The cottage felt smaller in the days that followed, as though the walls themselves were closing in with the weight of what Lucien had done. He found himself unable to sit still, pacing from room to room like a caged animal, while Yuva moved through their home with an ethereal grace that seemed to mock his torment.
"You're wearing a path in the floorboards," she said one morning, her voice carrying that strange, hollow quality that had become her constant companion. She sat by the window, threading wildflowers into garlands with fingers that never seemed to tire. "Come sit with me."
Lucien paused in his restless circuit, watching her work. The flowers—daisies and forget-me-nots—wilted the moment she touched them, their petals browning at the edges. Yet she continued her task with serene concentration, as though she could not see the decay spreading beneath her hands.
"I'm not good company just now," he said, his voice rough with sleepless nights.
"You're the only company I have," she replied, and there was something in her tone—a note of loneliness so profound it nearly broke his heart. "The others don't come anymore. Even the children run when they see me."
It was true. The village had begun to shun them both, though they could not say why. Conversations stopped when Lucien approached. Doors closed. Windows shuttered. The baker's wife no longer smiled; the grocer's son no longer waved. They all sensed it, the wrongness that clung to them like a shroud.
"Perhaps it's for the best," Lucien said, though the words tasted like ash.
Yuva looked up from her withered flowers, her eyes holding a clarity that struck him like a physical blow. "You blame yourself for Thomas Crawley."
The name hit him like a fist to the stomach. He had not spoken it aloud since that terrible evening, had not allowed himself to even think it. But here was Yuva, speaking of it as casually as she might mention the weather.
"How do you—"
"I know many things now," she said, returning to her garland. "I know the crow speaks to you. I know you carry a burden that grows heavier with each passing day. And I know that Thomas Crawley died so that I might live."
Lucien sank into the chair across from her, his hands shaking. "You remember?"
"Pieces. Fragments. Like looking at the world through broken glass." She held up the garland, studying the dead flowers with something approaching fondness. "I remember the fever taking me. I remember the cold, the darkness. And I remember something else—a voice calling me back from a place where voices should not reach."
"I couldn't let you go," he whispered.
"I know." She set down the garland and reached across the table to take his hand. Her fingers were cold, but they were real, solid, and for a moment he could almost believe that everything was as it should be. "But I also know what it cost you. What it continues to cost."
Before he could respond, the cottage door burst open with such violence that both of them started. Brother Marcus stood in the doorway, but he was not the composed monk Lucien remembered. His robes were torn and mud-stained, his face gaunt with exhaustion and something approaching madness. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his usually neat tonsure was grown out with wild, unkempt hair.
"Lucien!" he gasped, stumbling forward. "Thank the Ancients you're here. I've been searching—the village—dear God, what have you done?"
"Marcus," Lucien rose slowly, alarmed by his friend's appearance. "What's wrong? You look—"
"Thomas Crawley is dead," Marcus said, his voice cracking. "And not just dead—there's something wrong with his body. Something..." He shuddered. "The physician says his heart stopped, but there are no signs of disease. No injury. It's as though life simply... fled from him."
Yuva continued working on her garland, humming softly to herself. The sound was pleasant, almost melodic, but it made the hair on Lucien's arms stand on end.
"People die, Marcus," Lucien said carefully. "Even the young and strong—"
"Not like this." Marcus's eyes were wild now, darting between Lucien and Yuva. "I've seen the signs before, in the old texts. The accounts of those who made bargains with the darkness. Tell me, my friend—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me you haven't done something unspeakable."
The silence stretched between them like a chasm. Yuva's humming grew louder, more insistent, and the temperature in the cottage began to drop. Frost formed on the windows despite the warm afternoon sun.
"I saved her," Lucien said finally. "That's all that matters."
Marcus's face went white. "Oh, my dear friend. My dear, damned friend. Do you know what you've unleashed?"
"I know exactly what I've done," Lucien's voice was steady now, resolved. "And I would do it again."
"Would you?" Marcus pulled a small, leather-bound journal from his robes. "I've been researching, Lucien. Reading the old accounts. Do you know what happens to those who make pacts with entities of darkness ?"
At the mention of the name, Yuva's humming stopped abruptly. She looked up, her eyes reflecting no light at all.
"They become instruments of evil," Marcus continued, his voice rising with desperation. "They are forced to commit acts of unspeakable horror, one after another, until their souls are so corrupted that they lose all semblance of humanity. And in the end—in the end, they become the very darkness they sought to appease."
"Stop," Lucien said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"The woman you love—she's not Yuva anymore. She's a puppet, animated by malevolent forces. And you—you're becoming something monstrous, one choice at a time." Marcus stepped closer, his eyes blazing with fanatic intensity. "But it's not too late. The old texts speak of ways to break such compacts. Rituals of purification. Sacred bindings that can—"
His words were cut off as an invisible force slammed him against the wall. The cottage shook with the impact, and dust rained from the rafters. Marcus struggled against the unseen grip, his feet dangling inches from the floor.
"You talk too much, holy man," Yuva said, her voice layered with harmonics that seemed to come from the very air around them. "Perhaps you should learn the value of silence."
"Yuva, no!" Lucien lunged forward, but she raised her hand and he found himself frozen, trapped within his own body like a prisoner in flesh.
"She's not your beloved," Marcus gasped, his face turning purple. "She's a demon wearing her skin. Can't you see—"
"I see a man who speaks of things he doesn't understand," Yuva replied, tilting her head at an angle that made Lucien's stomach turn. "Shall I show you what understanding looks like?"
Marcus's eyes began to bulge, and a thin line of blood trickled from his nose. But just as consciousness seemed about to leave him, Yuva's expression shifted. The terrible presence that had filled the cottage receded, and Marcus dropped to the floor, gasping.
"I'm sorry," Yuva said, her voice small and confused. "I don't know what—I didn't mean—" She looked at her hands as though they belonged to someone else. "There's something wrong with me, isn't there?"
The spell that had held Lucien broke, and he rushed to her side. She collapsed against him, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"Help me," she whispered. "Please, Lucien. I can feel it inside me, growing stronger every day. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't recognize the face looking back."
Marcus struggled to his feet, his throat bearing dark bruises. When he spoke, his voice was a ruined whisper. "The compact cannot be broken by conventional means. But there is another way—a way that would require great sacrifice from both of you."
"What way?" Lucien asked, though he dreaded the answer.
"The binding can be transferred," Marcus said, pulling himself upright with the help of the wall. "From the dead to the living. But it would mean—"
"It would mean Yuva would truly die," Lucien finished. "And I would take her place in whatever hell awaits."
"Yes." Marcus's eyes were filled with something that might have been compassion. "The choice is yours, my friend. Continue as you are, becoming more monstrous with each passing day, or make the ultimate sacrifice to free the woman you love."
Lucien held Yuva closer, feeling the supernatural cold that radiated from her skin. In the distance, he could hear the crow calling—a harsh, mocking sound that seemed to echo from every direction at once.
"The second condition will come soon," Marcus whispered. "And then the third. And the fourth. Each one will demand more of you, corrupt you further, until there's nothing left of the man you once were."
"How long do I have?" Lucien asked.
"I don't know. The texts are unclear. But I suspect—" Marcus paused, his eyes widening with sudden understanding. "The crow. It comes to you every day at sunset, doesn't it?"
Lucien nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Then you have until tomorrow's sunset to decide. After that, the second condition will be revealed, and the choice will be taken from you forever."
As if summoned by his words, the cottage grew dark despite the afternoon sun. The familiar tap-tap-tap echoed from the window, and Lucien felt the weight of those crimson eyes upon him once more.
Marcus scrambled backward, his face pale with terror as he saw the crimson eyes.
The voice that came was not sound but sensation, cold fingers of thought wrapping around Lucien's mind like chains.
You chose well yesterday, mortal. Thomas Crawley's soul screamed beautifully as it descended into the void.
Lucien's knees buckled. He felt Yuva's hand slip from his as the cottage around them began to waver, reality bending at the edges.
Today brings fresh hunger. The compact demands another offering.
"No," Lucien whispered, but his voice was lost in the growing darkness.
Choose quickly. The sun dies, and with it, someone in this village must follow. Perhaps the seamstress who gossips about your beloved? Or the miller's son who throws stones at stray cats?
Images flooded his mind—faces twisted with fear, hearts stopping mid-beat, bodies collapsing in the street. The seamstress at her loom, needle falling from lifeless fingers. The miller's son, cruel laughter cut short by sudden death.
Or shall we take the holy man who seeks to thwart our arrangement?
Marcus pressed himself against the wall, his cross clutched to his chest. "Don't listen to it, Lucien. Break the cycle. Choose death over damnation."
But Lucien was already calculating, already weighing lives like coins. The seamstress was a gossip, yes, but she also tended to the sick. The miller's son was cruel to animals, but he was barely fourteen. And Marcus—Marcus was trying to save them all.
The sun touches the horizon. Choose, or I choose for you.
"The... the tax collector," Lucien gasped, the words scraping from his throat like broken glass. "Edmund Pierce."
A man who had taken the last coins from starving families. Who had evicted widows from their homes. Who had grown fat on others' misery.
Excellent. His greed has always been delicious.
Somewhere in the village, another heart stopped beating. Another soul was claimed by the void. And Lucien—Lucien was a murderer twice over.
The darkness receded, leaving them in the cottage's dim light. Marcus stared at him with horror and pity.
"Two days," Marcus whispered. "Two souls damned. How many more before you realize what you've become?"
Lucien collapsed into his chair, hands shaking. Outside, he could hear the evening birds beginning their songs, celebrating another sunset. The sound made him want to weep.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "I'll make the choice you spoke of. I'll transfer the binding to myself."
Yuva looked at him with eyes that held both love and terrible understanding. "And I'll finally be free to die."
The crow watched from the window, its crimson eyes holding neither judgement nor mercy. And as the last light of day faded from the sky, Lucien could have sworn he saw something else in that ancient, malevolent gaze—something that chilled him more than all the supernatural horrors he had witnessed.
The creature was smiling.
Not with its beak, for corvids cannot smile as men do. But in the tilt of its head, in the slow, satisfied way it preened its midnight feathers, in the almost musical quality of its departing caw—there was unmistakable pleasure. The satisfaction of a predator that had successfully lured its prey deeper into the trap.
Only patience, indeed. And perhaps, just perhaps, a touch of cruel amusement at how willingly Lucien danced to its master's tune.