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SEVENTEEN

LUCIEN

H e stabbed her in the dream.

Watched the blade sink between her ribs, slow and sure. Watched her eyes go wide. Not with pain. With peace. And she smiled.

Not sweet.

Not cruel.

Just... accepted it. Like she always knew it would end this way.

Lucien woke with a strangled breath, lungs burning, hand reaching for a blade that wasn’t there.

The fire had died. Only embers left.

Evryn was asleep a few feet away, curled against her coat, a faint shadow ripple still curling around her shoulder like it wanted to protect her even while she dreamed.

Lucien sat up and moved away.

Quietly. Carefully.

He needed air. He needed distance. Because that dream—it wasn’t just fear. It was a warning. A prophecy he didn’t want to believe in. Because what if that was what she wanted from him? To be the weapon? The executioner? The final rite of a bloodline too old to survive?

What if she was already resigned to being destroyed? What if he was already halfway in love with someone he was destined to break?

He didn’t speak to her the next morning.

Just short commands and observations during her training, trying to bury the terror under discipline. He handed her a blade. Then a charm. Then shadow-threaded bone to test her reflexes.

Evryn didn’t question it.

She noticed, though. He could tell.

She always noticed.

“You’re tense today,” she said after her third controlled shadow projection shimmered to life beside her. “Brooding harder than usual. Didn’t think that was possible.”

Lucien arched a brow, but didn’t look directly at her. “You’re improving.”

“That’s not a denial.”

He said nothing.

She huffed and rolled her shoulders, shaking off a flicker of darkness that hadn’t listened to her command. “So are we going to talk about what’s got your jaw locked like a bear trap, or are you gonna keep pretending your shadows aren’t flicking like they’re in a mood?”

Lucien sighed and finally faced her. “You’re not like other Sighted.”

Evryn blinked. “Okay… that’s a pivot.”

“You’re not just shadow-sensitive. You don’t read the Veil. You move with it. You respond to it. It doesn’t treat you like an outsider.”

Evryn frowned. “Because of the mark?”

He shook his head. “Because of what it came from.”

She stepped closer, arms crossed. “You said before I had old blood. First Mark. What does that mean, really? ”

Lucien’s gaze dropped to the ground. He didn’t want to say it. Not again. Not aloud.

But she deserved it.

“Your line predates the Court of Claws,” he said softly. “Before the blood was divided by beast or clan or House. You don’t just descend from royalty, Evryn. You descend from something the Houses fear. ”

He continued. “Your shadowmancy doesn’t behave like mine. It doesn’t come when called. It chooses. And it’s chosen you. That means something.”

She looked at her hands.

“Then why does it feel like something that wants to consume me?”

Lucien stepped closer, carefully. “Because you’re afraid of it.”

She met his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Not when he was just as scared of what she was becoming. Not because he feared her power, but because he feared what that power would demand—and how far he’d go to keep her alive.

Even if it meant betraying everyone who had ever trusted him.

Again.

Later, as the light shifted and they shared bread and salt-slick fruit from Lucien’s satchel, she sat beside him on the broken steps, her shoulder just barely brushing his.

“You ever think about running?” she asked softly.

“From what?”

“From all of it. Your House. The throne. The war.”

Lucien stared at the mist curling along the treetops.

“Every damn day. What do you think I’m doing now?”

Evryn smiled, tired. “You don’t seem like the running type.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m not fast enough to escape the things I’ve done.”

She looked at him, really looked.

“You’ve done things,” she said gently, “but I don’t think they’re who you are.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m starting to.”

He turned, eyes catching hers, silver and warm and terrified of what that kind of knowing could mean.

“Stop that,” he said softly.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like I’m not a monster.”

Evryn didn’t blink. “If you were a monster, Lucien... I wouldn’t still be here.”

He looked away before she could see the truth cracking through him.

He was falling for her. Harder than he wanted. Faster than he could control.

And it was going to destroy them both, especially if his dreams were the signs he assumed they were.