“Lior,” you called, your voice barely louder than the wind sighing through the broken stone of the ruined manor.

The boy turned at once.

He stood at the edge of the faded rug, the long sleeves of his nightshirt hanging past his fingers. Moonlight from the shattered window cast him in silver. Barefoot, quiet, holding his battered teddy bear—the same one since infancy, now chewed and unraveling at the seams.

He looked too delicate to belong to this world. Pale, still, dreamlike. But his eyes—those deep crimson eyes—told a different story.

They were his father’s eyes.

Just like the quiet power you could feel pulsing beneath his skin.

Lior was your son. Yours… and Lucien’s.

You knelt and extended your hand. “Come here, baby. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

He hesitated, lips trembling slightly. He never liked to hurt you—not even for a drop.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, brushing his cheek. “Mommy’s not afraid.”

Your hands, small and calloused, bore glowing marks of old magic. You had once bent threads of fate, binding memories, souls, even gods. But the worst thread you ever tied was to him.

Lior leaned in and gently bit down. The sting was brief, his feeding careful, trained. Still, your breath hitched—not from pain, but from the memory.

The first time you bled for Lucien had never left you.

The candle flickered beside you.

“Mommy…” Lior whispered. “Daddy’s here.”

Your entire body went still.

The flame twitched. The air shifted—colder, heavier. Not a breeze. Something else. A presence.

Your eyes snapped to the corridor cloaked in shadow.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Just like always.

Watching. Waiting. Claiming.

Then the shadows stirred. The flame bent sideways.

And he stepped forward.

Lucien.

Prince of the Pale Court.

Tall, deathless, draped in black silk that caught the light like water. His skin glowed faintly, pale as carved stone. But it was his face that made your breath catch—sharp lines, cruelly perfect features, and those silver eyes rimmed in blood-red, gleaming with hunger and memory.

He stopped a few paces away, and said your name like it belonged to him.

“Cassia.” Smooth. Quiet. Final.

“You look exhausted.”

Your heart pounded. You rose with Lior clinging to you. He didn’t cry—only stared, calm and still, like he’d always known this moment was coming.

You had your father’s moss -green with golden flecks eyes. Sun-warmed skin. A heartbeat. All the things Lucien had long left behind.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.

He tilted his head, gaze flicking to Lior. “I told you before,” he murmured. “Wherever my blood walks, I follow.”

The bond between you sparked faintly.

Still alive.

Still holding.

You felt it pulse through your chest—the thread even your strongest spells couldn’t sever.

Lucien looked at you again.

Not angry.

Not apologetic.

Just the same haunting look he always wore.

Possession.

“You look just the same,” he said.

You forced your voice steady. “You don’t.”

He smiled faintly.

“Liar.”

And maybe you were. Because deep down, you knew—no matter how far you ran, no matter how many wards you cast or threads you cut—

He would always find you. And part of you… had always known he would.