Later that night, the inn creaked with age, the wind whistling through cracked shutters. The room Lucian and Kitana shared was small, its only luxury was the claw-footed tub in the corner, now filled with steam from the bath Kitana had drawn.
Kitana stood near the tub, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Lucian. "Why am I sharing a room with you?" she asked, flatly. "Wouldn't it have made more sense for me to stay with Moira?"
Lucian, already seated at the edge of the bed, smirked. "Right, because the innkeeper would've believed my 'wife' chose to bunk with my sister instead of her husband." He tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. "That wouldn't raise any suspicions at all."
She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't have to call me your wife."
He shrugged. "I had to think fast. If you'd prefer to sleep in the stables, I'm sure there's room between the hay bales."
Kitana scoffed and turned her back on him, unfastening her cloak and setting it aside. "Next time, ask before playing the charming husband."
Lucian watched her disappear behind the modest privacy screen as she undressed. He tried—truly tried—not to look when she stepped into the tub, but the steam and candlelight made shadows dance, and his resolve faltered.
She didn't just clean herself—she moved with quiet purpose, her body marked with strength and scars, wet hair clinging to the sides of her neck, water trailing down the curves of body and thighs. She was half-demon now, yes, but there was nothing monstrous about her in that moment. She was beautiful in such a way that she clawed at something deep inside him. Not delicate—dangerous. But he wanted her anyway.
By the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in the inn's linen shift, Lucian could barely breathe. And when she walked past him, damp hair brushing her shoulders, the slit in her shift revealing toned legs and the ghost of a hip—
Gods, he wanted her.
He stood without thinking, every part of him strung tight with tension. His voice was low, rough. "You don't have to be alone tonight."
She turned, startled by the heat in his voice. His hand rose slowly, brushing her damp hair aside, fingers grazing the nape of her neck. He stepped closer, one hand lightly resting against her collarbone. She didn't move.
"You're beautiful," he murmured.
His other hand found the curve of her hip, fingers sliding down to trace the inside of her thigh through the thin fabric. "I see the way you fight. The way you carry your pain. It's like… every inch of you is still burning."
Kitana's breath caught.
The moment his hand started to slide up her thigh, she grabbed his wrist, holding it still against her leg.
"No," she said firmly.
Lucian's brow furrowed, not in anger, but in confusion. "Why?"
Kitana let go of his hand and stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Because my husband died with my name on his lips," she said, voice shaking. "I was too far. I couldn't reach him. I watched him be torn apart. I watched him die… and I did nothing."
Lucian's gaze softened, the desire in his eyes fading into something more human.
"I haven't touched anyone since," Kitana continued. "I haven't wanted to. Not like that. And even if I did… I don't know if I can."
Silence hung between them, heavy and real.
Lucian sat back down, dragging a hand through his hair. "I get it," he said quietly. "Loss like that… it stays with you."
He looked toward the ceiling. "I was training to be a royal guard. Nothing grand, but enough to get my family out of the slums. My sister, Ilira, was the smartest one. She wanted to be a healer. I promised I'd make that happen."
He exhaled shakily. "Then came the raid. Demons poured through the sky. My parents were killed in front of me. Ilira was dragged away. I chased the bastard who took her, but… I failed. I failed them all."
Kitana sat beside him, close but not touching. "You never forget the sound," she whispered.
Lucian turned to her, something raw in his gaze. "No. You don't."
Her hand brushed his, tentative "Thank you," she murmured.
He gave her a small smilr, it seemed like a painful one. "I wasn't trying to take advantage. I just wanted to feel something real again."
She nodded slowly. "Don't touch me like that again. Not unless you mean it. Not unless you know what you're reaching for."
Lucian's eyes held hers for a long moment. The moment their gaze broke he whispered, "So does that mean you wanted to continue."
They lay downside by side in silence, backs to each other. The bed creaked faintly with every breath. Neither of them slept easily, their minds full of ghosts and what-ifs.
A space remained between them. But so did a question—unspoken, uncertain.
Could something real grow from all that ruin?
—
In the next room, Moira sat on the edge of her bed, the pale moonlight filtering through the thin curtains and casting her in silver. She removed the cloth from her eyes, revealing irises like cracked glass—shattered, brilliant, and blind.
Her fingers trailed over the covers, ghosting over textures, searching for memories that didn't belong to her anymore. Her lips moved in silent prayer, not to the gods, but to something older. Something forgotten.
"They ache," she whispered to the silence. "Their wounds. Their hearts."
She lay down slowly, facing the wall. Her breath came slowly and even, but sleep wouldn't come.
For even in her blindness, Moira saw too much.
And in her silence… she remembered everything.