CHAPTER 22
Third Person POV
The trek through the dark mist was as miserable as it could get. Isabella followed a few paces behind, her eyes fixed on the back of Lucian's head.
She was exhausted, her own body echoing the dull, throbbing ache radiating from the man in front of her.
Lucian hadn't stopped, but the fluid grace he'd displayed at the riverbank was fraying at the edges.
His boots dragged through the blackened soil of the East, leaving uneven tracks in the frost.
Suddenly, Lucian swayed. It wasn't a large movement—just a slight tilt—but it was enough to make him catch himself against the trunk of a dead pine. The wood groaned under his weight.
"Whoa there, Your Majesty," Isabella said, her voice raspy but laced with its usual bite. "Careful. If you pass out here, I'm not exactly built for carrying dead weight. Especially grumpy dead weight."
Lucian didn't look back. He shoved himself off the tree, his movements stiff "I do not... pass out," he bit out, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "The air is merely... thin."
"Thin? We're at sea level," Isabella muttered, moving closer. As she stepped into his personal space, the moonlight caught his neck.
She stopped dead, her sarcasm dying in her throat.
The handprints—the ones his own fingers had carved into his flesh—weren't just black anymore.
They were beginning to fester with an unnatural, sickly violet light. The skin was peeling back in charred flakes, refusing to knit together.
"Oh my God," she whispered, her hand reaching out before she could stop herself. "Hey, your neck. It's getting worse."
Lucian flinched away, his eyes flashing a dull, pained red. He swiped her hand out of the air, though his grip lacked its usual bone-crushing strength. "Do not. Touch. Me."
"Okay! Fine! I'm just trying to see why it's worsening when mine isn't even hurtful anymore."
Isabella walked in front of him, looking back at his neck. "I mean, I was the one who actually got strangled. How are you the one looking like a burnt marshmallow?"
She had established that their connection was a one-way street of misery: her pain affected him, but she only felt his exhaustion and a dull echo of his agony.
It was like she was the anchor and he was the one being dragged through the reef. Lucian didn't even give her a glance.
His breathing was shallow, a fine sheen of cold sweat coating his pale forehead. To him, the pain was an insult.
He knew what was happening; he needed rest. He had taken the brunt of the holy wards to save an ungrateful girl, and now his immortal blood was paying the price.
Isabella gasped as the realization hit her. "It's the river! The holy water... it's literally eating you from the inside out."
She looked at him with a mix of horror and disbelief. "Why would you jump into a holy river? You're an unholy being! That's like a toaster jumping into a bathtub."
Lucian continued to sway, ignoring her lamentations. "The mark on my neck is fine, but yours looks like a charcoal grill," she continued, her worry for her own skin overriding her fear of him.
"If you die, do I go with you? Because I'd really like a heads-up before my heart decides to stop."
"It is a temporary... imbalance," Lucian gritted out, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. "My body is adjusting."
"Adjusting?!" Isabella planted her feet, standing directly in his path and forcing him to a halt. "Look, I know you think I'm a 'parasite,' but if you drop dead in the middle of these woods, I'm stuck here with no map and a bunch of your 'kin' who probably think I'm a snack-sized werewolf nugget. Let me help."
Lucian stared down at her, his face a mask of frigid pride. Even weakened, he radiated a terrifying sense of authority.
"You are a child playing with forces you cannot comprehend. You cannot 'help' me, abomination."
He tried to step past her, but his knees finally betrayed him. He dropped to one knee, the impact hollowing out a small crater in the frost.
Isabella lunged forward, catching his shoulder. The coldness of his skin was shocking—it felt like touching dry ice. Through the bond, a wave of hot agony tore through her own chest, making her gasp.
"Dammit!" she winced, clutching his arm. "See? I felt that! Stop being so damn stubborn. Your majestic pride is literally killing us both."
Lucian looked up at her, his lips pulled back in a pained grimace. He stared at her hand on his shoulder—an abomination's hand touching his sacred person.
He wanted to strike her. Instead, he let out a tired breath, his head bowing as the world began to spin.
"A witch hut," he whispered, surrendering a fraction of his mask.
Isabella looked puzzled. "A witch what? I literally just told you witches don't exist anymore!"
"Three miles... from here," he ignored her, his voice fading. "If we do not reach it before the first light... the sun will do what the water could not."
He wouldn't die from the sun—not normally—but with the holy water circulating in his veins, the first touch of dawn would feel like being burned alive from the inside.