In the void, Pryce had a revelation.
He'd been thinking about love—real love, not the possessive obsession he'd felt before. And he realized something:
He'd never actually loved Elara.
He'd loved the idea of her. The validation she provided. The way she made him feel.
But love wasn't about possession. Wasn't about owning someone or controlling them or ensuring they could never leave.
Love was what Rhys had with Liam. Choosing each other freely. Supporting without smothering. Being together because they wanted to be, not because they were trapped.
"I never knew what love was," Pryce said to the void. "I thought it was the desperate need to possess someone. The fear of losing them. The jealousy that consumed me when others got close."
He thought about Elara's face. The real Elara, not his idealized version.
"She was kind. Gentle. She loved flowers and children and old people. She laughed easily and cried easily and felt everything so deeply." His voice cracked. "And I destroyed all that light because I couldn't handle my own darkness."
For the first time, Pryce truly mourned her.
Not as the woman who'd betrayed him. Not as the soul he'd cursed to possess eternally.
But as the human being who'd been destroyed by his inability to trust, to believe, to let himself be loved.
"I'm sorry, Elara," he whispered. "Not to your soul. Not to Rhys. But to you. The girl who loved me when I didn't deserve it. The girl who died in a dungeon because I was too broken to see the truth."
His tears—ghostly, impossible—fell into the void.
And somewhere, in some cosmic accounting, a tiny bit of the debt began to be paid.