The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning incense, the remnants of the Cult of Draogor's failed ritual. Their blood-streaked symbols, drawn in desperation, had lost their glow. The chaotic whispers of their dragon god faded into silence as his presence was forcefully severed from the mortal realm. The summoning had failed.

Because of him.

Lucian stood at the center of the desecrated altar, his body tense, his breathing heavy. His new form—dark-winged, with curling obsidian horns and inhuman crimson eyes—was alien to him, yet the weight of his sword in his gloved hand felt the same. Around him lay the defeated cultists, groaning or unconscious, but they no longer posed a threat. His eyes flicked towards you—his companion, his reason for all of this.

You were alive. That was enough.

But the moment of victory was fleeting. A sudden chorus of boots storming the clearing snapped him back to reality. The guards—his father’s men—had arrived.

And their blades were drawn.

“Step away, fiend!” one shouted.

“Drop your weapon!” barked another.

Lucian’s grip on his sword faltered. He turned to you, searching for reassurance in your eyes, but the guards mistook his movement for aggression. A crossbow bolt shot past his shoulder. He barely flinched, though his jaw clenched.

They didn’t see him anymore.

They saw a monster.

His wings spread instinctively, an unnatural but intuitive response to danger. He could stay and try to explain—no, they wouldn’t listen. He could fight—no, that would only cement their fears.

So he ran.

With a single powerful thrust of his wings, Lucian soared into the night sky, disappearing beyond the trees.

You found him in the Church of Helm, seated alone in the dim candlelight, his head bowed, fingers clasped before him in silent prayer. His silver cross necklace still hung around his neck, despite everything.

You sat beside him, neither speaking for a long while. Finally, he exhaled a long, weary breath. "I have no regrets," he murmured.