Dylan cradled Abigail's head gently between his hands. His eyes were closed, his face focused. Then—the memory flickered to life, projected into the air like a film that had already begun.
A knock at the door. Abigail opened it—and a man stood there. Dressed in black. His face was pale, blurred as if cloaked in fog—only the hard line of his jaw was visible. A sharp metallic scent burst from the memory, like iron. Like blood filling the room.
Without a word, he reached out and gripped her throat.
Abigail fought—but it was useless. Her body convulsed, her breath cutting short. Her eyes darted wildly, desperate for escape. For someone. For air.
Allison was hiding. She crouched silently in a wardrobe, trembling and clutching a worn-out doll. A dark shadow loomed outside the door. Massive. Breathing in her fear.
And then everything dissolved. The memory ended at the moment Abigail lost consciousness.
"If your visions are real," someone said, "then prove you can write the future. Write something about the kidnapper."
I rolled my eyes. But then—everything shifted. The hall disappeared.
Something inside me snapped. My breath vanished. The world crumbled.
"Uh… guys?" I asked hesitantly, scanning my surroundings. No sound. No breath. No response.
And then I saw her: Allison.
I understood—it was a vision.
A house loomed to the right. Familiar. Too normal. To the left—darkness, a basement with cracks in the walls. And there she was, curled in the corner, tears streaking down her cheeks, lips trembling. The doll was gone.
My knees shook—my body recognizing the danger before my mind could. I moved toward her, crouched down, and reached out.
—and froze.
A whisper. Soft. Precise. Too close.
"I know you're here, Amilia."
The vision shattered—too sharp, too fast. My eyes flew open. My heart thundered.
"That was a vision," I said, my voice shaking. "I saw Allison. She was in a place—part house, part basement. Hiding. And then someone whispered to me. He knew I was there."
The room fell silent. Every gaze was fixed on me, waiting, worried.
And then another memory surfaced—him.
The leader. The one who tore Abigail and me apart.
"Amilia?" Dylan's voice steadied me. He was beside me, a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me.
"I didn't see his face," I said. "But the voice… it was familiar. Too familiar. It wasn't the kidnapper's. It was his. The one from the past. The voice I tried to forget."
"What about me?" Oliver asked, his eyes fixed on mine. "Do you know who he is?"
"No. But…" I turned to Sierra. "He's the man who left us in the forest."
Sierra froze, just for a second. She held her breath. For a moment, I thought she'd deny it—but her voice came out low and rough. "If that's the case, then we need to act."
But why was Olsor silent?
"Wondering why I didn't ask who he was?" Olsor's voice answered—though I hadn't spoken aloud. Calm. Detached. His eyes were half-closed. "I know him. He was more like a Napoleon type. Always pushing forward—no matter whom he trampled. And because of him… I convinced Sierra to adopt you both."
Silence fell. My blood drained to my feet. Words like these shouldn't be spoken so quietly. Not about broken lives. Not about a past written in blood.
"Why?" I whispered. "What stake did you have?"
"I knew one day you'd need to be here. I didn't know what powers you had… but I felt it. You were powerful."
"So… what now?" Oliver asked. No sarcasm. Just steady seriousness.
"I'll go to Jace—with Orin, my assistant. He needs guidance. You—find Allison." Olsor's voice snapped to command.
Since the ball, I hadn't spoken to Jace. Maybe he was fighting his own war. Maybe that path… was the most dangerous of all.
"Don't be scared," Oliver whispered. "We'll find her." His words lit something inside me that I thought had gone cold.
We—Abigail, Sierra, Dylan, Oliver, and I—walked out together into the lot. It was empty. Almost empty. Just us. And our fears—shadowed by one truth:
We would not give up.
At the car, Oliver opened the door for me. His gaze lingered on mine for a moment longer. No judgment. No pressure. Just presence—like he was silently asking me to stay one more second.
He closed the door behind me. Quietly. Almost symbolically.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight," I replied, a tired smile on my lips. But my resolve held firm.
Outside, the sky looked calm. But I knew—it wasn't peace. It was the quiet before the storm. Dylan cradled Abigail's head gently between his hands. His eyes were closed, his face focused. Then—the memory flickered to life, projected into the air like a film that had already begun.
A knock at the door. Abigail opened it—and a man stood there. Dressed in black. His face was pale, blurred as if cloaked in fog—only the hard line of his jaw was visible. A sharp metallic scent burst from the memory, like iron. Like blood filling the room.
Without a word, he reached out and gripped her throat.
Abigail fought—but it was useless. Her body convulsed, her breath cutting short. Her eyes darted wildly, desperate for escape. For someone. For air.
Allison was hiding. She crouched silently in a wardrobe, trembling and clutching a worn-out doll. A dark shadow loomed outside the door. Massive. Breathing in her fear.
And then everything dissolved. The memory ended at the moment Abigail lost consciousness.
"If your visions are real," someone said, "then prove you can write the future. Write something about the kidnapper."
I rolled my eyes. But then—everything shifted. The hall disappeared.
Something inside me snapped. My breath vanished. The world crumbled.
"Uh… guys?" I asked hesitantly, scanning my surroundings. No sound. No breath. No response.
And then I saw her: Allison.
I understood—it was a vision.
A house loomed to the right. Familiar. Too normal. To the left—darkness, a basement with cracks in the walls. And there she was, curled in the corner, tears streaking down her cheeks, lips trembling. The doll was gone.
My knees shook—my body recognizing the danger before my mind could. I moved toward her, crouched down, and reached out.
—and froze.
A whisper. Soft. Precise. Too close.
"I know you're here, Amilia."
The vision shattered—too sharp, too fast. My eyes flew open. My heart thundered.
"That was a vision," I said, my voice shaking. "I saw Allison. She was in a place—part house, part basement. Hiding. And then someone whispered to me. He knew I was there."
The room fell silent. Every gaze was fixed on me, waiting, worried.
And then another memory surfaced—him.
The leader. The one who tore Abigail and me apart.
"Amilia?" Dylan's voice steadied me. He was beside me, a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me.
"I didn't see his face," I said. "But the voice… it was familiar. Too familiar. It wasn't the kidnapper's. It was his. The one from the past. The voice I tried to forget."
"What about me?" Oliver asked, his eyes fixed on mine. "Do you know who he is?"
"No. But…" I turned to Sierra. "He's the man who left us in the forest."
Sierra froze, just for a second. She held her breath. For a moment, I thought she'd deny it—but her voice came out low and rough. "If that's the case, then we need to act."
But why was Olsor silent?
"Wondering why I didn't ask who he was?" Olsor's voice answered—though I hadn't spoken aloud. Calm. Detached. His eyes were half-closed. "I know him. He was more like a Napoleon type. Always pushing forward—no matter whom he trampled. And because of him… I convinced Sierra to adopt you both."
Silence fell. My blood drained to my feet. Words like these shouldn't be spoken so quietly. Not about broken lives. Not about a past written in blood.
"Why?" I whispered. "What stake did you have?"
"I knew one day you'd need to be here. I didn't know what powers you had… but I felt it. You were powerful."
"So… what now?" Oliver asked. No sarcasm. Just steady seriousness.
"I'll go to Jace—with Orin, my assistant. He needs guidance. You—find Allison." Olsor's voice snapped to command.
Since the ball, I hadn't spoken to Jace. Maybe he was fighting his own war. Maybe that path… was the most dangerous of all.
"Don't be scared," Oliver whispered. "We'll find her." His words lit something inside me that I thought had gone cold.
We—Abigail, Sierra, Dylan, Oliver, and I—walked out together into the lot. It was empty. Almost empty. Just us. And our fears—shadowed by one truth:
We would not give up.
At the car, Oliver opened the door for me. His gaze lingered on mine for a moment longer. No judgment. No pressure. Just presence—like he was silently asking me to stay one more second.
He closed the door behind me. Quietly. Almost symbolically.
"Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight," I replied, a tired smile on my lips. But my resolve held firm.
Outside, the sky looked calm. But I knew—it wasn't peace. It was the quiet before the storm.