Chapter Eight: The Betrayer's Blood
The fire crackled low in the sanctuary's oldest chamber — a circular hall lined with carved stone and stained glass long blackened by time. Lucien stood at the center, shadows clinging to his figure as though reluctant to let him go.
Elena sat opposite him, heart pounding, eyes locked to the jagged scar at his throat. She couldn't look away.
"You were his first?" she asked again, needing to hear it.
Lucien nodded slowly. "Valen turned me when I was still a boy. A runaway, starved and angry. He made me immortal. Gave me strength. Purpose."
"And then?" she asked.
"I served him for two centuries," Lucien said. "Did everything he asked. Killed who he told me to kill. Fed on blood offered in his name. We were gods among mortals."
"But something changed."
He gave a bitter smile. "Yes. I met her. Isolde Virelli."
Elena sat forward, breath catching.
"She was nothing like the others," he continued. "Bold, radiant, fearless even in the face of death. She walked into Valen's court not as a subject, but as a rival. And he adored her for it."
He hesitated, the silence between them thick with ghosts.
"I adored her too."
Elena's stomach twisted. "You loved her."
Lucien didn't answer directly. "She taught me what love cost."
"She betrayed him… for you?"
Lucien nodded once, eyes dark. "We tried to flee. Hide. She bore a child — your ancestor. But Valen found us."
Elena's blood ran cold.
"He slaughtered everyone with her blood in their veins. Cursed those who helped us. Me? He spared. He wanted me to live with the shame. The memory." His voice broke. "He made me watch her die."
A long silence passed between them. Elena stared at the flickering fire, her hands curled into fists.
"I'm her blood," she said at last. "That's why he's coming. Not to kill me, but to claim me."
"Yes," Lucien said. "And if he does—"
"Then he finishes what he started."
Lucien stood and crossed the room, reaching into a cabinet of relics and dust-covered scrolls. From it, he pulled a blade — long, curved, black as obsidian and marked with blood-red runes.
"This is the only weapon known to wound him. Isolde used it once. She failed." He placed the hilt in her hand, and the blade hummed against her palm like it knew her.
Elena stared at it, the firelight dancing across the runes.
"Then we won't fail again," she said.
From somewhere outside, wind howled through the trees — and with it, a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as glass:
"So the girl carries the blade.
How sweet.
Shall we see if she's worthy of it?"
Lucien's eyes widened. "He's here."