Page 27

The chamber is eerily silent. Not in the way that simply lacks sound, but in the way that waits. A living, breathing thing, thick with the weight of what is about to come. The torches burn low, casting long, restless shadows across the stone walls, their flickering glow illuminating the intricate carvings of the runes that line the chamber, pulsing faintly with old magic, as if they too are preparing for what is to unfold. The air is dense with the scent of damp stone, of incense burned in preparation, of Sylvie’s magic—a wild, untamed force that hums beneath the surface of this place, curling around us like a silent storm on the verge of breaking.

We stand in a circle around her.

Lara.

She is bound, not merely by iron and chains, but by the wards that keep her tethered to the here and now, the runes upon the chair locking her in place. Yet, she looks at us not with the eyes of a prisoner, but with the eyes of something ancient and clever, something that has been waiting in the dark, watching, biding its time.

She does not struggle. Not physically. But I can feel it. The tension coiled beneath her skin, the slow pulse of something shifting within her.

She knows—and she is amused.

A moment ago, Sylvie stood in this very place, just beyond the threshold of this chamber, her hands trembling at her sides but her voice clear, unyielding. I’m ready , she had said, though I had seen the ghost of hesitation flicker behind her eyes. No one had questioned her. No one had told her she should reconsider, not because we agreed this was wise, but because we knew it would not matter. There was no changing her mind. Not on this. Not when it came to Lara.

And so we oblige.

Not because we believe this will work. Not because we do not fear what it will cost.

But because she is the one asking it of us.

Because she has chosen this path, and I—despite every part of me that wants to take her away from all of this, despite the part of me that has already imagined a future far from this place, a world where none of this has to matter—I cannot deny her. Not when her hands are already stained with the weight of everything she has done to bring us here.

Not when I love her the way I do.

A love that surpassed every lifetime before this one and will continue to do so for all of eternity.

The three elder witches, along with Ravenna, Rebecca, and Nicole, stand at the perimeter of the sigil now, their robes dark, their fingers twitching with latent energy as they prepare the ritual. Rebecca and Nicole exchange a look, one of quiet reassurance, though there is tension in their shoulders, an uncertainty that lingers even as they school their expressions into careful masks.

Dorian shifts beside me, his stance loose but ready, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. He does not speak, but I know him well enough to sense the discomfort rolling beneath his calm smokescreen. He has seen what Lara has become. He has witnessed her unhinged, reckless, dangerous. He knows what it means if this does not work.

And then there is Sylvie. She is and will always be everything .

She steps forward, her combat boots brushing against the edge of the sigil, her breath even, measured, though I can hear the faint hitch beneath it.

She is afraid. Not of Lara. Not of what she must do.

But of failing. Of pouring every last piece of herself into this spell and finding there is nothing left to bring her sister back.

But she does not waver.

The air shifts as she takes the ceremonial blade, its silver edge catching the dim light, and I want to stop this.

I want to reach for her wrist, to pull her away, to tell her she does not have to do this, that she does not have to bleed for a sister who is already lost, that she is not obligated.

But I resist the urge to move. To stop her and end all of this before it can begin.

I watch as Sylvie presses the blade to her palm, dragging it slowly across her skin. The scent of her blood blooms in the chamber, rich, potent, alive—and something inside me snarls.

Not in hunger. Not in the way blood usually calls to me.

But in fear—an emotion I have had less than a handful of times in as long as I can remember.

The first drop of her beautiful crimson blood falls, striking the center of the sigil carved into the floor, and the magic reacts instantly, the runes surging to life in a brilliant, blinding glow. Lara jerks against the restraints, but it is not in pain. It is something else.

Something expectant.

A slow, delighted smile spreads across her lips.

“Oh, Sylvie,” she murmurs, her voice curling around the chamber like a whisper from the depths of something long buried. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

Sylvie ignores Lara’s incessant games and mockery, her expression set, her focus locked onto the sigil as the witches begin the incantation, their voices low, rhythmic, filling the air with a language so old it feels like the walls themselves are listening.

The moment the magic takes hold, Lara’s body tenses, her back arching slightly against the chair. A shuddering breath escapes her lips, something between a gasp and a laugh.

And then she screams.

It is not the sound of pain, not the cry of a creature suffering beneath the weight of something unbearable. No, this is a sound of resistance, of something fighting to remain exactly as it is, of darkness refusing to be torn from the body it has rooted itself within. The torches flicker violently, the runes etched into the walls surging to a near blinding brightness, reacting to the battle now waging inside her.

Lara convulses, the restraints biting deeply into her skin as she thrashes about wildly, her body bowing against the weight of the magic trying to force her humanity back into the hollowed-out space where it once resided. A pulse of black energy bursts from her form, an unseen force slamming against the runes, fighting back against the incantation pulling her toward something real. The chamber shakes with a malevolent force—one that should never be reckoned with.

She is fighting it.

Not because she cannot be saved.

Not because the magic is failing.

But because she does not want to be saved.

Worst of all? She is winning.

Sylvie grits her teeth, her hands curling into fists at her sides, blood still dripping steadily into the sigil, her breath coming fast, uneven. She is giving everything, pushing past the limits of her body, her magic, her soul—and I know in that instant, if she keeps going, she will break before Lara does. I want to give this to Sylvie. I want this choice for her, a choice I never gave her all those lifetimes ago. To choose freely for herself. But how, when I am as selfish as I am, can I let the woman I love destroy herself to save another?

I hesitate but then move forward just as the torches flicker once—twice—before they die altogether, swallowing the chamber in thick, impenetrable darkness. A gust of unnatural wind whips through the space, though there are no windows, no doors left ajar for air to enter. The runes carved into the stone walls flare in response, their glow pulsating like a heartbeat, erratic and unsteady, as if the magic itself is straining beneath the weight of the spell.

And then, the sound comes.

A low, guttural crack, reverberating through the walls, through my chest, through every fiber of my being. It is not metal snapping, nor stone shifting—it is something deeper, something more primal, like the breaking of a seal that was never meant to be undone. The very fabric of magic is splitting open, raw and seething, exposing something we cannot see but can feel in our bones.

And then—silence.

The kind that stretches into eternity.

The kind that feels active.

The runes falter, flickering like dying stars, and in that agonizing pause, in that moment that hangs between life and oblivion, a sound rises above the breathless void?—

"Lara."

Sylvie’s voice does not tremble. It does not waver. She does not hesitate, nor plead, nor break beneath the weight of the impossible task before her. She speaks with certainty, with finality, her words an anchor cast into the storm that is my sister’s unraveling soul.

"Come back to me."

The silence does not break.

It shatters.

A ripple of energy pulses outward from where Sylvie stands as she and the elders complete the incantation. The energy is so strong that even the magic-laced iron chains around Lara groan in protest, the spell thrumming at the very seams. I brace myself against the force of it, feel the air crackle with something ancient and wild, something so much larger than any of us. And then?—

"Sylv?"

The voice is fragile, distant, as if spoken through a veil of thick, choking fog. But it is not the voice of the creature that has been wearing her sister’s face. It is not the voice of the thing that sneered and spat and mocked the girl standing before her now.

Sylvie does not falter. She does not dare allow hesitation to creep into her spine, does not allow fear to carve its way into her resolve. Instead, she presses forward, her body trembling with the strain of magic still flooding through her veins, and she speaks the incantation one final time.

Each syllable is spoken like a command, like the slow, deliberate turning of a key in a rusted, forgotten lock. The energy around us recoils, desperate to resist, to fight, but it is too late—the spell is sealed, and magic must obey. All at once, the chamber erupts in light. Blinding, searing, consuming—an explosion of raw, unchecked power that knocks the breath from my lungs, forcing me back a step as the magic collapses inward, latching onto its target. I watch as Lara’s body jerks, her spine arching against the restraints, every muscle in her frame locked taut as the energy surges through her. The room quakes, dust and stone rattling from the ceiling, the spell crackling like a wildfire set loose in the hollowed belly of the earth.

The sigils burn brighter—brighter—brighter, until they are too much, until they are unbearable, and then?—

The light dies once more.

Everything is still.

The weight in the air lifts. The static that had crawled over my skin fades. The torches, once extinguished, flicker back to life, casting long, wavering shadows over the chamber’s stone walls. For a moment, none of us move. None of us breathe.

And then?—

A single twitch of fingers.

The faintest movement of lips, parting to take in a trembling breath.

And then, ever so slowly, Lara lifts her head.

Her eyes—no longer void-black pits of endless hunger, no longer filled with that cruel, hollow mockery—find Sylvie.

And for the first time, they are hers.

No abyss. No darkness. No echo of something ancient and wrong peering through the cracks of what she used to be.

She sees her.

She knows her.

And Sylvie’s breath catches, not in fear, not in pain—but in sheer hope.