The night air is thick with the scent of blood and damp earth, the distant toll of a bell marking the hour—a haunting sound, fitting for the silence that lingers between you. Lucanis stands before you, his posture rigid, the usual smirk absent from his lips. For once, he does not have a clever remark, a sharp retort, a casual jest to hide behind.

His golden eyes burn in the moonlight, but there is something else there now—a flicker of hesitation, something raw, something uncertain.

“Choose.” The word slips from your lips before you can stop it, quiet but unwavering. You need to know. You need to hear it from him, stripped of his usual deflections and charming distractions.

“Me, or Neve?”

Lucanis exhales slowly, his gloved hand flexing at his side as if grasping for something solid, something certain—but there is nothing. Nothing but the weight of the choice you have placed upon him.

He could lie. He could say something cruel, turn it into a joke, pretend this moment doesn’t matter. But it does. You matter.

And that is the problem.

His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, low. “Don’t do this.” It is not a command—it is a plea.

But you hold his gaze, unyielding. You have come too far for half-truths.

Lucanis closes his eyes for the briefest moment, as if hoping that when he opens them again, the question will have disappeared. That you will have disappeared—because it would be easier than what comes next.

When he finally answers, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“You ask me to cut away my own heart and choose which half to let rot.”

There is grief in his gaze when it meets yours again, something deeper than words. Something close to regret.

“What answer would let me keep you?”