Holding his hand, I sat by his side, watching his chest struggle to rise and fall until only the faint, ragged breathing of Lucien shattered the stillness of the room. His skin looked almost see-through in the low light; his body unmoving on the bed. Hours had passed since the rite finished, and he remained asleep.
I brushed away a tear, my heart heavy with fear. Across the room, the shaman stood watching Lucien, his face blank. I couldn't tell if he was hopeful or braced for the worst.
"Can we do anything else?" I asked softly.
The shaman looked at me grimly. "The ritual has drained him greatly. His body is struggling, but the outcome is unclear. The ancient prophecy..." His voice fell off, getting even weaker.
I felt fear twist in my stomach. "What about the prophecy?"
The shaman paused, then spoke carefully. "There's an old prophecy linked to Lucien's lineage. It says only one can survive: the alpha or his blood."
