Eleven hours until midnight. Liam cornered Rhys in the library.
"Don't choose him," Liam said without preamble. "Please, Rhys. Don't throw your life away for a ghost who's hurt you."
"He's changed—"
"Has he? Or is he just better at manipulation after three hundred years of practice?" Liam's voice was desperate. "Think about what you're giving up. Real life. Real love. The sun, Rhys. When's the last time you felt actual sunlight?"
Rhys realized with a jolt: he hadn't left the palace in eighteen days. Hadn't felt warmth, hadn't seen the sky except through windows.
"If you choose Pryce, you'll never feel those things again," Liam continued. "You'll be trapped here, with him, forever. No friends. No family. No future except endless repetition in this gothic prison."
"But I'd have him."
"You'd have a memory of a man who died centuries ago!" Liam grabbed Rhys's shoulders. "I'm offering you something real. A relationship we build together, not one built on curses and past lives and guilt. Don't you want that?"
"I don't know what I want!"
"Then default to life!" Liam's eyes were shining. "When you don't know, choose the option that keeps the most doors open. Choose freedom. Choose possibility. Choose me."
He kissed Rhys then—sudden, desperate, warm.
For a moment, Rhys kissed back. Because it felt good. Normal. Human.
Then he pulled away.
"I can't decide based on a kiss, Liam."
"Then what will you decide on?"
Rhys had no answer.