"I am the Prince of Hell."
The words did not echo.
They did not thunder.
They didn't need to.
They settled into the room like a sentence carved in stone.
She stared at him.
Waiting for him to take it back.
Waiting for him to say it was a metaphor. A joke. A title from some secret cult.
But Lucien did not look like a man joking.
The fire in the hearth burned darker behind him, casting sharp shadows across his face. His posture remained calm, composed — but something in his eyes had shifted.
He was no longer hiding.
"You're lying," she whispered weakly.
"I do not lie about what I am."
Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. "You're saying… Hell is real?"
"Yes."
"And Heaven?"
"Yes."
"And I—" her voice cracked, "—I'm being hunted because of my blood?"
"Yes."
Each answer was steady. Certain. Final.
She staggered back a step.
"You brought me here," she said slowly. "To this place. To your castle."
His jaw tightened slightly at the word castle.
"I brought you here because it is the only place my father cannot enter without consequence."
Her mind raced.
The Demon King.
The throne of fire.
The chains.
"You said I was safe," she breathed.
"You are," he said firmly.
A bitter laugh escaped her. "Your father just entered my dreams."
Lucien's eyes darkened.
"That was not a dream."
Her stomach dropped.
Before she could process that, a sudden sharp pain ripped through her chest.
She gasped, clutching the mark above her heart. It burned — hotter than before.
Lucien moved instantly, catching her before she fell.
The contact sent another pulse through her body — heat and something deeper.
Outside her chamber, a horn sounded.
Low.
Ancient.
Warning.
Lucien's expression changed instantly.
"They've begun," he murmured.
"Begun what?" she cried.
Before he could answer, the windows shattered inward.
Cold wind rushed into the room, carrying the scent of ash and something rotten.
Elara screamed.
Mira pulled her back.
From the broken balcony doors, dark figures descended.
Not shadows this time.
Witches.
Their feet hovered inches above the ground. Long black hair whipped around pale faces marked with symbols drawn in blood. Their eyes were hollow, glowing faint green.
"There she is," one hissed.
"The Pure Vessel."
"She smells of Heaven."
Lucien stepped in front of her fully now.
The temperature in the room dropped drastically.
"You dare step into my domain?" his voice was calm — but it vibrated with restrained violence.
One of the witches smiled cruelly.
"The altar awaits, Prince."
The word prince dripped with mockery.
Another raised her hand — and the air itself tightened around the girl's throat.
She choked, gasping.
Lucien moved.
The room exploded into chaos.
Black flames erupted from his hands — not wild, but controlled. Deadly. They shot forward, colliding with green witchfire mid-air.
The impact cracked the marble floor.
The witches shrieked.
One lunged toward her, claws extended.
Lucien caught the witch mid-air by the throat.
"Touch her," he said coldly, "and I will unmake you."
The witch laughed even as flames began consuming her.
"You are already weakening, Prince."
Her body turned to ash in his grip.
The remaining witches began chanting in a language that made her ears bleed. The mark on her chest flared brighter — blinding gold.
Pain surged through her veins.
She screamed.
Suddenly—
Light burst from her body.
Pure.
Brilliant.
Golden wings flashed behind her for a split second — enormous, radiant, powerful.
The witches recoiled instantly, shrieking.
"She's awakening!"
"Too soon!"
Lucien turned sharply toward her.
Shock crossed his face.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Shock.
The golden light expanded, forcing the witches backward. One by one, they dissolved into smoke, retreating through the shattered windows.
Silence fell heavily over the room.
The wind stopped.
The flames calmed.
And the light faded.
She collapsed.
Lucien caught her before she hit the floor.
Her breathing was weak but steady.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her.
At the faint golden glow still flickering beneath her skin.
Behind him, Adrian appeared silently at the doorway.
"Well," the higher vampire said softly, studying the destruction. "That complicates things."
Lucien's voice was low.
"She manifested earlier than predicted."
Adrian's icy eyes flicked to the unconscious girl.
"And now," he said calmly, "every realm will know."
Lucien looked down at her face — peaceful despite the chaos.
"They already do."
When she woke hours later, the room had been repaired.
As if nothing happened.
But everything had changed.
She sat up slowly.
Lucien was seated beside her bed.
Watching.
"You had wings," he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
"I… what?"
His gaze held hers steadily.
"You are not just angelic."
A pause.
"You are something far rarer."
Her heart began to race again.
"What am I?"
Lucien leaned closer.
The faintest trace of something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
"You are the last Celestial Pureblood."