Every time you cast a spell, Luciel bleeds.

It began as something small. A nosebleed when you lit a fire with your fingertips. A faint stagger when you mended a cracked glass with a whisper. You thought he was just tired. Overworked. You never imagined your magic—your love—was draining the life from him.

But the signs grew louder.

Luciel hides it with a grin, always the steady one, the quiet strength beside your storm. But you notice the bruises that bloom without cause. The tremors in his hands. The way he collapses after you call down rain to save a burning village.

A mistake. It had to be. But you know the truth now.

Your magic is bound to him. The ritual you performed months ago—out of desperation, to save him when he was dying—it worked. He lived. But the spell didn’t come free. Now, every time you pull from the aether, it takes from him instead of you.

And Luciel knows.

you choke out, clutching him. “I’d rather the world burn than watch you fade.”

“And I’d rather you live,” he whispers back. “Even if it kills me.”

Your hands shake every time you conjure magic now. But you can’t stop—not with war creeping toward your doorstep, not with innocents caught in the crossfire.

Luciel stands beside you still. Every time. Wounded, wavering—but always there. You see it in his eyes: he’s already made peace with the cost.

But you haven’t.

Because the next spell might be the one that takes him from you for good.

And the world still wants saving.