“Forgive me, my lady; I had no idea you held such a title.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was something else—a wariness that hadn’t been there before, and his gaze sharpened, as if trying to make sense of her. She’d dealt with thornier characters before, of course, but something about his barbed tone intrigued her.

He cleared his throat and asked, his voice quiet, “Azalie… back to our earlier conversation. Why were you sent to kill me?” Though he tried to appear nonchalant, she saw his hands tense, clenching tightly in his lap.

She eyed him, observing his reaction carefully. “You're not going to start coughing again, are you?”

Lucius shook his head. “No. I’m well now.” But his expression was tight, braced for her answer.

“My father sent me,” she admitted slowly, feeling the weight of the words settle between them. “Though I haven’t the faintest clue why. I’m never told. But usually I can figure it out while I carry out my assignment.”

He paled even further, his fists clenched so tightly she thought his knuckles might bleed. “If that was your job… why didn’t you do it?”

The question echoed in her mind, and for a moment, she could only stare blankly at him. Why hadn’t she killed him? Was it because he was a mage? No—she had killed mages before. Was it the strange power, the bad blood? No, that had only affected her after she’d left.

Deep down, she knew the real answer: It was because of the way he looked at her that night. His eyes had held the same raw innocence and fear as him.

She closed her eyes, letting the memory flood over her, bittersweet and painful. “I couldn’t…” she whispered, her voice almost too soft to hear. “You—you reminded me of someone I lost recently.”

Lucius startled at her confession, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Is that why you kissed me?”

She knelt in front of his chair, brows creased in confusion. “No,” she said, softly. “I told you then—I was only trying to show you I meant you no harm—that I was friendly.”

Understanding lit up his face as he recalled, though his expression remained uncertain. “Right, you did say that,” he murmured. His hand darted to his mouth, a cough overtaking him. He quickly stifled it in a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket

Azalie knew it was rude to pry, but her concern got the better of her. “Are you still sick from when we first met? You looked rather ill then, too.”

He fell silent, his eyes downcast as he folded the handkerchief away. Finally, after a long pause, he sighed, his shoulders drooping. “I’ve always been ill,” he said, his tone resigned. “It’s just that some days are worse than others.”

Azalie tilted her head, perplexed. “But aren’t you a warlock?” she couldn’t help but wonder aloud. “Why not cure yourself?”

Lucius’s eyes flashed with alarm, a sudden defensive edge in his voice. “Who told you I was a warlock?”

“No one,” she replied with a shrug. “I noticed the mage script in your book and you were casting a spell.” She paused, observing his sudden tension. “Were you trying to keep it a secret? You don’t seem very knowledgeable about Otherworlders, and I wasn’t sure if—”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down, as if suddenly exhausted. “Well, yes, I was. Though, I suppose that fact matters little anymore,” he said, managing a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “My family is a warlock household, though I've not been schooled in the magickal arts. I’m forbidden from using any of my magick,” he said, his voice carrying a resigned weight. “I only started teaching myself the mage script recently. I thought…” he paused, his gaze dropping back to his lap, empty and clouded. He shook his head. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter anymore. As I am likely to die tonight.”

Azalie shook her head quickly, her hands instinctively reaching for his, clasping them tightly as she spoke. “No, I’m not here to hurt you. I left of my own accord only to investigate the power surge I felt. Truly, no one knows I’ve come here,” she said, searching his face for some sign of understanding.

He pulled his hands back from her frigid fingers, his face a mask of resignation. “It’s not you I speak of. The threat is my own family. That power surge you felt is likely them preparing the ritual,” His voice was flat and devoid of any hope.

Her eyes widened, incredulous. “A ritual? Your family plans to… sacrifice you?” Azalie’s words hovered between shock and disbelief. And yet, Lucius’s expression offered her no hope that she’d misheard. If his family engaged in such ritualistic atrocities, it would explain why Lord Molch wanted the family gone. “But why would your family do this to you?”

Lucius was silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to a distant point as if weighing memories he’d long sought to bury. Lucius swallowed hard, and let out a breath as though surrendering a final defense. “I might as well tell you. I’ve nothing left to lose.” He reclined in his chair, the weight of his confession pressing down. “It’s because of a curse. I am of house Decimus. Over two hundred years ago, my family struck a pact with a demon in exchange for power, offering up their own bloodline as collateral. The curse took root, affecting only the most powerful children—their souls consumed in payment once they reached twenty-one. When enough descendants have fallen to fulfill the debt, the curse would supposedly be lifted.” He trailed off, the words laced with bitterness. “My family thought they were free of it when my father and uncle escaped the mark. Until I was born.” He reached up, tugging his collar aside to reveal faint, silvery-red web-like lines, trailing up his neck like creeping ivy.

“I turn twenty soon,” he said, with a fatalistic tone. “My family has tried everything to erase the curse mark. Since birth, they’ve bound my magick, hoping it might weaken, that the mark might fade. Nothing’s worked, and now they’re preparing a ritual to strip my magick entirely.”

Azalie felt an uncomfortable twinge of foreboding, but forced her voice to remain steady. “If they take all of it… you’ll die.”

Lucius nodded, his expression shrouded in quiet resignation. Azalie lowered herself fully to the floor beside him, drawn to his quiet resolve despite herself.

After a moment, she broke the silence. “Is it the curse mark that makes you ill?”

Lucius glanced down, surprised by the question, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. She watched him closely, an odd suspicion sparking in her mind. She knew a little about curse marks—and something didn’t quite add up.

“My family insists it’s so… but I have never been asked for my own thoughts on the matter.”

She waited for him to continue. When he remained silent, she pressed, “What are your thoughts?”

“I— I suspect my family is wrong,” he said slowly, as if confessing an unspeakable heresy. “I’ve never felt any pain from the mark. My illness began in childhood, but I believe it stems from all the binding rituals. The reason why I think this is that, even though my magick is bound, I can still use some of it and when I do, I feel better as a result. Of course, I have no way of really knowing. The mark’s script is in a language no one has deciphered…” He paused, his ocean blue eyes instantly darted to Azalie’s. “You’re a demon!”

“Vampyre,” she corrected, automatically.

“Then you can read demonic scripts?” he pressed, ignoring her correction.

Her chin lifted. “I can read a great many things. There are several demonic scripts, as a matter of fact, and I have been schooled in them all,” she replied with a hint of pride. “However, I need to see it to read it. Is it recorded anywhere?”

He averted his gaze, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of his collar. “It’s…on me,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

After a moment’s hesitation, he rose, shedding his tailcoat and unbuttoning his shirt with a trembling slowness. As he opened his shirt, exposing the pale expanse of his chest, he settled back down, eyes still cast downward. A faint blush staining his cheeks—a delicate hue that seemed out of place on such a haunted figure. “The writing… it’s here,” he said, his voice trembling as he gestured toward a spot just above his heart. The silvery-red web-like mark glimmered ominously against his pallid skin.

Azalie pressed her lips together, her heart constricting. She had only ever seen her brother’s bare chest before, and the starkness of Lucius’s frailty shocked her. His skin was deathly pale. Each rib protruded sharply from his sunken skeletal frame. It made her wonder if his family had been doing more than merely binding his magick, he looked utterly starved of vitality.

A swell of empathy washed over her. She bit her lip and tried not to stare, focusing on the script instead. She leaned in closer, her slit pupils expanding as she read the intricacies of the silver-red marks. 

“Hmm…” she murmured, absently pressing her icy fingers against his chest as she traced the symbols.

Lucius jerked back. “Dear god, your fingers are terribly cold,” he said, shivering. She pulled away, biting her lip.

“Apologies,” she replied softly. She sat on her heels, mind racing as she pieced together the fragments of the inscription.

He glanced at her, anxiety creasing his brow. “Could you read any of it? What does it say?”

She bit her lip again, her heart racing. The mark before her was unlike any she had encountered; the script was both strange and mesmerizing, clearly demonic and vampyric in nature. It resembled a sigil—ancient and weighty with significance. Cocking her head, she peered closer. “This is an archaic style mark. It baffles me why your family would ever deem it a ‘curse.’” She gestured to his chest, her voice steady yet laced with intrigue. “What you bear is more akin to a sigil—a tracker’s mark from a time long past. Our kind used such symbols to lay claim to someone or something, though their usage has faded into obscurity. This one, however, bears a ‘mature by’ date. It’s your own magick that activates the mark upon your twenty-first year, but it does not consume your soul; it merely informs the owner of your whereabouts.”

He slouched in the chair, disbelief etched across his features, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if struggling to grasp the revelation.

Azalie allowed him a moment of silence, then reached over to offer him his shawl. He accepted it absently, draping it around his shoulders with a distracted hand, tugging it close as if to shield himself from the weight of his predicament. “Wait, I still don’t understand. What does this mean for me? Is the mark lethal or not?”

“No, the mark itself is harmless. It merely serves as a beacon for its owner when the time arrives. But it is they whom you must fear.” Her golden eyes studied him, tracing  the unseen lines within his fragile form, noticing the weariness etched into his very essence. “Your chakra points are all blocked by the binding spells. So there is little worry of the sigil activating prematurely.”

He regarded her with skepticism, his brows furrowing. “You can discern chakra points?”

She laughed lightly, the sound a mixture of amusement and empathy. “It is not an esoteric art, Lucius. Anyone can learn to read another's chakras. While I cannot see them in the conventional sense, I can feel the flow of your magick, noting where it halts and starts anew.”

He still looked doubtful, his long, thin fingers fidgeting as he fastened the buttons of his shirt with care. The dim glow of the oil lamp flickered, casting shadows that danced across his features, illuminating the vulnerability in his wide eyes. For a fleeting moment, she was struck by the thought of how striking he appeared, even in his frail state. He’s quite a handsome face for a sickly human, she mused silently, her heart catching in her throat as she quickly turned away, battling the warmth rising to her cheeks.

“Azalie,” Lucius’s voice broke through her reverie, soft and laced with a pleading quality that sent a shiver down her spine. “Is there any way to remove this mark without me having to die?”

She frowned, turning back to face him, her heart aching at the vulnerability laid bare in his expression. “A debt owed must be repaid,” she replied, her tone gentle yet firm. “It’s not a curse mark, but it carries significance nonetheless. I couldn’t read the owner’s name or the reason for the mark, but your family has a debt…”

“But my family has already settled the debt,” he interrupted, urgency threading through his words. “The mark skipped two generations, my grandfather and my father!”

His desperation twisted something deep within her, a haunting echo of her own past. “That’s something I don’t quite understand either,” she admitted, her brow furrowing as she pondered the implications. “It could be that your grandfather and father lacked the power to satisfy the owner’s requirements, or it might be something entirely different.  The script is ancient and difficult to decipher without further research. Though, I can assure you a tracker’s mark does not simply vanish with the shedding of magick; it will likely just transfer it to the next generation.”

“But I have no children, and I’m an only child,” he said, his voice trembling with fear, a wave of pity crashing over Azalie.

“Then the mark could pass to another family member.” The words pained her to say, especially when he already appeared so defeated. “Perhaps a cousin or distant relative…” she trailed off, not wanting to deepen his anguish.

“Please, Azalie…” His eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I know we don’t know each other well, and I’ve been less than a gentleman toward you, but I must know if there’s a way to rid myself of this mark.” His voice lowered to a whisper, raw and vulnerable. “My family only cares about removing it. They don’t care for my life at all… Please, I-I don’t want to die.”

Please, I don’t want to die.

The words echoed hauntingly in her mind, reverberating against the walls of her memories. She remembered all too vividly His voice that had pleaded the same, a heart desperate for salvation.

Azalie felt the ground shift beneath her, a tide of helplessness rising within her chest. She sank slowly to the floor before him, her gaze locked onto his. His eyes, brimming with desperation, pierced through her very soul, igniting a firestorm of emotions she fought to suppress. Her breath hitched, biting her lip, caught between the urge to save him and the weight of the past pressing down upon her.

Save him, her inner voice cried.

The debt must be repaid! she retorted inwardly, the clash of her thoughts leaving her breathless.

Just give him the information, the voice urged.

Her teeth clenched in frustration, battling against the tide of her own internal strife. She could not allow herself to unravel in front of a stranger, even one so utterly vulnerable and hauntingly familiar. But as she studied him, the plea in his eyes was a mirror to her own fears, and the space between them seemed to thrum with unspoken connections.

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