Milan, Italy — 6:12 AM The city still slept. But inside a modest apartment overlooking Via Broletto, a quiet war stirred — one with no clear end in sight.
La Reyna sat curled up on the windowsill, knees drawn to her chest, wrapped only in one of Lucien's white shirts — oversized, loose, and soaked in his scent. A mix of cedarwood and crisp cotton. A scent that once soothed her.Now, it only reminded her how far she'd drifted from peace.
From the kitchen, the soft clatter of a spoon meeting the edge of a pan echoed through the air.Inez was humming again — as if trying to convince the morning to feel normal. She always stayed loyal to her small routines, offering bits of stability La Reyna had long lost.
But nothing about her life was normal anymore.
The echoes of last night's dream still clung to her skin.Her mother's voice. The stench of blood. Flames swallowing a body.And Maeryss… laughing.That face — victorious, twisted, as if death had been a gift.
Meanwhile, in the next room...
Lucien hadn't woken to the sound of an alarm.He woke because of the weight in his chest.
He was still in bed, but restless.The pillow beside him remained untouched.She hadn't come back to him.But it wasn't the absence that suffocated him.It was the silence.
Not the kind that brings peace.But the kind that presses in, like the air's too thin. Like the room's getting smaller by the second.
He sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his messy hair, and reached for his watch on the nightstand.6:03 AM.
But his heart had been awake long before that.Since the moment he heard her crying silently in her sleep.
Lucien looked down at his hands.
"What can I even do for her?"
Fathya — no, La Reyna — was no ordinary woman.She was fire. A wound. And deep inside… maybe a danger.
But Lucien hadn't loved her because she was perfect.He just wanted to be a place where she could fall — without guilt.
He rose slowly, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the bottom drawer.There it was — a small wooden box he'd kept hidden for years.Inside were letters and notes tied to the El'Raez family.Remnants of a legacy buried after the massacre.
One letter in particular…A torn piece of parchment written by Raezmir himself.Lucien had never shown it to her.
Because he was afraid.Afraid it would break her more than heal her.
But maybe…Maybe it was time.
He walked softly to her room.No shoes. Eyes still heavy. Hair a mess. But his steps were careful — as if not to scare a wounded animal.
"You didn't sleep," he said quietly.
She shook her head without looking at him.
"Didn't feel like I deserved to."
He sat down beside her. Their shoulders nearly touched, but it felt like two different worlds between them.
"You carry too much."
"I was born to carry it," she whispered."My mother died screaming. My father was betrayed.And I lived… because someone else burned in my place."
Lucien said nothing. His eyes were deep, but gentle.
"You lived," he said,"because you were meant to uncover the truth. To make them pay."
She inhaled sharply. Long. Heavy.
"I don't know how to be soft anymore."
Lucien reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Then let me be that softness — even if just for a little while."
And for the first time…La Reyna wanted to believe him.
That warmth pierced the silence in her.It almost felt like home.
A few hours later –
Beneath the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière, deep in the hidden chambers of Lyon...
Maeryss stood before the Blood Council.An icy smile curved her lips. One made of pride and poison.
"The girl still lives," one of the Elders hissed.
"Let her," Maeryss replied coldly."Breathing doesn't mean surviving.And surviving… doesn't mean winning."
Her smile lingered — unreadable, dangerous.
"Let her breathe while she still can.Because her blood… is already beginning to turn."