Lucien sat upright in his bed, his breath ragged and cold against the darkness. The crow perched upon the windowsill did not waver. Its eyes glowed like embers in a dying hearth, unblinking, as though it were scrutinising his very soul. For a moment, he believed the creature would vanish into some unseen ether, a mere figment conjured by the fevered remains of his dream. Yet it remained—still as a carved idol—its gaze laden with a silent accusation.
He rose slowly, mindful not to wake Yuva, whose breathing was measured and oblivious, as though she inhabited another world altogether. The boards beneath his feet creaked in protest as he approached the window. The crow tilted its head, feathers ruffling in an unseen draft. When his hand reached for the latch, the creature gave a low, throaty croak and launched itself into the night. The darkness swallowed it so utterly that Lucien wondered if it had ever truly been there.
His pulse still unsteady, he looked back to the bed. Yuva remained unmoving, her face serene in slumber. Yet there was something in the slackness of her features that unsettled him—a suggestion of absence, as if her soul had not fully returned with her body. The thought chilled him to the marrow.
Unable to endure the confines of the chamber, Lucien dressed and stepped outside. The hour before dawn was a liminal time, when the world seemed neither alive nor dead. A waning mist clung to the ground, curling around the stones of the path like pale, searching fingers. No lanterns glimmered behind shuttered windows; no voices rose to greet the morning. Even the cocks had not yet found the courage to crow.
He walked with deliberate steps toward the edge of the village, where the chapel ruins waited. The dream had shown him the place in dreadful clarity—the rotting beams, the broken altar, and the shrouded figure standing watch over Yuva's lifeless form. Though he had not set foot within the chapel since the night of the pact, he knew he must return. Some tether drew him there, as inexorable as the pull of the grave.
When he arrived, the hush was so complete it seemed the earth itself held its breath. What remained of the chapel's doorway loomed before him like the mouth of some ancient beast, prepared to swallow him whole. He paused, his hand hovering over the weathered lintel, and for an instant he felt a presence brush against his thoughts—a cool, appraising consciousness that receded before he could grasp it.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp stone and decaying wood. Shards of stained glass littered the floor, catching the earliest rays of dawn in feeble glimmers. He crossed the threshold, each step sounding louder than the last. His gaze fell upon the altar, where the dream had placed Yuva's body. He almost expected to find her there, waiting, her eyes open but empty.
Instead, there was only a scattering of crimson feathers. He bent to touch them, his gloved fingers trembling. The moment they brushed the cold surface, a vision erupted behind his eyes:
He saw himself kneeling, hands clasped before the altar. His voice—thin and desperate—rose in a plea he scarcely recognised as his own. The figure that towered above him was neither fully man nor beast, its features shifting like smoke. When it spoke, its words were not sound but sensation—an oily whisper that seeped into his marrow, promising salvation at a price no mortal should dare to pay.
The vision broke like a wave upon rock, leaving him gasping, his heart beating a frantic rhythm. He staggered back from the altar, the feathers falling from his hand. The air in the ruined chapel felt colder now, infused with a malice he could not deny. He backed through the doorway, unable to tear his gaze from the dark interior, certain that if he turned his back, some unseen hand would seize him.
At last, when the first pale glow of dawn had begun to reclaim the village from the shadows, he turned toward home. The walk back seemed longer than before, every footstep weighted with dread. As he passed the dwellings of his neighbours, he glimpsed figures behind curtains, peering out with suspicion and something akin to fear. He knew what they must think—that he had returned with something unholy, some darkness that did not belong among the living.
When he reached his doorstep, he saw Yuva standing there, barefoot on the threshold. She wore her nightdress as though she had never left the bed, her hair spilling loose about her shoulders. Her eyes were open, fixed on the road he had walked, yet they did not truly see him. Her lips moved in a silent litany, and though he strained to hear, no sound emerged.
"Yuva," he called softly, afraid that to speak too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thread still tethered her to the waking world. She did not react. Only when he climbed the steps and laid a hand upon her shoulder did she blink and lift her gaze to meet his. For an instant, he glimpsed recognition—or the memory of it—but it was gone as swiftly as it had come.
As he guided her back into the house, Lucien felt the last vestiges of the night's cold settling into his bones. Whatever bargain he had struck, its price was not yet paid. And he feared the day was coming when the shadows would return to claim what they were owed.