The carriage creaked softly as it rolled through the forested road, branches bowing over the path like quiet sentinels. Inside, silence filled the space like fog. Lumina sat curled into the corner, Damien's cloak wrapped tightly around her. Her fingers gripped the edge of it, though she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes stared at nothing.
She hadn't spoken since they left.
Her body trembled in small, uneven waves. Not from the cold... from something deeper. From the kind of shaking that doesn't stop, no matter how tightly you hold yourself together.
Damien sat opposite her. Still. Watching.
Her face was streaked with dirt, her lips cracked. Her hair fell in tangled strands across her cheek, and there was blood on her temple. Her breathing came in short, quiet gasps... muffled sobs that didn't quite become tears.
He reached across slowly, placing a handkerchief and a flask of water beside her on the seat.
She didn't react.
Only after several minutes did she pick them up, her hands shaking as she drank. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely a whisper.
"Thank you."
He nodded once.
Neither of them said anything else until the wheels rattled against gravel, and the carriage turned through the gates of his countryside manor.
The estate wasn't large—modest by royal standards—but well-kept and surrounded by high stone walls. Guards stood at every post, straight-backed and silent. As they stepped out, servants approached quickly. When they saw Lumina, bruised and barefoot, their eyes widened—but none dared ask. Not while Damien was near.
He helped her down himself, ignoring the looks.
"Prepare a room," he told a steward. "And have warm clothes brought up. Food. Water. Something calming."
"Yes, my lord."
The staff scattered without hesitation.
Lumina stood in the courtyard like she didn't know where to go.
He looked at her gently. "Come inside."
She followed.
---
Her room was small but warm. A fire had been lit. A fresh gown lay folded on the bed—soft grey wool with clean linens. A basin steamed gently in the corner, filled with lavender-scented water.
She stepped to the doorway, then stopped. "I don't know what I'm doing here."
"You're safe," Damien said from the hall. "That's enough for now."
Her eyes stayed on the floor. "They're going to come for me."
"I know."
He didn't say what he'd do if they did... but something in his voice made her believe no one would get close.
She nodded, her lips trembling. "Thank you... again."
"You don't have to thank me."
Still, she did.
---
An hour later, she sat alone in the quiet. Clean, warm, dressed—yet feeling more exposed than ever. The clothes were soft... but they weren't hers. The bed was wide and safe... but unfamiliar.
She didn't know who she was anymore.
And now\... someone else might.
A knock sounded.
She didn't answer.
The door opened gently anyway.
Damien stood there, holding a tray of food—warm bread, roasted vegetables, honeyed tea. He set it on a table and stepped back, not entering fully.
"I thought you might want to eat."
She nodded, though her appetite hadn't returned.
Still, she sat and picked at the food slowly. After a few bites, something in her stomach loosened—like her body finally remembered it needed care.
Damien stood near the hearth, watching the flames.
"You've been quiet," she said softly.
"I thought you needed silence."
She studied him, unsure. "Why are you helping me?"
He turned toward her. The firelight caught the edges of his eyes—dark and deep, but not unkind.
"Because they would've killed you," he said. "And I don't like seeing good people punished for things they don't understand."
"You think I'm good?"
"I think you're not a monster."
Her hand curled tighter around her fork. "They saw something... something in me. And I don't know what it is."
Damien's voice was lower now. "That's why I brought you here."
She looked up at him, searching. "You're not afraid of me."
"No," he said. "But I am curious."
---
Later that night, Damien walked the halls of his estate alone, a book in hand but unread. His mind circled back to her face. Her silence. The pain in her eyes.
He had seen it before—in soldiers after war... in children who had survived what no one should.
But in her, it was something else too. Something heavier. Like her soul was holding back a storm.
The prophecy repeated in his mind:
*"The bloodbound shall awaken. Not of one line... but of three."*
He didn't want it to be her.
But something told him it was.
---
Lumina didn't sleep.
She closed her eyes for a while... drifted... but her dreams took her to places she didn't understand.
A dark circle of stones. A sea that shimmered gold under moonlight. Her own voice, whispering words in a language she couldn't speak. And fire—always fire—rising around her, warm and endless.
A voice called to her.
**"Blood remembers."**
She gasped awake.
Her wrist burned faintly under the sheets; when she looked, the mark glowed again—only for a moment.
Then—
A knock.
She sat up quickly, heart racing.
"Who is it?"
"Damien."
She opened the door.
He looked at her—disheveled, pale, wide-eyed. Her voice had gone hoarse.
"Did something happen?" he asked.
She opened her hand, showing the mark still warm on her skin.
"I don't know what I am," she whispered. "I don't know what's happening to me."
He stepped closer, carefully. "Whatever it is... we'll figure it out."
"I don't even know if I want to know."
"You don't have to decide tonight."
Her hands fell to her sides. She looked like she might cry again—but she didn't.
"I should go," she murmured. "I don't belong here."
"You don't belong back there either."
She nodded slowly.
"Then where?"
He was quiet for a moment... then said, "Here. For now."
She looked up at him.
"You don't have to trust me," he said. "But you're not alone anymore."
---
That night, as the fire crackled softly and the shadows danced across the walls, Lumina lay in bed—awake, but no longer trembling.
And in the room down the hall, Damien stood at his window, watching the stars.
Whatever came next... he would be ready.
---