It was just past midnight when Amara slipped out onto the balcony, the night air cool against her skin.
The dream had been different this time.
It wasn't about dying.
It was about loving him.
A different Lucian. A different her. The world around them crumbled — wars, revolutions, torches in the dark — but he never let go of her hand.
Until someone did.
And it always ended in her blood.
Amara leaned against the cold railing and whispered into the dark, "What are you to me?"
"You shouldn't be asking that."
She gasped and turned sharply.
Lucian stood just behind her, arms folded, face carved from ice. No sound, no warning. Just there.
"How did you get up here?" she demanded.
"Your house isn't as secure as Nico thinks."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's a threat?"
Lucian stepped forward, his voice low, flat. "It's a warning."
Amara's heart thundered. "Why do you keep doing this? Hot and cold. Caring and cruel. Why do you even bother coming here?"
"I told you to stay away from me," he said sharply. "You should have listened."
"But you're the one who keeps coming back," she snapped. "You're the one haunting me."
Lucian's jaw tightened. He looked away.
"Tell me the truth," she said, stepping closer. "What am I to you?"
He hesitated.
Then said coldly, "A mistake."
The word hit like a slap.
Amara took a shaky breath, blinking back the sting. "Then leave. For good."
Lucian hesitated.
Then vanished into the shadows.
Downstairs, Nico stood in the foyer.
He'd heard voices. He was sure of it.
He touched the dagger hidden beneath his jacket — the one passed down through generations. A cursed blade. The only thing that could kill an immortal.
His hand trembled.
He didn't want to do this.
He didn't want her to fall in love with Lucian again.
Because if she did…
He would have to fulfill his purpose.
And this time, Nico wasn't sure he could.
The next morning, Isla stood outside Amara's door with a bag of her favorite pastries and a fake smile plastered on her face.
Amara opened the door, eyes puffy, hair wild. "You come bearing carbs?"
"And gossip," Isla chirped.
But Amara just turned and walked back inside.
No jokes. No sass.
Something was wrong.
They sat at the kitchen counter. Isla watched her carefully.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I think I'm losing my mind," Amara whispered. "I'm dreaming things I shouldn't remember. Feeling things that don't belong to me. I look at Lucian and I… I ache, Isla. Like I've missed him for lifetimes."
Isla's smile faltered.
"Tell me I'm crazy," Amara pleaded. "Tell me this is all in my head."
Isla opened her mouth to lie—
—but the words didn't come.
She reached out and took Amara's hand.
"You're not crazy."
Amara looked at her, wide-eyed.
"I… I don't know everything," Isla continued. "But I think there are truths buried in bloodlines. And maybe… you're remembering."
Amara gripped her hand tighter.
"What am I remembering?"
But Isla stayed silent.
That night, Lucian stood in the ruins of an old church, arms bloody from a recent fight. Soren paced behind him.
"You saw her again."
Lucian didn't deny it.
Soren clenched his fists. "You're slipping. If she falls in love with you again—"
"I know what happens," Lucian snapped.
Silence.
"She asked me what she is to me," Lucian added, voice barely a breath. "I told her she was a mistake."
"And do you believe that?"
Lucian looked up.
Eyes hollow. Heart shredded.
"No."
Meanwhile, in a hidden temple underground, Nico knelt before a mirror laced with silver vines. In its reflection, he saw not his face — but every version of himself that had held the dagger.
Every version that had watched her bleed.
A whisper echoed through the chamber:
"You were not made to love her. You were made to end her."
He touched the blade.
And this time, he whispered back, "Maybe I can be something else."
But even as he said it, his hands trembled.
Because fate had never been kind.
And he knew…
Time was running out.