Chapter 97: Years Returned in a Single Lick
{SOL}
I scoffed weakly, even as another cough rattled out of me.
I was not a man who trust easily—least of all trusting in strangers. And certainly not in werewolves. Unshifted, arcaneless ones at that. She’s so weak . . . desperate.
And yet...
Why had I believed her?
Who was really the desperate one here?
It was true that she possessed an abnormally fast healing ability. That much I had confirmed with my own eyes.
I had purchased her precisely because she recognized my sickness with a single touch—something even court physicians had failed to do.
Whether she could consciously manifest that healing as arcane magic was another matter entirely.
But desperation does strange things to reason.
At that moment, she had felt like my only hope.
And when I saw her hand split open under the shadow guard’s blade—only to knit itself back together with terrifying speed—I knew her abilities were no illusion.
That cut had not been an accident.
I had ordered it.
A calculated cruelty, meant to test the limits of her regeneration.
And she had exceeded every expectation.
The only question left was whether she could do more than heal herself.
Could she manifest her arcane first—properly, consciously—and heal me before I died?
It was a gamble.
A reckless one.
I let out a bitter chuckle, wiping the blood from my lips with the back of my hand.
It was not like me to place hope in a weak, unshifted she-wolf who could barely grasp the concept of arcane manifestation.
I glanced down at the dark smear staining my palm and sighed softly.
"I must truly be desperate," I murmured, "to trust that girl."
Another cough wracked me—longer this time, harsher. Black ichor sprayed across the floor again, joining the previous mess.
Shit.
My shadow guard.
They must have encountered vampires.
I hissed, clutching my chest as pain flared sharply beneath my ribs. Power hummed faintly in my veins, still tethered to the construct I had summoned earlier.
Maintaining it was draining me even now, like a leech latched onto my soul.
What was wrong with me?
No one had been able to answer that question for years.
They tried, at first.
Then they grew tired.
And finally, they gave up altogether.
I coughed again, harder, until my knees buckled and I collapsed onto the cold floor. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, and I lay there gasping, staring at the ornate ceiling as my vision blurred.
Augh... damn it.
I felt like I was dying.
I didn’t know why I had agreed to help that woman—why I had lent her my shadow guard knowing full well what it would cost me. The decision felt foreign now, as if someone else had made it in my stead.
Was she secretly a witch?
Did she possess some kind of hypnotic charm that compelled obedience?
In my haze, my gaze drifted to the floor beside me.
There was blood there.
Red.
Only a small splatter—likely from Iris, when the shadow guard had sliced her hand earlier.
There was no scent to it. No intoxicating pull like vampire bloodlust, no arcane resonance I could sense.
And yet...
At the mere sight of that red, something ugly and primal stirred within me.
Thirst.
Before I could stop myself, I dragged myself closer and pressed my tongue to the marble, licking up what little blood remained.
The realization struck me only after I had already done it.
How humiliating.
A lord of Evernight, reduced to scraping blood from the floor like an animal.
How desperate I must have been to cling to life.I had thought I’d already surrendered—quietly resigned myself to the slow, inevitable decay of my body. To wasting away without protest, without hope.
And yet...
When she touched me and knew that I was sick, something I believed long dead stirred again.
Hope.
And with it, the stubborn, dangerous will to live.
Shame burned through me just as darkness claimed my vision.
When I came to, I was still lying on the floor.
I groaned softly and pushed myself upright, frowning as I steadied my balance. My head throbbed faintly, but otherwise...
I blinked.
What time was it?
Had I lost consciousness again?
I expected the familiar aftermath—the crushing weakness, the sense that years of my life had been torn away, the lingering ache that followed every use of arcane.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, I felt... light.
Refreshed.
As though I had slept deeply for the first time in years.
As though time itself had been returned to me rather than stolen.
For a long moment, I simply stood there, breathing slowly, in disbelief.
This had never happened before.
Not once.
Every time I used my arcane, I paid for it dearly.
And now... nothing.
No pain. No suffocating heaviness. No creeping decay gnawing at my core.
It felt as if years of my lifespan had been restored in a single breath.
What happened?
I searched my memory, but everything after the illness had triggered was shrouded in darkness. No matter how hard I tried, I could not recall what had transpired while I was unconscious.
Frowning, I left the room and stepped into the hallway.
The aftermath of the earlier chaos was already being cleaned.
Servants moved quietly, efficiently, as if nothing unusual had occurred. The scent of blood and ozone had faded, replaced by polished stone and incense.
It was Sunday.
There was no academy today.
And yet—
"Is Iris safe?"
The words left my mouth before I realized I was speaking.
The maids paused, exchanging confused glances.
"My lord," one of them said carefully, "who is Lady Iris? Is she a guest last night?"
I opened my mouth to explain—the woman I had won the night, but caught myself.
I exhaled slowly and shook my head.
"Never mind."
Some answers were better sought personally.
I turned back toward my chambers, already reaching for my coat.
I would return to the academy to make sure that she was alive. I didn’t suffer for her to die in the end.
