LENA
The moment Dom unlatched the window, the raven hopped to the sill like it had been waiting for permission. A sharp gust of wind swept through the room, curling around us like fingers, and the raven flared its wings wide.
I expected a caw. Maybe for it to drop a scroll with some melodramatic flourish.
Instead, it spoke.
The voice didn't belong to the bird—no, not really. It came from within it, but it echoed like something ancient and borrowed, like the air itself was being pulled into a shape it didn't want to take.
And then I heard it.
"Lena."
Marcus.
That single word sent ice down my spine. My knees wobbled, and the room tilted. His voice—sleek, serpentine—slid around my ears, too familiar, too close. My body locked up, breath catching mid-inhale.
"I know you're listening," the raven croaked in Marcus' voice. "You chose wrong. But I'm offering you another chance."
