The rain fell in sheets as Nico stood outside the old chapel, where Lucian had been keeping to himself since the suspension. No lights, no sound. Only the slow creak of the heavy wooden door as Nico pushed it open.
Lucian didn't turn.
He was at the altar, surrounded by lit candles, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.
Nico's voice broke the silence.
"You don't get to ruin her again."
Lucian slowly faced him, eyes unreadable. "And you don't get to tell me what I can or can't do."
Nico stepped forward, fists clenched. "She dies, Lucian. You know how this ends. Why let it get that far again?"
"I've done nothing," Lucian replied coldly. "She came to me."
"She doesn't know what she's walking into. But I do."
He exhaled sharply. "And I'll do whatever it takes to stop it this time."
Lucian's expression shifted — a flicker of pain. "Then kill her already. Isn't that what you're here for?"
Nico's jaw tightened.
"You think I haven't tried?" he whispered. "You think I didn't try to hate her when I found out? But I've loved her longer than you've been in this city. And if I have to become the villain to keep her alive, I will."
Isla stood in the basement of her family's estate, her trembling hands hovering over a silver bowl. Her grandmother's spellbook lay open beside her — the pages quivering with dark energy.
She recited the first line.
Nothing.
Her lips faltered.
She slammed the book shut. "I can't do this."
A mirror across the room cracked.
Liliane's voice echoed from the corners of the dark.
"Break the chain… and the chain breaks you."
"If she lives, you die. The balance must be paid."
Tears welled in Isla's eyes. "But she's my best friend."
"And you are the blood."
Amara was drifting.
Not asleep. Not fully awake.
Her hotel room was quiet. Her phone buzzed once with a message from Isla — she ignored it.
Her eyes closed.
And then—
A garden.
An ancient one.
Lit by moons she didn't recognize.
She stood in a long white dress, bare feet stained with blood.
Lucian knelt at her feet, hands bound. Behind him stood a woman — black-haired, green-eyed, seething with hatred.
Amara tried to scream but her lips didn't move.
The woman raised her hand and marked something across Amara's chest.
A glowing red sigil.
A curse.
"You chose wrong," the woman spat. "And you will watch her die — again and again and again."
Amara woke up with a gasp, her skin cold and drenched in sweat.
She ran to the mirror.
The mark on her collarbone was brighter now. Clearer.
Almost like…
She'd seen it before.