Seraphina stopped sleeping properly after the lie.

Not because Lucien became cruel.

That almost would’ve been easier.

Instead he became gentler.

Careful in ways that felt surgical.

Always checking whether she ate.

Still remembering exactly how she took her coffee even during war briefings.

Still brushing absentminded fingers against the small of her back while passing through crowded corridors like his body instinctively tracked her location before thought fully formed.

And somehow that made everything worse.

Because now every soft thing carried fear underneath it.

Every touch felt temporary.

Every quiet smile looked like something Lucien might already be preparing himself to lose.

God.

She hated this.

Three nights after the greenhouse conversation, Seraphina found him unconscious at the strategy table.

Not dramatically collapsed.

Just asleep sitting upright beside scattered evacuation maps and cold medical reports while candles burned low around the abandoned command room.

The sight stopped her instantly.

Lucien never slept accidentally.

Not in war zones.

Not around other people.

Not ever.

His body physically required less rest than most predators on earth.

Which meant the corruption was exhausting him badly enough ancient instincts finally failed.

Fear twisted sharply through her chest.

She crossed the room quietly afterward.

Lucien looked pale beneath the candlelight.

Too pale now.

Black veins climbed faintly above his collarbone where the open throat of his black shirt no longer hid everything completely.

God.

Seraphina crouched carefully beside him.

For several seconds she just watched him breathe.

Slow.

Uneven.

Human in all the ways immortality usually erased.

The realization hurt so badly she almost woke him immediately just to stop feeling helpless.

Instead she reached for the scattered papers across the table.

Research notes.

Old Church archives.

Medical diagrams written partly in Latin.

Lucien had been searching for a cure alone.

Of course he had.

Her chest tightened painfully.

Because even dying, he still defaulted toward carrying things privately first.

One paper caught her attention immediately.

An old translated manuscript labeled:

THE DOOM CANTICLES

Beneath it, Lucien’s handwriting filled the margins.

Sharp.

Controlled.

Desperate despite how hard he tried hiding it.

Seraphina read faster.

Ancient plague-era records described Doom as a corruption not meant merely to kill immortals—

but to sever the connection between blood and soul entirely.

The symptoms matched perfectly.

Increased bloodlust.

Emotional instability.

Cellular decay.

Progressive loss of identity.

No.

Further down the page another passage appeared heavily underlined by Lucien himself:

The corruption may be halted through ritual reversal at the origin source of immortal blood.

Seraphina’s pulse slowed sharply.

Origin source?

She flipped through additional notes quickly afterward.

Lucien had connected multiple references already.

Ancient vampire myths.

Pre-Church blood rites.

Forgotten sanctification texts hidden beneath Prague archives centuries ago.

All pointing toward the same thing:

The First Turning Site.

The place where Lucien became immortal originally.

God.

A cure existed.

Maybe.

Hope arrived so suddenly it almost physically hurt.

Then she kept reading.

And the hope immediately turned terrifying.

A second passage waited farther down the manuscript beneath heavy ink marks.

This one looked almost torn from the page entirely.

Like Lucien considered destroying it outright.

Restoration of corrupted immortal blood requires equivalent sacred exchange.

Seraphina frowned.

What the hell did that mean?

Her eyes moved lower.

Then stopped completely.

Blood willingly given by one bound through divine soul tether may restore the immortal source.

Survival of the mortal participant remains uncertain.

The room went silent around her.

No.

No no no.

The manuscript trembled slightly in her hands now.

Divine soul tether.

The prophecy.

Her.

Lucien researched this already.

Which meant he understood exactly what the ritual required.

God.

Seraphina looked toward him asleep beside the candles and suddenly everything rearranged horribly inside her mind.

The distance.

The lies.

The way he kept emotionally preparing everyone around him.

Lucien wasn’t just afraid of dying.

He was afraid she’d try saving him.

The realization shattered something inside her chest.

A movement near the doorway interrupted the spiral.

Cassian entered carrying medical files before stopping immediately after noticing Lucien asleep.

“…well that’s concerning.”

Seraphina looked up sharply.

“How long has he been hiding symptoms from everyone?”

Cassian’s expression darkened instantly.

“Longer than you think.”

That answer landed badly.

Seraphina stood slowly beside the strategy table still clutching the manuscript pages.

“You knew?”

Cassian rubbed one exhausted hand across his face.

“I knew he was worsening.” His gaze shifted toward the sleeping vampire beside the candlelight. “Lucien’s spent six hundred years becoming professionally excellent at suffering privately.”

Fair.

Infuriating.

But fair.

Seraphina lowered the ritual pages slightly.

“There’s a cure.”

Cassian looked genuinely shocked.

Then immediately suspicious.

“Those two things rarely arrive separately.”

She handed him the manuscript silently.

Cassian read quickly.

His expression worsened line by line.

Then finally:

“Oh absolutely not.”

Seraphina crossed her arms tightly.

“You think it could work.”

“I think ancient blood rituals historically have terrible success rates and even worse side effects.”

“You didn’t say impossible.”

Cassian looked at her carefully afterward.

Too carefully.

Like he already knew exactly where this conversation would go next.

“Seraphina.”

“No.”

His expression tightened slightly.

“You didn’t finish reading the implications here.”

“Yes I did.”

Cassian lowered the papers slowly.

“And?”

Seraphina looked toward Lucien sleeping beside the candlelight.

At the exhaustion hollowing his face.

At the black corruption slowly climbing his throat while he dreamed badly enough one hand kept tightening unconsciously against the tabletop.

God.

She loved him.

The answer remained devastatingly simple every time.

“And,” she said quietly, “I’m not letting him die.”

The silence afterward stretched heavy between them.

Cassian watched her for several long seconds before speaking again.

“He’s going to refuse.”

“Obviously.”

“He’ll probably become violently unreasonable about it.”

“Also obvious.”

Cassian sighed deeply.

“You two are emotionally exhausting people.”

Fair again honestly.

A soft sound interrupted them then.

Lucien shifting awake slowly beside the table.

His eyes opened immediately toward Seraphina first.

Always first.

And for one tiny fragile second before awareness fully returned—

relief crossed his face just seeing her standing there.

Then he noticed the manuscript in Cassian’s hand.

Everything inside him went still.

Not surprised.

Caught.

God.

Seraphina looked directly at him afterward.

Neither spoke.

Didn’t need to.

Because suddenly both of them understood the same terrible thing simultaneously:

Hope had finally entered the room.

And it came carrying sacrifice with it.