Lucien Vale stood among the shattered pews of the old cathedral, rage simmering beneath his skin.

  Moonlight slanted through the broken windows, painting pale stripes across the ruined floor. Dust danced in the beams, swirling like ghosts. The silence pressed in — thick, choking, almost reverent — as if the cathedral remembered what had just happened.

  Lucien stared down at his hand — blood-streaked, trembling — and hated what he had become.

  He was supposed to kill her...The Endbringer

  It had been simple.

  Find the girl.

  Test the blood.

  Break her neck before she could fulfill the prophecy and destroy him.

  Clean. Efficient. Necessary.

  He had done it before.

  Ended threats before they bloomed.

  Snuffed out futures like candles in the dark.

  So why not now?

  Why not her?

  He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the blood — her blood — sink into his skin. It was darker than it should be. Thicker. Like it didn’t want to leave. Like it belonged there.

  Lucien closed his eyes, jaw clenched, remembering the exact moment her blood had touched his lips.

  It had been instinct.

  A test.

  Just one kiss.

  Not poison.

  Not death.

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  A Spark.

  Raw and wild — a current that surged through him with no warning, no mercy. It had ripped through every part of him, burning away logic, choking out the cold precision he had spent a century honing.

  For a heartbeat — no, more — he hadn’t remembered who he was, or what he was meant to do.

  He had only known her.

  Her pain.

  Her pulse.

  Her name.

  Ella.

  Not a name, but a force.

  Ella Maren.

  The Endbringer.

  The girl foretold to end the last of the Highborn line — to end him.

  The girl who should have been his death sentence.

  And yet…

  When she looked at him — dagger trembling in her hand, defiance burning in those silver-flamed eyes — he hadn’t seen an enemy.

  He hadn’t even seen a weapon.

  He had seen a future.

  One not carved in death.

  One not soaked in prophecy and blood.

  A future not written yet — but alive, bright, terrifying.

  Lucien let out a ragged breath and slammed his fist into the nearest stone pillar.

  The crack echoed through the cathedral like a curse.

  Stone split and crumbled, dust raining down. A shard bit into his knuckles, blood blooming anew — but he didn’t flinch.

  “Stupid,” he spat. “Weak.”

  He braced his arms on what remained of the pillar, head bowed, trying to anchor himself in the cold stone beneath his hands.

  But it was no use.

  The Spark was still there, pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

  Relentless.

  Hungry.

  He hadn’t spared her because he was merciful.

  He had spared her because something ancient — something cruel — had stitched their fates together the moment blood met blood.

  He wanted her.

  He wanted to destroy her.

  He wanted to save her.

  All at once.

  And that contradiction was going to kill him.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing her blood across his jaw like war paint. It burned there, tingling faintly — a mark he couldn’t see, but could feel in his bones.

  He knew what he was supposed to do.

  What the Elders would demand.

  What His father Would Demand

  What the prophecy required.

  But the Spark had ruined that.

  He couldn’t kill her now.

  Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  Lucien paced the length of the ruined cathedral, boots crunching over shattered glass and bone-dry leaves. He could still smell her in the air — the sharp tang of steel, the copper of blood, the salt of fear — and something else.

  Something he didn’t have a word for.

  Something his kind was never meant to feel.

  He stopped before the altar. What remained of it, anyway. A broken slab, carved with runes so old they’d been forgotten by most of his kind. He laid a hand on them, whispering the name that echoed louder than any incantation:

  Ella.

  What had she seen when he touched her? He had glimpsed fragments — fire, thorns, a ruined crown — but that wasn’t all. He knew how the magic worked. The bond wasn’t just physical.

  It was soul-deep.

  The Spark, feeling meant something.

  It always did.

  And now he had a choice.

  He could still kill her. Tonight.

  Track her down before dawn. Finish it.

  But some part of him knew it wouldn’t work. Not anymore.

  Something fundamental had shifted.

  In her. In him.

  In the shape of fate itself.

  He would have to find another way.

  Bind her.

  Control her.

  Twist her destiny until it served him — until she served him.

  Before she realized what he truly was.

  Before she remembered the parts of herself that had been buried.

  Before she awakened and became the weapon the world feared.

  Before the Red Moon rose — and it was too late.

  Lucien exhaled, long and slow, the tremble in his hands finally stilling.

  He would not lose this time.

  He had been made for war. Raised by blood. Trained to kill first and question never.

  But something about Ella had undone all of that in a single heartbeat.

  She had looked at him like he was more than a monster.

  And worse — far worse — he had wanted to be.

  The Spark was still there, flickering beneath his ribs. Not dying.

  Growing.

  Lucien pressed a palm to his chest, eyes narrowing.

  If he couldn’t kill her…

  He would have to keep her.

  Even if it destroyed them both..