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LIORA

I t starts as a whisper.

Not the kind that slinks through these stone halls like a curse or a promise. Not the twisted murmurs of Seraphiel’s court that cling to the corners of my cell like cobwebs.

No.

This one is warm. A heartbeat in the dark. His.

I feel it before I understand it. A sharp jolt through the bond I thought I buried, followed by the slow burn of something awakening.

Dante.

I stagger back from the ward lines carved into the floor, the ones meant to keep my power dull and low. The moment the bond flares to life, those lines tremble, glow faintly— flicker.

Oh gods. He remembers. The spell is cracking.

I press a hand to my chest. The pain is almost too much—sweet and raw and familiar. I can feel him. Not clearly, not yet, but enough to know he's searching.

Coming.

And I should be thrilled. But all I feel is terror. Because Seraphiel can feel it too. If he’s watching. If he’s close.

If he suspects I let our bond reignite, even for a second… He’ll kill Dante.

Or worse.

No. No no no. I slam the door shut on the bond, like slapping my palm over an open flame. My shadows surge in protest, lashing the room, but I force them back down with everything I have.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “Not yet. Hold.”

I still have work to do here without any distractions.

I don’t leave the room, not physically. But I’ve learned that walls mean little here. Not when power lives in whispers and doubt moves faster than light.

These halls, for all their polished grandeur and molten glamour, are hollow at the core. And I’ve spent the last few days listening. Watching.

Picking apart the seams of a kingdom built on fear.

They talk when they think I’m asleep. When they think I’m too broken or too far gone to care. But I always listen.

That’s how I learned that Seraphiel hasn’t been seen in his true form in days. That the spectral wings haven’t stretched, that the molten veins in his armor pulse slower now.

That his control isn’t just slipping—he’s losing it.

And his people?

They’ve noticed.

They’re not loyal out of love. No one follows Seraphiel because they believe in him. They follow him because he’s terrifying.

But the thing about terror is—it requires certainty. A god only commands obedience if people still believe he’s a god.

And lately that belief’s starting to rot.

I’ve laid seeds like poison in wine. Quiet words, disguised as offhanded thoughts. Looks timed with just the right tremble in my voice. A single sentence dropped in front of a lesser acolyte: “Is it true the prophecy never mentioned him by name?”

Another to one of the armored sentries: “You ever wonder if the power’s hers, not his?”

I don’t push. I just suggest.

And they listen.

Because they’ve started noticing the cracks, too.

The way Seraphiel’s temper frays faster. The inconsistency in his command. His sudden need to isolate me rather than parade me. How his obsession no longer reads as control—but desperation.

That’s the part that’s eating them alive.

Because desperate men—even divine ones—make reckless kings.

Mara brings my meals most days now. She’s a witch with dark eyes and steady hands, younger than the others, but not inexperienced. I’ve watched the flicker in her gaze, the stiffness in her posture. Her magic used to settle like iron around her—it’s looser now, frayed around the edges.

Today, as she kneels near the ward lines, pretending to check the stability glyphs etched into the floor, I speak without raising my voice.

“Has he spoken of the ritual?”

She glances up, just once. “He thinks it’s already done,” she murmurs. “That you’re too far gone to fight it.”

“He’s wrong.”

Mara swallows, and her hands pause over the runes. “I’m beginning to think he’s wrong about a lot of things.”

I inch closer to the edge of the circle, shadows curling softly around my bare feet like they’re listening, too.

“What changed your mind?” I ask her.

Mara hesitates, then lowers her voice. “I studied the old texts. The binding rites Seraphiel is using—they’re not complete. They’re unstable. He’s trying to substitute prophecy with possession. That’s not how it works. It was never meant to work that way. The only reason he hasn’t tried the union yet is because he knows it won’t hold, something is incomplete and he’s losing his mind trying to figure it out.”

Her gaze flickers. “He thinks if he binds your body, the power will follow. But you and I both know… the power isn’t his to take.”

A beat.

She adds, “And some of us… we’re tired of serving something that bleeds madness from the seams and calls it divinity.”

My chest tightens.

“You’re not the only one, are you?” I ask.

“No.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “The others won’t say it out loud yet. Not until they’re sure. We all thought something great would follow him, that’s why we’re here. I know what most think of him, but he was charismatic and ,ade us think that this fugureu was everything we hoped for, but now… watching what it’s doing to him and seeing him unravel lately in ways we have never witnessed… The others and myself, they’re watching. Waiting.”

I lean in, voice just as soft. “Then help me prove it.”

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t have to. Her silence is her answer.

And her silence is all I need to start tearing the rest of this empire apart.

It’s Mara who slips me the charm.

Just before lights-out—if there even is such a thing in this realm—she returns with my meal, and tucked into the folds of the napkin is a tiny crystal laced with runes I don’t recognize.

I give her a questioning look.

“It won’t track. I cloaked it myself,” she says quickly, voice low. “It can’t sustain a full communication channel, but it can find him. Send a burst. A ping.”

“And he’ll know it’s me?”

She hesitates. “He’ll feel it.”

My fingers tremble as I press the charm into my palm. “Thank you.”

She meets my eyes, and I see true fear reflecting back in them.

“You don’t belong to him,” she says. “But if he finds out what you’re doing, Liora...”

“I know.”

I always have.

Later, once I’m alone again, I activate the charm.

It glows—soft, golden—and pulses once.

Then again.

Each beat echoing the bond inside me that’s trying so hard to rebuild itself.

I press it to my lips and whisper just loud enough for the magic to catch:

“Find me.”

And across whatever veil still exists between us…

I swear he hears it.

I curl up on the stone floor with the charm clutched in one hand and a plan growing inside me like wildfire.

The rebellion is small now—three witches, one half-fallen soldier, and a dying elemental who pretends she’s mute. There are even a few demons who are tempted to betray him, I’ve heard it. But they are more weary.

But it’s enough.

It has to be.

Because the moment Seraphiel finds out Dante remembers it’ll be too late to run.

So I won’t run. Not this time. I’ll fight.

I’ll burn this whole damn court to the ground if it means getting back to him.

At least this time, I’m not fighting alone.