Eva's breath steadied, the tremor in her chest folding into iron as she crushed the last gnawing fear beneath resolve, bracing like a soldier before the charge. Her gaze lifted to his, clear and unwavering.
"Then we waste no time," she said, clipped and decisive. "If it will take five days, best we begin tonight."
Lucarion did not answer. His eyes lingered on her face, searching past the mask she wore so tightly. For the briefest instant, he saw not the steel of her will but the raw edge beneath—the place where fear and sacrifice met. It unsettled him. She was ready to throw herself into torment as if it were a battlefield. Ready to bleed for duty.
He should have admired it, yet something recoiled within him. The thought of her body breaking under the repetition, enduring it simply because he had said she must—unacceptable. His jaw tightened; silence stretched as the fire cracked low in the grate.
She mistook his quiet for agreement and pressed on, her voice brisk, almost harsh.
"Is there anything else I should know? When will they arrive?"
Lucarion's hand pressed lightly to her shoulder, grounding her, his voice calm but firm. "They will arrive in a fortnight. We have ten days to prepare."
Eva's eyes narrowed, impatience cutting through her nerves. "Prepare? Why not start now?"
He shook his head slowly, deliberate. "Even the most desperate missions fail if executed without a plan. You would not rush blindly into danger, would you?"
"There is a plan," she snapped, flinging out a hand. "You explained it yourself—intercourse, you bite me, I drink your blood. Done. Why draw it out?"
His gaze darkened, not with anger, but measured weight. "It is not that simple. The marking… it is a serious act, not a mere custom, or a simple flesh wound. It creates a bond that cannot be broken. I will not let it happen hastily, or without respect for its consequences. It can be brutal without preparation."
Her chest rose, frustration flashing in her eyes, every muscle coiled tight. "You speak as though I cannot handle it. Before I arrived here, I was a prisoner—your prisoner—days under torture. And what did you get from me then? Exactly nothing." Her voice rose, sharp as steel, the veins at her neck straining with the force of her words. "I was not broken. Don't start softening on me now."
Lucarion's jaw tightened. "This is not a test of endurance, Eva. This is something else entirely. Until you understand what it means, we do not rush."
Lucarion's gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his warning pressing against her chest. Then, with deliberate calm, he straightened and stepped back. "I'll come find you later," he murmured, voice low. Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
The silence pressed in on her, unbearable. All of it—the days in chains, the torment endured, the weight of a duty forced upon her—boiled up at once, a tide she could no longer hold back. And his calm, that infuriating, measured calm, as if her fury and fear were nothing but sparks against stone, only stoked it higher.
Her hands shot out, knocking the tray and carafe aside; it shattered in a burst of glass and wine. Fury hotter than fear surged through her, chest heaving as if she could scream the walls down. She kicked through the wreckage, glass splintering beneath her boots, then seized the table's edge and slammed it once, twice, until the wood groaned. Her breath tore ragged from her throat, body trembling with unspent rage, the storm still breaking loose inside her.
She stepped outside, boots pounding the stone courtyard, legs carrying her fast and far, each stride hammering out the anger and fear coiled tight in her bones. The cold air stung her lungs, the ache in her thighs mirroring her chest's tension. Slowly, her breath steadied, pulling her back from the edge.
The courtyard was empty when she returned, the torchlight flickering against stone. Above, on the balcony, Lucarion stood motionless, eyes following her. Their gazes met—brief, electric, unspoken—before she entered the keep, retreating to her chambers.
Eva entered her chambers, the door clicking softly behind her. Steam curled from the bath her maid, Lira, had drawn, herbs floating in the warm water, scenting the air.
Lira appeared quietly at the threshold. "Your bath is ready, milady," she said softly. After a pause, she added, "I can see the weight you carry."
Eva sank into the water, letting the warmth pull the tension from her muscles. For the first time since that morning, her mind wandered—not just over the fear and fury that had consumed her, but over the days to come, the marking, and the bond it would forge.
"Do you… know anything of marking, Lira?" Eva asked, her voice low, almost hesitant, rippling the quiet with words she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
Lira's eyes flicked up, steady, her hands pausing in their work. When she spoke, her tone was gentle but edged with certainty. "It is a serious commitment, milady. Not to be taken lightly. But those who share it… they say it forges something rare. A closeness beyond flesh, beyond duty. A bond chosen as much as endured."
Eva's fingers trailed absently through the water, breaking the surface into restless ripples. Lira's words pressed against her, reminding her of his calm, his insistence that it not be rushed. She had treated it as another trial, another torment to survive. But if Lira was right… then to him, it might have meant something more. Something she had dismissed without thought.
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the water and the weight of possibility wash over her, knowing the days ahead would test more than her body.
Eva had just finished drying her hair when a soft knock sounded at the chamber door.
"Your ladyship?" A maid's voice, tentative yet respectful, carried through.
"Come in," Eva called, drawing the towel closer around herself.
The door opened, and a young woman stepped inside carrying a folded gown of deep, muted green—Lucarion's choice, unmistakably. She dipped her head. "Your gown, milady. His Grace requests your presence in the gardens for a private dinner."
Eva dressed slowly, her fingers lingering over the fabric. It was soft yet substantial, elegant without pretense—a gift, deliberate in its thought. The maid moved quietly at her side, adjusting the hem, smoothing the sleeves, but left her mostly to her silence.
The bath had eased her muscles, but not the storm in her mind. Lira's words lingered: of marking, of closeness, of bonds chosen as much as endured. Eva had treated it as a trial, another duty to survive—but perhaps to him it was something else. Something she had never thought to weigh.
When she stepped into the gardens, the night air cooled against her skin. Torches lined the stone path, their flames casting long, shifting shadows. At the center, a table waited, lit with candles set in delicate holders. Lucarion stood beside it, one hand resting on the back of a chair, watching her approach.
Their eyes met—hers wary, his steady, almost expectant. She gave the smallest nod, a silent acknowledgment, and allowed him to draw out the chair for her.
"I won't apologize," she said once seated, her voice even, stripped of its earlier edge. "But marking is foreign to me. Humans do nothing like it. I know what it costs me—but not what it means to you."
Lucarion poured her wine, setting the glass before her. "Then let this show you," he said, calm and deliberate. "This is not ceremony. It is to make us no longer strangers, to strip away animosity. Without that, the mark will be harsher than it must be."
His gaze held hers, unflinching. "You said I was softening. That I offered mercy I had never shown. You were wrong. This is not softness. It is simply who I am. I do not savor needless pain."
Eva let the words settle, her fingers brushing the stem of the glass but not lifting it. She thought of all she had endured, the ways she had steeled herself for obedience, for suffering. This, though—this was different. It demanded another kind of strength. Patience. Vulnerability.
"I hadn't… thought of it that way," she admitted at last. "I expected obedience to be enough. A bargain struck. A duty fulfilled." Her gaze flicked up to him, cautious. "Not this. Not… learning you first."
A flicker touched his mouth, the smallest shift—almost acknowledgment.
Her breath caught, quiet but certain. "You say you do not savor needless pain. Then perhaps you should know—I do not either. But I have lived with enough of it that sometimes I forget there can be another way."
Silence lingered between them, but it was no longer sharp. The night air carried the scent of the gardens—rose, damp earth, a trace of wine warming in their glasses.
Lucarion lifted his own, sipping slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. Then, with a quiet shift of his hand, he gestured to the meal laid before them. "Shall we eat?"
And so they began their meal beneath the torchlight, two figures seated across from one another in uneasy peace, the silence between them no longer empty but waiting, patient as the night.