For two days, the Glass Tomb stood still.
No footsteps. No flickers of light. No whispers from the walls.
Only Lucien's breath, ragged and low. Sometimes he called her name. Sometimes he screamed it until his throat gave out. Other times he whispered it like a prayer, like a lullaby he couldn't forget.
But mostly… he waited. Shackled. Silent. Broken.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he was already dead, and this—the emptiness, the cold chains, the gnawing regret—was just how the afterlife worked. A slow rot of the soul.
Until—
Drip.
He felt it.
Something warm touched his wrist. Then his cheek.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Lucien blinked open tired eyes—and saw light. A faint, cruel flicker.
The floor beneath him was slick, crimson slowly blooming beneath him.
Blood.
"Seraph?" he rasped, terrified.
The chains rattled as he struggled. "Seraph?!"
And then she came.
Not like before—not walking. Floating.
She wasn't real anymore. Not entirely. Her skin pale, almost translucent, her hair a black halo swirling in the air, and her eyes… hollow.
In her hand: a pot.In the other: a silver blade.
She hovered to him, her silk gown ghosting above the floor, her steps silent.
"It's time," she said softly. Her voice barely a whisper, but it echoed like thunder."To complete your painting."
She raised the blade.
"Wait—Seraph, wait—" he jerked back, but there was no escape.
She slashed across his arm—not deep, but precise. The blood flowed.
Lucien screamed through his teeth.
She caught it carefully in the pot, her expression blank. As if it didn't matter.
He breathed heavy, pain and fury clashing in his chest. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Seraph smirked, finally. "Shut up."
And she turned.
Slowly, she walked away, the pot warm in her hand, her black gown dragging across the blood-slicked floor.
Lucien's chest heaved. His voice cracked as he yelled after her.
"You never said you loved me—!"
She paused.
"You never loved me too, Seraph," he cried. "You just wanted someone to keep you company! You were using me too!"
But she didn't look back.
She just kept walking.
And Lucien, still bleeding, still bound, felt something in him tear wide open.