Seraph floated through the golden hallway, silent as breath, the pot of blood warm in her hands. The walls no longer whispered to her. The house held its breath, watching.
She reached the portrait room—the sacred place, the cursed place—and stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a heavy click.
Moonlight filtered through the high, stained-glass windows. Dust danced in the air. The canvases stared back at her. All the men. All the lies. All the red.
They were beautiful. Always beautiful. Their smiles, their eyes, their charm. All of it fake.
And now—Lucien's canvas stood waiting.
She walked to it slowly.
The pot trembled in her grasp.
With shaking fingers, she dipped her brush into the blood. The red glistened, so vivid, so alive.
She stroked the canvas gently.
His eyes first.
Then the soft edges of his mouth.
Then the shape of his hands, always grasping—grasping for her, for truth, for escape.
She paused.
Her hand dropped to her side, brush still dripping. Her breath caught in her throat.
Seraph stared at the image forming before her. His face. Lucien's face.
Not like the others.
Not smug. Not hungry.
Just tired. Confused. Wounded.
She blinked—and tears rolled down her cheeks. One. Two. Then more.
She wiped them quickly with the back of her hand, as if ashamed.
"This isn't love," she whispered. "Is it?"
The house creaked above her. The silence gave no answer.
She clenched her fists.
"No," she whispered again, lower this time. "No. I loved him. I did. I do."
She dipped her brush once more and moved toward the canvas.
But her hands wouldn't move.
They trembled too much.
The brush fell.
Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and the blood pot spilled beside her.
It seeped into the rug like it belonged there.
Seraph knelt there, alone in the glow of half-moonlight, surrounded by portraits and silence—unsure now if she had lost Lucien…
…or if she had lost herself a long time ago.