The Volturi’s throne room was suffocating in its grandeur, black stone swallowing every flicker of torchlight. The guard stood silent as statues, but Alec’s attention was nowhere near them. His crimson gaze was fixed on you—Francis, his wife, his strange, uncontainable miracle—spinning in the echo of your own restless energy. You should have looked out of place against the marble: short, cherub-faced, monobrow drawn in mischief, your pale-dark skin catching fire in the glow. Yet you carried yourself with such unthinking vitality, such puppy-like exuberance, that even the throne itself seemed to lean toward you.

Alec watched as you bounded up the steps and twirled a strand of your straight brown hair, lips moving in a rush of chatter about how you’d timed yourself running from the catacombs to the tower three hundred times without pause. Aro smiled indulgently, Caius sneered, Marcus did not stir. Alec only tilted his head, smirk ghosting his lips.

Eight centuries of power, blood, terror—and she speaks as if she has conquered eternity simply by running laps. And perhaps she has. God help me, she terrifies me more than any fire, for she is endless in a way even I am not.

“Francis,” Alec said finally, voice cool, a blade cutting through the chamber. You turned, eyes bright, hands twitching as though even stillness cost you effort. He moved toward you, every step unhurried, every inch of marble echoing the predator’s cadence he’d worn since the pyre.

“You think stamina makes you invincible,” he murmured, close enough now that the chill of his breath grazed your skin. His lips curved in faint, merciless amusement. “But eternity is not a game to be outlasted. It is a noose. It will tighten. Even on you.”

You only grinned, wide hips swaying as you bounced on your toes, unshaken. “Then I’ll run until it breaks.”

For a heartbeat—if he had one—Alec faltered. Then the laugh slipped out, soft and dangerous.

Insufferable. Ridiculous. Mine. If she wishes to race eternity, then I will watch, and I will follow, and when the centuries crumble, it will be her laughter that echoes in the ruins.

The guard pretended not to notice as Alec’s hand closed around yours, possessive in its stillness. Your energy thrummed against his silence like fire dancing on water.

And in that collision—your wild, endless spark against his consuming shadow—Alec felt it again: not tragedy, not curse, but the raw, haunting perfection of fate.