The heavy oak doors of the Royal Suite didn't just close behind Gwen; they felt like the lid of a casket being nailed shut.
Gwen stood in the dimly lit corridor, her legs trembling so violently she had to lean against the cold stone wall for support. Her chest felt like a hollowed-out cavern. Inside, the embers of her Solar fire had been replaced by a jagged, frozen void.
"I have no memory of you being anything more than a variable in the mission, girl."
Lucien's voice, once a sanctuary of gravel and warmth, now echoed in her mind like a death sentence. He hadn't just forgotten their love; he had forgotten her humanity. To him, she was a broken piece of equipment from a laboratory—a ghost he didn't want haunting his halls.
"He's alive," she whispered to the shadows, her breath hitching. "That's what matters. He's breathing."
