Lucien never forgot the way the book sounded when it saved Jonas.
It wasn't like before—when it whispered with secrets or hummed in riddles. That night, it screamed.
Not in fear. In rage.
Still, she begged. She gave it blood. She gave it herself.
And it gave her Jonas back.
But from that moment on, the book changed.
Where once it pulsed with eerie life, now it lay cold and quiet. When she asked questions, it offered nothing. And on rare days it did speak, it was never kind.
"You waste me."
"I am not your mercy."
"You think you're the master?"
Short. Bitter. Distant.
And then, silence.
Weeks passed. Lucien kept it with her anyway—out of duty, guilt, fear. Maybe hope. But the connection was gone.
Until one quiet morning, when everything felt wrong, the book opened on its own.
A gust of wind blew through the old chapel. Jonas snored quietly in the corner, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, muttering something about stolen apples in his sleep.
The page turned.
No symbols. No message.
Just one word, scratched deep in ink:
Jonas.
Lucien stared at it. Her chest tightened.
Not a warning. Not a curse. Just… him.
The last time the book spoke to her, it gave her his name. And then, silence again.
No matter how many times she opened it afterward—no matter what she offered—it never spoke to her again.
So one night, without saying anything, she walked over and placed the book in Jonas's hands.
He blinked awake. "What's this?"
"It's tired of me," she said quietly.
"Maybe it wants you."
He looked at the book, then at her. "Is this the part where I become the Chosen One and grow a creepy forehead eye?"
Lucien didn't laugh. Not this time.
"Just hold onto it. Don't open it unless it speaks to you first."
Jonas held it like it might explode. "What if it starts growling?"
"Then you're holding it right."
Jonas didn't argue when she gave him the book.
Maybe he felt it too—the shift, the weight, the strange way the book didn't feel cold in his hands. He just sat with it in his lap, blinking slowly like sleep was pulling at the edges of his eyes.
"I don't even read, you know," he mumbled. "You're giving a magical book to a semi-literate legend."
Lucien almost smiled.
"It doesn't need you to read it," she said. "It just needs someone who listens when it doesn't speak."
Jonas grinned lazily. "Deep. Kinda spooky. Ten outta ten delivery."
And just like that, he drifted off. The book resting in his hands like it belonged there all along.
The wind outside quieted. No howling. No creaks in the wood. No whispers in the dark.
For the first time in weeks, the silence didn't feel threatening.
It felt… like a sign.
Lucien stood by the broken window, watching the trees sway under the moonlight. Her shadow stretched behind her, long and tired.
It's time.
But she couldn't leave yet. Not like this.
Not without talking to him.
She glanced back. Jonas snored lightly, his arms curled around the book like a child clutching a stuffed toy. So unbothered. So unaware.
"You're not ready," she whispered. "But maybe that's the point."
She sat beside him again, quietly, the way she did the night they met.
"I didn't plan to stay this long. But you made it hard to leave. You always do."
She looked at the book.
"If it's choosing you now… take care of it. Or maybe let it take care of you."
Her hand brushed his shoulder gently.
"When you wake up, I'll be gone. But this time, not forever."
Lucien stood, grabbed her coat, and stepped toward the door.
Before she left, she whispered one last thing.
"Don't let it change who you are, Jonas. You're already more than enough."
And with that, she vanished into the night, leaving behind the book, the silence, and the only person who'd ever made the darkness feel a little less heavy.
Jonas woke up to an all-too-familiar vibe:
Empty.
Quiet.
Cold.
Lucien was gone.
He stared at the book still resting in his arms, then let out a groggy sigh.
"Wow. She really left me with the magical equivalent of emotional baggage."
He rubbed his face, sat up, and added—
"This is why I don't date witches. You wake up cuddling cursed literature and abandonment issues."
Then, louder, to the empty room:
"Thanks, Lucien! Love the parting gift! Super thoughtful! I'll just raise this demonic encyclopedia like it's our weird, evil baby!"
He held the book up like Simba and announced:
"Behold! Jonas the Book Dad! Father of ancient evil and bedtime trauma!"
He started pacing like a full-blown stand-up act on a mental breakdown tour:
"So what now? Do I get powers? A cursed tattoo? Sudden knowledge of forbidden languages? Or do I just explode next Tuesday?!"
He flipped the book open like a game show host:
"Alright, spooky tome. Let's make a deal. I'll carry you, feed you emotional damage, and in return, you don't eat my soul."
Then, in his most dramatic wizard voice, he raised a hand and chanted:
"Open Sesame, ya dusty jerk."
Nothing.
He dropped his arm. Sighed.
"Figures. The one time I try a spell, and I get ghosted again."
He lowered his voice, leaned in like he was about to tell a secret:
"C'mon. Just say something. Roast me. Curse me. Blink. I dare you."
The book stirred.
Pages twitched. A cold breeze swept through the room.
And then it whispered—
Low.
Sharp.
Final.
"She left… because you're the only fool reckless enough to survive me."
Jonas froze.
Silence.
Then, eyes wide, he muttered:
"…Okay."
"Cool cool cool. So we're trauma-bonding early."