Reva grabbed Luther's arm, her voice shaking. "No! I'll do anything you ask! I'll marry Lucas—just like you wanted. I'll do whatever you say, just don't kill him!"

Her desperation hung in the silence. Even the guards who stood nearby dared not move.

Luther looked down at her, eyes still burning red. His aura flared for a moment, thick enough to suffocate, then dimmed.

"…Fine," he said finally, his tone laced with disdain. "Throw him out. Far beyond my borders. Let him rot where he belongs."

Reva's head shot up. "He's injured!" she pleaded. "He's human, he won't survive the night. Please… let him stay until he recovers. I'll lock him away myself if that's what you want, but don't send him out like this."

Luther stared at her for a long, silent moment. The sight of her kneeling, begging for a mortal, made something twist in his chest—not pity, not remorse, just deeper revulsion.

He leaned close enough for her to feel his breath. "You're asking me to keep a trespassing human under my roof?" he said softly. "You've truly fallen, Eleanor. All this power, all this blood, wasted on you."

He straightened, adjusting his collar with surgical calm. "Do what you want. But when he wakes, he leaves. If I see him again, I'll crush his spine myself."

He turned and walked away, muttering under his breath—"Pathetic… even her mother would have chosen death over disgrace."

The guards followed him hesitantly, afraid to breathe too loudly in his presence. The room fell silent once more, save for the faint hum of the moonlight bleeding through the shattered glass.

Reva stayed where she was, trembling.

She lowered her gaze to Xavier, his face pale, his breathing shallow. She brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and whispered, her voice breaking, "Why did you come here? How did you even find this place…?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pulled him into her arms, cradling him close as if she could shield him from her father's wrath.

Outside, the red moon finally reached its full color, bathing the castle in crimson light—

and somewhere deep within its reflection, something ancient stirred awake.

Luther's boots echoed sharply against the cracked marble as he strode through the wreckage of his own hall. The shattered chandeliers still dripped molten glass, and the crimson moonlight pouring through the broken ceiling painted everything like an open wound. Guards and servants hurried to clear debris as he passed, heads bowed so low they nearly kissed the floor. None dared to meet his eyes.

"Begin repairs immediately," Luther said without raising his voice—but the weight behind it was enough to make even the higher lords flinch. "The eastern pillars first, then the barrier conduits. I want the defense core recalibrated before dawn."

"Y–Yes, my lord!" they echoed in unison.

He didn't wait for acknowledgment. He kept walking—past the courtyard, through the long bridge that linked the east tower to the heart of the fortress. Below him, the dark sea churned violently, waves painted red by the moon above. The entire castle sat in eerie silence now, save for the rhythmic groan of ancient stone settling back into place.

Luther pushed open the towering doors of the throne room. The light from the hall behind him spilled in—red, dim, trembling—and stretched across the polished obsidian floor.

The throne room was wide, cold, and deathly quiet. And at its end stood a statue—a woman carved from marble so pure it seemed alive, frozen mid-turn, her hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes fixed on eternity.

Luther stopped in front of her. For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides. Then, finally, he spoke.

"…Selene."

The name left his lips like a prayer.

He closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time that night. "You always told me I was too cruel," he said quietly. "That someday, my temper would ruin everything I built."

He exhaled, steadying himself. "You'd be proud, then. I didn't kill him because Eleanor begged me not to." His tone darkened. "I spared him because he didn't crawl. He didn't grovel. He fought. Against me. A human."

He paced slowly around the statue, looking up at her face. "He has no discipline, no experience. His attacks were wild, desperate—but there was something in them. Guts. The kind I haven't seen in centuries."

Luther's jaw tightened. "A mortal who dared to raise his blade against me in my own castle. Against Luther Von Stein. If that doesn't earn death, I don't know what does… and yet—"

He stopped, his gaze sharpening. "If he'd been born vampire, he might've been something extraordinary. He fought like an animal, but he felt no fear. Lower-ranked vampires would die against him. Even the mid-ranks would bleed. And that, from a human? It's—"

He scoffed. "—a disgrace. A reminder that even the lowest creatures can claw their way up through filth and call it strength."

He turned back to the statue, his voice trembling—not from weakness, but fury. "And Eleanor… my daughter. My blood. She gave herself to that filth. She let that parasite stain her purity, her lineage. You see what's become of her, Selene? This is what softness leads to."

His hands tightened on the railing of the dais, cracking the iron beneath his grip. "She inherited your compassion and my pride, and it's tearing her apart. You'd have hated to see her beg for a human's life. I certainly did."

The air trembled as his aura leaked through his restraint. His eyes lifted toward the open ceiling. The red moon stared back, round and vast, bleeding its color into the world.

For a moment, his expression changed—softened, almost haunted.

"I remember this light," he murmured. "That night when the moon burned red like this… we were still proud. When you were still there. My wife… my soulmate… my… queen."

His eyes turned soft as though a tear would almost spill out. Almost. But the softness in his eyes were immediately replaced with fury as he recalled the night of the tragedy.

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