The air in the Vault was warm—too warm.
Amara's breath caught as she stepped toward the floating coffin. It wasn't wood or glass, but a shimmering obsidian that rippled like liquid. The golden orb above it pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat.
One step.
Two steps.
Then the voice spoke again—deep, velvety, and dangerously amused.
"You're not her… but you carry her blood."
The coffin cracked.
Amara froze.
From the split, pale fingers emerged. Then a wrist. Then a man—no, a creature—sat up, his eyes glowing gold with slitted pupils, his long black hair flowing like smoke around him.
He was beautiful. Terrifying. Bare-chested, marked with ancient runes that pulsed faintly under his skin.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
He smiled slowly, like he hadn't been awake in centuries and found her fascinating.
"You may call me Lucien. The Blackwell secret. The Vault's guardian. And your… bonded."
Bonded?
Behind her, the Vault door slammed shut.
Outside, alarms blared through the estate. But inside the Vault, time bent around them.
Lucien stood, barefoot on the golden floor, and stepped closer. "Your blood woke me. Your presence binds me. And now… your enemies are mine."
His fingers brushed her cheek, light as a feather, but Amara's body erupted in fire.
She stumbled back. "No! I didn't ask for this—"
"You didn't have to," Lucien said, voice like thunder cloaked in silk. "You carry her soul. The one who sealed me. My queen."
Amara's vision blurred.
Lucien's last whisper rang in her ears before darkness claimed her:
"We rise together, or we burn together"