s soul. He lay unconscious on the bed, skin pale as fresh snow, blonde hair stark against the white pillow. Tubes snaked from his arms, pumping fluids to heal the wounds from his berserk rampage—claws raked across his chest, burns from dark curses blistering his sides. His face, usually fierce and commanding, was slack, but even in coma, pain etched deep lines: furrowed brow, clenched jaw, as if Blaze still howled inside.
Memories flooded him in the darkness, vivid as wounds reopening.
The first time he saw Lilith, her pale skin catching torchlight like moonlight on water, ruby eyes meeting his across the hall. The bond snapped then, a
