WHAT THE WOUND REVEALS

Lucian sat alone in his chamber, his wrist throbbing as he peeled away the blood-soaked cloth. The wound was deep, more than he had anticipated. The edges were blackened, pulsing with remnants of the dark magic embedded in the blade.

He stared at it in silence, his jaw clenched. The pain wasn't new. But it was inconvenient. More than that, it was a reminder of what he had chosen to protect.

Just then, the door creaked open.

Evelyn stepped in, her steps hesitant until her eyes fell on his wrist. Her mouth parted slightly in shock. "You've injured yourself badly," she said, hurrying to his side. "Why didn't you call for anyone?"

Lucian didn't respond. He simply looked at her as she knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for his arm.

"Let me see it," she said softly.

She examined the wound, her brow furrowing. "This looks serious."

"It is," he admitted. "But it'll heal."

"Why hasn't it already?" she asked, her voice dropping.

"It wasn't an ordinary blade. It was laced with dark magic. I'll recover… but slowly."

Evelyn shook her head. "You risked your life. Why would you do that?"

Lucian's voice was quiet but firm. "To protect him."

"To protect Azarel," she repeated, her tone carrying something between admiration and pain.

"You don't need to worry," Lucian said, attempting to pull his arm away.

Evelyn didn't let go. Her fingers tightened around his wrist.

"Don't talk too much," she whispered.

Then, with surprising gentleness, she placed her finger on his lips. The room froze.

Their eyes locked.

In that quiet moment, everything unsaid between them pulsed in the air like tension before a storm. Her hand lingered on his mouth a second longer before she slowly drew it away.

Velma stood just outside the chamber, her hand raised as she had been about to knock. But through the slightly ajar door, she saw Evelyn beside Lucian, their closeness undeniable.

She paused.

Her chest rose and fell. She had come because she and Lucian had something important to discuss—matters about Azarel, about the man he used to be. She knew how much Lucian protected him. How much he cared. More than loyalty, perhaps. More than duty.

She lowered her hand, whispering to herself, "You care too much, Lucian."

And with a soft exhale, she turned away, giving them space.

Back in the room, Evelyn tore a strip from the edge of her robe, folding it carefully.

Lucian watched her silently, his eyes tracking her every movement. She was so focused, so precise, as if tying his wound was the most important task in the world.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly.

"I want to," she replied.

She wrapped the cloth around his injured wrist, tying it snugly but gently. Her hands lingered on his skin.

Lucian opened his mouth to speak, but his words died on his tongue. He simply looked at her.

When she finished, she didn't pull back. "Don't do something that foolish again," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Lucian blinked. "It wasn't foolish. I protected the king."

"I know," she said. "But that doesn't mean you should throw your life away."

She looked at him, and this time, she didn't speak. She just stared into his eyes, her own glassy with emotion.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward and hugged him.

Lucian froze.

She pressed her face against his chest, her arms around him, trembling slightly. Tears streamed from her eyes, soaking through his shirt.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

Lucian hovered his hand behind her back, fingers twitching to return the embrace. But he stopped himself.

He clenched his jaw, choosing restraint. He didn't know what it would mean if he returned the hug. And that uncertainty scared him more than the blade had.

Still, he let her stay there. Let her hold him.

The silence between them said more than either could speak. And for now, that was enough.