And then—her voice.
"Yoouu..."
It was not sharp. It was not commanding. It was gentle—terribly, achingly gentle.
He stiffened. The word carried warmth like a balm pressed against fresh burns, and he hated it.
Hated how it slid beneath his armor, past the rage, past the carefully layered scorn, and threatened to remind him that he was still human enough to be touched.
She stood there in her veil and gown, white hair cascading like a fall of starlight. Crystal-blue eyes searched his face, and for a moment he almost turned away before she could see too much.
But she stepped closer. Her hand—slender, pale, trembling with the force of compassion—rose and touched his arm.
"You should not be alone in this state," she whispered. "You’re hurt. Please... let me help."
Her kindness struck harder than Lilith’s torment. He did not want her pity. He did not want her to carve a path toward him, to stitch herself into his story.
He had sworn—sworn—to stay away from the plot, from the web he had once read and now found himself living.
He would not become entangled with the future saintess. He would not dance upon the rails of prophecy.
His lips twisted. "Stay away from me."
Her hand recoiled slightly, but her eyes did not falter. They held a kind of light he despised—steadfast, naïve, believing.
"But you’re in pain. I can see it." Her voice was quiet, nearly lost beneath the distant swell of music from the hall. "Tell me... what is it that’s tearing at you?"
His throat locked. The truth hovered, unthinkable: something bound within him, whispering, demanding, scarring his every breath.
He should have laughed in her face. He should have mocked her innocence until she turned away in disgust.
But instead he felt the echo of her words stir something deep—some childlike yearning for release.
And that terrified him.
He stepped back, jaw tightening. "You don’t understand. You can’t understand. What I carry—" His voice cracked, and he forced it sharper, crueler. "—is mine. Not yours to fix. Not yours to pity."
But she followed, her hand darting forward again, catching his wrist this time. Her fingers were warm, alive, insistent.
"I can purge it. Whatever evil has sunk its claws into you—I can drive it out." Her breath trembled, and yet her conviction blazed. "This is my gift. My calling. Let me help you, oh lamb of god."
His eyes narrowed, voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "Do you even know what you’re offering? Do you know what happens when you reach into the dark with bare hands? You don’t pull someone out. The dark pulls you in. I will pull you in."
Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "Then let it pull me in. Better me than you..."she said with softness.
His laugh came sharp, hollow. "Don’t say that again. You think I want a martyr chained to me? You think I want your holy little hands bleeding because of me? You’d break. And I... I don’t want to watch that."
She flinched at his words but did not let go. Her eyes glistened as she whispered, "...then you care, care about my wellbeing, someone who you don’t even know. I sense light in you...so I can heal you. Trust me."
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed them both. The torches cracked. The wind hissed.
And in that silence, he nearly wavered. Nearly.
Because he knew. He knew the saintess could potentially destroy Lilith’s hold. Knew it with a certainty that sickened him.
And yet...
He needed Lilith. Needed her whispers, her chains, her brutal torment. She was not merely parasite—she was power. She was fire in his blood, the seduction that made mortals bend and nobles break.
Without her, who would he be? A knight with a blade and nothing more. Disposable. Forgotten.
Worse still, without her he feared he would lose the only thread binding him to the pleasures he craved.
He wanted women. Wanted flesh. Wanted conquest and sin. And if Lilith was torn out, if the hunger bled away—would they leave him? Would they find him hollow, unworthy, abandoned like a husk?
No. He would not gamble that. Not for her kindness. Not for her holy light.
He wrenched his hand free. "Don’t touch me."
The force of it startled her. Her fingers lingered, reaching in the air where he had been, and her lips parted as though to plead further.
"Why do you push me away, when you know you need me..you need my healing..?" she asked softly, voice breaking.
He stopped just long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. His golden eyes burned. "Because I’d rather be damned on my own terms... than saved on yours and your so called god."
Then he turned, cloak brushing against the stone floor as he strode back toward the hall.
"Wait—" she called, voice laced with something more than pity now—something like desperation. "You don’t have to carry it alone!"
But he did not stop. Not even when her voice cracked. Not even when he felt her eyes burning into his back.
He vanished into the banquet’s glow
Meanwhile, Aiden had already ascended. The upper gallery arched above the hall, its balustrade granting him a vantage over the sea of nobles below.
Chandeliers swayed slightly in the draft, scattering golden light upon dancers twirling to violins and harps. Perfume clung to the air, cloying sweet. Laughter rang, polished and hollow, bouncing off the vaulted stone.
Aiden stood apart, shadows cloaking him, and from here he could see all.
The saintess moved below, her veil trailing like mist as she searched, unknowing that he was already beyond her reach.
He exhaled slowly, gaze sliding away. He would not allow her threads to bind him.
Instead, his eyes fell upon the others—the nobles weaving their games. The Baron sat hunched in the corner, grief eating him alive, his wife gone to brighter company.
And there she was—Lady Shina, radiant, laughing too brightly, surrounded by the wives of three barons and the Earl of Wessex’s lady. Their voices carried faintly, but his ears, sharpened by more than human skill, caught his name upon their lips. Shina’s lips most of all.
"...they say he carries himself like one of us already."
"...those eyes—unnatural, dangerous, beautiful..."
"...Sir Aiden. A knight now. Imagine what doors that opens."
Heat stirred in his chest, though he masked it. They spoke of him. Already, whispers wound their way through silk and wine, threading his name into the tapestry of rumor.
But then, as if a shadow had stepped into the room, the laughter faltered. Catherine entered, her mere presence curdling mirth into silence.
The women’s chatter died on their tongues, their gazes lowering, cowed by the authority she bore.
Aiden’s eyes narrowed. Power did not always roar. Sometimes it suffocated.
He shifted slightly—only to feel a hand press upon his back.
His body tensed, instinct clawing, but he turned—and found himself staring into the pale, gleaming eyes of the bald duke.
The duke smiled, though it was no smile at all. His lips parted, voice low, probing, not even cloaked.
"Tell me, young knight. Why is it you are not... tainted?"