A scream echoed from the village the next day. Elena and Lucian rode down to find the streets in chaos. A man lay in the square, pale and lifeless, two wounds at his throat.
"The Ancestor," a villager cried. "He walks again!"
Lucian's jaw tightened. "He's growing stronger. Feeding."
Elena knelt by the body, her stomach twisting. She could smell it—the blood, faint but sharp, stirring something inside her. Her fangs ached though she did not know she had them.
Lucian pulled her back, his voice fierce. "Do not let it touch you. Do not let him awaken that hunger in you."
But as they returned to the mansion, Elena could not stop thinking of the taste of blood. She hated herself for it, but the truth was clear:
The Ancestor's hunger was becoming her own.
Days passed in tension. Elena barely spoke, torn between fear and desire. Lucian watched her closely, protecting her even from herself.
One evening, he found her on the balcony, staring at the moon. "You're slipping away," he said softly.
Elena's eyes filled with tears. "I don't know who I am anymore. His voice… it feels like it's part of me."
Lucian stepped closer, his hand brushing hers. "Then let me remind you who you are."
She turned to him, trembling. His eyes glowed gold, fierce but tender. Slowly, he leaned closer.
Their lips met, soft and desperate. The kiss was warm, human, alive the opposite of Darius's fire. It was fragile, but it was real.
When they parted, Elena's heart ached. Two voices battled within her: the pull of Darius, eternal and dark, and the love of Lucian, fleeting but true.
And she knew the battle had only just begun.