The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle when Elias Cross staggered away from the ruined cathedral. His whole body ached—from the spear wound in his side and the raw power of the bond stamped onto his palm. Celestia, her silver hair plastered with rain, kept vigil over the collapsed doorway.
"Go," she urged quietly, voice firm beneath the patter of water. "Check on your sister. I will cover our trail."
Elias nodded, every nerve still trembling. He slipped through the misty streets toward home on Hawthorne Lane, clutching his coat tight around his wounds—and around the secret now beating in his veins.
The front door clicked softly behind him. Inside, the house was dark and silent. His mother's bedroom door was closed, muffling her gentle breathing. Down the hall, a dim light glowed under Sophie's door.
He paused there, kneeling to look through the crack. Sophie lay curled beneath her pink quilt, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her lashes fluttered in sleep; her face was peaceful and untroubled.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and whispered, "I'm okay, Sophie."
For a moment, he let himself believe it. The steam from his breath fogged the windowpane as he rose, toes cold on the wooden floor.
But Celestia's words echoed in his mind: "Others will come."
A soft hum of power made him spin around. In the hallway stood Celestia—wings half‑folded, spear crackling with latent energy.
"Healing magic fades fast," she said. "We must move."
Before he could protest, she reached for his arm with surprising strength. Her touch sent a shock through his wound—reminding him that safety at home was illusion.
"I'm sorry," he managed. She offered no apology in return—only a determined nod—and guided him back into the rain.
They ran through deserted lanes until the Blackthorn Library's stone façade rose before them. Celestia pressed a hidden latch beside a carved gargoyle. A section of wall swung open, revealing a narrow stair.
"This way," she whispered.
Down below, the air was cold and musty. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long shadows across a low chamber. Rune‑carved pillars ringed a central tomb — the Crypt of Whispered Echoes.
"This place was built by exiled monks," Celestia explained, voice echoing off stone. "Ley lines converge here. Your bond's energy will hide beneath them—at least for a little while."
Elias set his lantern on the floor. The sigil on his palm glowed softly, as if curious about its new home.
Celestia knelt, touching his wrist. "Feeling my signature yet?"
He closed his eyes and concentrated, recalling the surge of power during their first bond. A faint hum pulsed beneath his skin.
"Good. Now hide it." She drew a slow breath and her wings folded so tightly they vanished into her back. Her aura dimmed until only the faintest glow remained.
He tried the same: inhale… exhale… think of a single point of darkness. For a moment, the sigil winked out. Then—bright again.
"Nearly there," she said kindly. "It takes practice. Breathe. Empty your mind of fear."
He nodded, swallowing back panic. Together they repeated the exercise until his palm stayed dark for long, steady beats.
They sat in silence. Torches crackled; distant water dripped somewhere deep in the earth.
"Hunters from the Dominion may return," Celestia said at last. "Shurial and her human partner, Tobias, tracked us tonight. They serve a faction that believes only order can save humanity. They will not stop."
Elias clenched his jaw. "Then we fight back."
She studied him, silver eyes reflecting torchlight. "First we learn. Then we strike. You're not alone in this war—there are others who question its rules. We will find them."
He let her words settle, feeling the weight of his promise—to protect Sophie, to stand by Celestia, and to survive the war that had already claimed so much.
Above them, rainwater seeped through the stone and dripped into the darkness. Below them, echoes whispered of secrets long buried.
And in that hidden crypt, two souls bound by blood and lightning prepared for a war that would shape the fate of heaven—and earth.