"My love… what's wrong?"
Livia stirred in her sleep, unease tugging at her heart. She felt Marcellus's hand tighten unconsciously around her wrist—cold, stiff, trembling with some invisible strain. In the pale wash of moonlight, his face twisted into a faint grimace, yet his lips curved with an eerie trace of satisfaction, as though he were trapped in a dream that mingled both ecstasy and torment.
A chill ran through her veins. Fear struck her, sharp and cold. She reached out and shook him.
"Marcellus! Wake up!"
He jerked awake, his chest heaving, beads of sweat shining on his forehead. His eyes darted about before finally focusing on her face.
"It's nothing," he whispered hoarsely, his voice soft yet weary, wrapping his arms tightly around her trembling shoulders. "Just a nightmare… You don't have to worry."
His fingers threaded gently through her hair, smoothing it back from her damp brow. He pressed a kiss there, lingering, then trailed lower—along the bridge of her nose, her cheek, slowly, almost reverently—as if each tender touch could drive away the remnants of the nightmare and reassure her that he was still hers, still here.
The night deepened. Clouds veiled the moon, shrouding the chamber in shadow. Within, only the mingled sound of their breath and their racing heartbeats filled the silence. Wrapped together, they clung to one another like two souls lost in the storm, finding shelter only in each other's warmth.
——
At dawn, light spilled through the latticed windows, painting soft bars of gold across the chamber floor. Livia lay curled in the bedclothes, her face peaceful yet shadowed by faint lines of sorrow, as if even in dreams she could not escape the pain buried deep within her.
Marcellus sat watching her, unmoving, for what felt like hours. A tangle of anguish and resolve surged in his chest. He bent down to draw the blanket higher around her, brushing a stray lock from her brow with quiet care. Then, with a breath drawn sharp against the weight inside him, he rose and dressed.
His footsteps echoed through the long, empty corridors, each step heavy, like the thud of a gavel striking against his heart.
He hesitated.
At the door to the vault, he halted, fingers hovering over the iron lock. He could not bring himself to push forward at once. Doubt whispered in his mind—had that night's vision been nothing more than a trick of exhaustion? A fevered hallucination from sleepless nights and relentless worries?
But then came the memory of Livia's tears—the silent way she swallowed her grief, the unspoken torment that gnawed at her day by day. It pierced him like thorns. He could not endure watching her fade beneath shadows while he stood idle.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he forced his hand forward. The heavy door groaned as it swung open.
A rush of stale air met him, cool and heavy with silence.
And there they were.
The twin handles of gold lay exactly where he had left them, quiet and unassuming upon the stone pedestal—as if waiting.
Step by step, he approached. His pulse quickened with every stride. At last, he laid both hands upon the cold metal.
——
In an instant, a torrent surged into him.
It was not heat nor simple sensation—it was something beyond mortal language. A flood of light and shadow coursed through his veins, raging between his bones and his soul. In that violent rush he knew, without question: this was no illusion. The Grail was real. It lived. And it was calling to him.
A shudder like lightning pierced his body. His vision split apart. For a heartbeat, he no longer saw himself as the gentle, composed nobleman he had always been.
Instead, a stranger stared back at him.
Dark eyes hollow with shadows. A face hardened into cruelty. A smile, cold as steel, hiding secrets like poisoned daggers. Blood stained his hands—hands that clutched the Grail, now whole, complete. In that reflection, his gaze burned not with love, but with hunger, with a desire so vast it threatened to consume all else.
The image chilled him, terrifying in its clarity, as though it were not fantasy, but prophecy.
And then—like a wave pulling back into the sea—it vanished.
The vault returned. The shadows, the silence, his own gasping breath. Marcellus blinked, finding himself again, though his fingers still trembled, his chest still rose and fell in violent bursts.
He could not remember what exactly he had witnessed. But the sensation—the weight of it, the certainty—remained.
One truth carved itself into his heart, immovable as stone.
He must restore the Grail.