The garden smelled of silver flowers and old blood.
Francisca stood beneath the black roses, her six golden tails swaying lazily behind her like living flames. The reconstruction had left her stronger—faster, sharper, something new coiled beneath her skin—but it hadn't healed the ache in her chest. Not completely.
Lucifer stood a few paces away, arms crossed, silver-white hair catching the crimson moonlight. He looked every inch the emperor he'd become: cold, distant, untouchable. The man who had torn through realms and shattered a goddess's hoard for her sake.
And he didn't remember a single second of it.
"You really don't," she said. Her voice came out quieter than she intended. "You sacrificed every memory of me. Just… handed them over like they were nothing."
Lucifer's crimson eyes met hers. There was no cruelty in them. Only honesty.
