It was a sense of duty stronger than any family honor, stronger than any personal desire.
It rose from the deepest part of his soul, like an order decreed by fate itself—utterly irresistible.
Marcellus slowly withdrew his hands. In his eyes flickered a shadowy, unreadable light, as though what he had just touched was not a cold sacred relic, but an invisible flame burning secretly within his veins.
——
From that night on, Marcellus began to change.
He grew increasingly silent, withdrawn. More and more often, he would steal away alone to the secret chamber. In the past, he used to stroll down the family's corridors with the lighthearted ease of a young lord in spring. But now, his steps carried a muted urgency, a suppressed agitation that could not be hidden. Often, before twilight had even fully deepened, he would already be shut inside that chamber, lingering there until the late hours, returning drenched in sweat and exhaustion.
Sometimes, in the middle of a banquet, he would suddenly drift off, his gaze hollow, staring into nothingness, while a faintly eerie smile tugged at his lips. At other times, he would flare into sudden fits of rage, slamming the table over the most trivial of matters, his voice sharp and cold. And yet—almost in the same breath—he would catch himself, murmur an apology, and force that familiar, gentle smile back onto his face. But under the wavering candlelight, that smile seemed only to chill the heart.
Livia saw it all in silence.
She realized that Marcellus no longer spoke to her of little, everyday things. He no longer took her hand to wander through the gardens. He no longer whispered to her in the quiet of night about his dreams and hopes for the future. Instead came silence, concealment—and those fleeting, unsettling expressions that left her heart pounding with dread.
At first, Livia thought it was her fault.
In moments of his coldness, she had wept in secret. Yet even so, before him she forced her spirits high, greeting him with tenderness, straightening his collar as before, offering him tea when he returned late, whispering softly in the midnight hours, "I'm here. Always."
But whenever she reached out, trying to touch the true core of his heart, she found only an untouchable darkness behind that gentle shell.
She did not know that darkness had already taken root deep in Marcellus's soul.
Nor could she imagine how far it had spread—even into the most intimate of places.
Once, his embraces had been careful, cherishing, like the tender hands of one holding a priceless treasure. His voice at her ear was gentle, his breath aligned with hers, sharing rhythm and warmth. But now—those moments of tenderness had withered away, replaced by an urgency, a harshness, an almost predatory force.
His touch was rough, disordered, driven by an uncontainable compulsion. In his arms, Livia often felt a suffocating weight press down on her chest. Yet she bit her lip hard and endured, never letting a sound of protest escape. She feared that even the smallest hint of retreat would only drive him further away.
In the darkest hours of night, she would sometimes lift her eyes, searching his face for the warmth she once knew. But what she often saw was another visage entirely—his eyes sunken in shadow, his features contorted, possessed by a fevered, almost deranged fervor. In those instants, terror pierced her to the bone, as though the man beside her was no longer her beloved husband, but a stranger consumed by the abyss.
And still, she endured in silence.
By morning, Marcellus would appear once again the gentle, elegant man she knew, as though nothing of the night had ever happened. So she forced herself to smile back at him, whispering within: it is only fatigue, only the weight of his burdens. If I can be gentler, more patient, more loving—perhaps he will return to the man he once was.
But when she turned away, her eyes—still gentle, still soft—were filled with an unshakable sorrow and confusion, too heavy for her heart to bear.