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And yet something felt wrong. Off. Like a puzzle with a piece that didn't quite fit.

I paused at the window, staring out at the perpetual twilight of Rowen's realm. The ritual required precision, perfect timing, and a confluence of powers that had never been attempted before. Sierra's quarter-angel blood, Callum's fae shadows, Rowen's demonic fire, and my own dual nature—all needed to work in perfect harmony.

But there was something I was missing. Some detail buried in the ancient texts that nagged at the edges of my consciousness.

"You're going to wear a path in the floor," Sierra's voice broke through my thoughts.

I turned to find her standing in the doorway, a tray balanced in her hands. The scent of fresh coffee and sandwiches wafted toward me, reminding me I hadn't eaten in hours. Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore one of my shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame.

"I brought lunch," she said, moving into the room. "Since you apparently forgot that eating is a thing people need to do. Even demon-angel hybrids."

A smile tugged at my lips despite my troubled thoughts. "Thank you."

She set the tray on the small table near the window and gestured for me to join her. I slid my daggers into their sheaths and took the seat across from her. As I reached for a sandwich, Sierra surprised me by sliding onto my lap instead of taking her own chair.

"This okay?" she asked, settling against me.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her closer. "More than okay."

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Sierra occasionally stealing bites from my sandwich. The weight of her in my lap was grounding, a physical reminder of what we were fighting for.

"Want to tell me what's bothering you?" she finally asked, turning to face me. "You've been distant since we decided on the timing for the ritual."

I sighed, setting down my coffee. "Something doesn't feel right. I can't put my finger on it, but there's a detail I'm missing. Something important about the forging."

Sierra's silver eyes studied my face. "Talk it through with me. Maybe saying it out loud will help."

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. "The ritual itself is clear enough. We go to the forge, Callum prepares Lightsbane, I use my angelic blood to activatethe transformation, you contribute your celestial energy, and Rowen provides the demonic fire needed to temper the blade."

"But?" Sierra prompted, her fingers absently playing with the collar of my shirt.

"But the timing feels wrong," I admitted. "Midnight on your birthday seems significant, but the texts don't specify why it has to be then. And there's something about the forge itself... it's not just a physical location. It exists at a nexus point between realms."

Sierra nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Could that be why the timing matters? Something about the alignment of the realms at that specific moment?"

"Possibly," I conceded. "But there's more to it. The texts mention a 'vessel of dual blood' repeatedly, which we assumed was me, but..." I trailed off, the pieces shifting in my mind.

"But what if it's not you?" Sierra finished for me, her intuition sharp as always. "What if it's me? I'm quarter-angel, after all."

I shook my head. "No, the texts are clear that it's someone of dual blood—half one thing, half another. You're more complex than that, with witch blood from your mother's side and celestial from your father's."

Sierra's fingers had moved to the nape of my neck, absently massaging the tension there. The simple touch was surprisingly intimate, her instinctive understanding of what I needed without me having to ask.

"What about the 'essence of the fallen'?" she suggested. "We thought that meant your mother's angel blood, but could it mean something else?"

That was it. The piece that had been nagging at me. I stiffened, my mind racing through the translations again.

"The essence of the fallen," I repeated slowly. "Not just any fallen angel, but a specific one. The text uses a particular form that indicates singularity, importance."

Sierra's eyes widened. "Azrael? My grandfather?"

The possibility sent a jolt through me. "It would make sense. He's not just any angel, but the Angel of Death. His essence would be incredibly powerful."

"But how would we get it?" Sierra asked, her brow furrowed. "It's not like we can just call him up and ask for a blood donation."

I smiled despite myself. "Actually, we might be able to. Through you."

Sierra looked skeptical. "Through me? How?"