Awareness came back to Lucien in pieces—pain first, then noise, then the sense of a soft surface under him. He was not in the Chamber of Sin anymore but on a bed, his body throbbing with a thousand vague hurts that changed place every time he attempted to list them.
"He wakes," a voice whispered close by.
Lucien forced his eyes open, clenching at the room's very faint light. He recognized his room, even though it looked different now—dark, crushing. Or perhaps only his own sight had changed.
Serava sat on his bed, a good-looking figure in robes of dark blue that seemed to sparkle with starlight as he shifted position. His face was relaxed, but there was something close to worry in his eyes.
"How long?" Lucien's voice was a dry rasp.
"Three days," Serava replied, lifting a cup of water to Lucien's lips. "You've been between worlds. The effects of the sigil can be. extreme."
Lucien drew in the water, then shifted his face away from the cup. "To gloat?"
"To heal," Serava reprimanded, setting the cup aside. He produced a small jar of salve, the aroma strong and herbal. "Your body bears wounds that need to be cared for."
Since Lucien could protest, Serava drew back the sheet that covered him. Lucien pulled back, finding himself standing in nothing but sheer linen pants, his chest bared and vulnerable. Along his arms and chest, the sigil had burned its design—glowing red lines beating gently beneath the surface like fired veins.
"Don't touch me," Lucien threatened, but his voice wavered.
Serava roughly ignored him, bending to immerse his fingers in the salve. "This will hurt before it heals," he warned, pushing his fingertips into the first scar above Lucien's heart.
Agony burned, white-hot, and then fell to a soothing warmth that left Lucien panting. Serava labored in slow, methodical fashion, tracing every line with the same precise care. His fingers were initially clinical, but as he proceeded along, his fingers lingered longer and longer on Lucien's flesh.
"You intrigue him," Serava whispered, his voice low and conspiratorial. "That is your gift."
Lucien scoffed, although the sound was little more than a faint blow of air. "My gift is what landed me this sentence."
"No." Serava's gaze locked with his, searching. "Your advantage is that Vaeloth could have broken you completely in that room, but he didn't. You fascinate him, and that fascination keeps his hand back."
"I don't want his mercy," Lucien panted.
"Then you're a fool." Serava's hand traced a particularly graphic scar along Lucien's collarbone, lingering a moment too long. "But an interesting one."
A shadow by the door moved, resolving into a human form. Kaelen stepped forward—lessened, somehow, his edges more blurred than before. Where he had moved with fluid ease before, now he pulled himself along as if every movement took willful strength.
Lucien's heart squeezed with unexpected guilt. "Kaelen."
The shadow demon nodded, holding back. "You look awful."
A startled laugh broke from Lucien, which was immediately followed by a wince as pain flashed through his ribs. "As do you."
Serava rose, gathering his healing supplies. "I'll leave you two to talk. There's broth when you're ready." He moved toward the door, only pausing to place a hand on Kaelen's shoulder—a brief touch that seemed to say something unspoken between them.
When they were alone, tension clung to Lucien and Kaelen, heavy with unspoken blame.
"I'm sorry," Lucien broke the silence, the words strange on his lips. "For what my light did to you."
Kaelen drifted closer, claiming the chair Serava had vacated. "You did what came naturally to you. I would have done the same, if our positions had been reversed."
"Does it. hurt?" Lucien asked, gesturing vaguely at Kaelen's shape.
"Yes." The shadow demon's reply was flat, with no self-pity. "Parts of me might never be entirely okay."
Shame curled in Lucien's belly, but along with it seared a determination. "I can't say I mind having tried to resist."
"I wouldn't exactly expect you to." Kaelen's figure rippled, shadows undulating. "But next time try thinking through to the end and who is going to suffer from what you've done."
Lucien's hands clenched in the bed linens. "I didn't volunteer to be brought here. I didn't volunteer to be caught up in whatever game Vaeloth is playing."
"None of us volunteered for our fates," Kaelen replied, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "Not even the Demon King."
Before Lucien could make sense of this strange statement, exhaustion swamped him in a wave. His sight faded, the room blurring.
"Rest," Kaelen breathed, rising. "Heal. You'll need your strength."
Lucien wanted to protest, to demand answers to the questions now jostling in his head, but darkness engulfed him before he could form the words.
Dreams came swiftly, vivid and warped. He was once more in the temple, on his knees before the altar as the High Priestess prepared him for sacrifice. Her fingers traced holy patterns on his skin with anointing oil, her touch unfeeling and cold.
"You will save us all," she said, words she had said before echoing through the great room.
But when she reached for his forehead, her hands moved—longer, claw-tipped. Lucien gazed up in terror at Vaeloth's face where the Priestess's had been, his ember eyes blazing with victory.
"You will be ours all," the Demon King's voice boomed, his touch burning where it came into contact with Lucien's skin.
The vision changed, temple walls bleeding into the Chamber of Sin. The sigil beneath him pulsed with hungry light, reaching up to encircle him. Lucien tried to call forth his powers, but his light emitted tainted, streaked with red filaments that encircled him like loving arms.
"Your god's fire feels good, doesn't it?" Vaeloth drew in his ear, his presence encircling Lucien behind. "Like forgiveness."
Lucien woke up with a throttled gasp, covered in sweat and shivering. The room was dark now, only illuminated by one candle that cast long shadows around the walls. He was by himself, at least so he thought, but in this hell of demons one could never really be certain.
He pulled himself up, wincing as his body protested. The sigil marks had dimmed somewhat, no longer radiating but still visible as thin red welts beneath his skin. On a bedside table, he found the promised broth, now long cool, and fresh clothes folded atop it.
Struggling, Lucien rose and dressed, the act itself causing him to gasp. The attire was similar to what Vaeloth had given him before—luxurious burgundy fabric with intricate gold embroidery. They had fit him perfectly, the sleeves ending at his elbows, the collar revealing his collarbone.
As he fastened the last clasp above his shoulder, Lucien felt something hard against his ribs from inside the garment. Frowning, he felt about, his fingers discovering a hidden pocket sewn into the lining.
Inside was a dagger—small but deadly, its edge glinting in the candlelight. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, unadorned but clearly well-crafted. No note, no letter telling him why it was there.
Lucien looked at the dagger, spinning it in his palms. A way out? Of defense? Or perhaps.something else.
A test, his mind supplied. Serava's test?
He put the dagger back into its hidden sheath, his mind whirling with possibilities. For the first time since he came to this world of darkness, Lucien had a glimmer of something perilously close to hope.
END OF CHAPTER 6