The chapel bells had long ceased their lament, but their phantom toll still haunted Lucien's thoughts as he sat alone, hands clasped in a prayer that would never be heard. The flickering candlelight painted frail halos on the cold stone walls, as though trying to bless a love too fragile for this unkind world.
Long before the unholy bargain—before the crimson-eyed shadow had offered him a poisoned hope—there had been nothing but the simple, miraculous bond between Lucien Kael, scion of a house burdened by pride, and Yuva, the healer's daughter whose very laughter had seemed to promise salvation.
Their meeting had been no grand affair of destiny. Rather, it was the quiet collision of two souls on a rain-slicked road, the kind of chance that poets call fate only after it has passed. Lucien had been riding too fast, blinded by duty and a thousand fears, when his steed lost its footing and threw him into the bramble.
It was Yuva who emerged from the trees, rain falling in silver sheets around her, eyes wide with alarm. She dropped to her knees without a moment's hesitation, her hands finding his with the instinctive grace that had always defied station or decorum.
"Stay with me," she murmured, voice as soft as candlelight. "You must stay."
He tried to rise, to protest, to tell her of the message he carried. But as her fingers pressed against his wound, and her gaze met his, Lucien felt a certainty far stronger than duty: that whatever else he might lose, he could not bear to lose her.
In the weeks that followed, he invented errands to the villages, conjured pretexts to pass by her cottage. He learned the music of her laughter and the quiet ache behind her silences. When she spoke of her dreams—of tending the sick, of a life of humble purpose—Lucien saw, for the first time, the shape of a happiness that was not measured in coin or lineage.
Evenings found him in the manor library, the old ledgers and decrees spread before him, yet his thoughts never strayed far from Yuva's gentle touch or the way her smile could dispel every darkness. He, who had been taught that love was a luxury reserved for men of leisure, felt in her presence the most necessary truth of all: that love was the only thing that made life worth its price.
Autumn arrived, and the valley glowed with the melancholy beauty of dying leaves. It was under an ancient oak, its branches blazing gold, that he finally spoke the words that had kindled in him like fire.
"I have known many comforts," he whispered, voice unsteady, "but none that I would not trade for one life beside you."
She looked at him with a tenderness that nearly broke him. "And what life would that be, Lucien Kael? The son of a noble house and a healer's daughter cannot walk the same road."
"Then let me forsake the road," he pleaded. "Let me be no one if it means I may be yours."
Tears shone in her eyes as she raised a trembling hand to his cheek. "I would not be the cause of your ruin."
"You are the only cause of my salvation."
They met in secret, as the days grew shorter and the nights colder. Beneath the eaves of the chapel, by the hush of the river, in the fields turned to frost, they carved out moments that belonged to no one else. When Lucien held her, the world's cruel demands fell silent. In her embrace, he felt he could forgive every injustice—save the one that would steal her from him.
When winter came, so too did the fever. It crept through the valley without remorse, and though Yuva had tended the sick with tireless devotion, no kindness could shield her from its grasp. Lucien carried her to the chapel, heedless of scandal or consequence, and laid her upon the cold altar.
He prayed until his voice broke, offered every possession and every year of his life. Yet the gods remained silent, their mercy locked behind doors he could not open.
And so he turned, in desperation, to the darkness beyond the candlelight—to the promise of a power that asked no forgiveness, only surrender.
In his memory, he still felt the last warmth of her hand in his. He still saw the way her lips curved in a final, fragile smile, as though even dying she wished to comfort him.
He had loved her beyond reason. And in loving her, he had condemned them both to a tragedy that no prayer could amend.
The candle flames flickered, casting long shadows across the chapel floor. Outside, night pressed its sorrow against the stained glass, as if the darkness itself had come to mourn her passing.