Aurora tried to sleep. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, pretended the stone beneath her was something softer, but her mind wouldn't let go. Not after what she'd seen in that wall. Not with the echo of his voice still humming in her chest.
The chamber was too still. But not just still — attentive.
She shifted against the platform. The warmth of the stone pushed through her garments, steady and somehow comfortable. But it wasn't enough to keep her grounded. Not with the impression that eyes were on her.
She glanced up.
Nothing had changed. The chamber remained the same: high arched walls veined with warm, pulsating light; no furnishings, no obvious exit. Just her.
And yet, the sense of being watched wouldn't leave.
She stood slowly, bare feet trying not to make any noise on the floor. Her fingers brushed along the wall as she walked, as if the wall itself was nudging her forward.
Then she felt a shift in the air. Though it was barely noticeable, she felt it just to her left.
There, nestled in the wall's curve, was a small vertical crack. No more than the length of her hand, thin as a blade. Faint silver light leaked from it.
She hadn't seen it before. She was sure it hadn't been there.
Her heart picked up.
She crouched, eye level with the crack. At first, it just looked like a faint shimmer beneath the stone. But when she leaned in, closer than she meant to, something clicked.
The glimmer deepened. And then shifted.
Inside the crack, an image formed.
Not like the memory from earlier. This one was clearer and realer.
It was a room. Dark, shadowed in red.
She was in the center of it, lying curled on the stone platform, arms tucked tight to her chest. Breathing lightly.
Sleeping.
But she wasn't actually asleep. She was just watching herself, how she was a few minutes ago. It was almost in real time.
Aurora drew back slightly, pulse racing. What was this?
Before she could pull away entirely, the image shifted again. The angle changed — closer now. Focused on her face. Her lips. Her neck.
She heard it then — faint but unmistakable.
A breath. Drawn in slowly. Controlled.
Then, just above a whisper:
"You still don't see it."
Her stomach flipped. That voice — his voice — wasn't coming from behind her. It was coming from the crack.
"But you will."
A shiver crept down her spine, but it wasn't fear. It was awareness. She leaned in again, searching for more.
The image darkened.
Gone.
She reached toward the light, but the crack had already sealed. As if it had never existed.
She staggered back a step, chest tight.
Lucien hadn't been sensing. He'd been watching.
And that view… it had been too precise.
Was that his perspective?
The thought lodged in her throat.
She didn't know what bothered her more — that he was watching, or that some part of her didn't mind.
Aurora moved away from the wall, the heat on her own skin reminding her of how tightly confined her body had become. Even though there was nothing to fight for, every muscle was stiff and ready.
She pressed a palm to her chest. Her heartbeat thumped steady and fast.
He's waiting.
That whisper hadn't come from the crack. It had come from inside her own mind.
But it wasn't her voice.
It was his.
Aurora didn't notice the door until it breathed open.
It wasn't loud. There was no grinding stone or burst of light. Just a subtle shift in the wall near where she stood. A seam appeared, stretching from floor all the way up, widening slowly. Beyond it, darkness.
She stayed still.
Then a hum rolled faintly through her bones.
She stepped through.
The corridor was narrow, curved, the walls darker than the pale stone chamber. They shimmered faintly — smooth and black like volcanic glass, reflecting fragments of her as she walked. The air shifted again — heavy and thick now.
Her own voice.
"He barely even looked at me…"
It was soft. Broken. A playback of her thoughts from the ceremony. Not something she'd spoken aloud — something she'd barely let herself think.
Her chest tightened.
A few steps later, she heard the whispers — the crowd, gasping when she stumbled away. A low murmur of someone asking, "Was that her first shift?" And someone else, cruelly amused: "Poor thing. That's not how a mating's supposed to go."
Aurora's jaw clenched.
These weren't hallucinations. They were recordings. Her memories, dragged from wherever the realm had dug them out.
Then came Kade's voice.
"This was a mistake."
Her stomach turned.
That line — the only thing he'd said before turning his back on her.
The corridor didn't replay the whole ceremony. Just that one moment. That one blade he'd driven clean through her without hesitation.
She kept walking. Slowly.
When she looked at the wall again, her reflection shimmered — warped slightly. Not wrong, but different. Her eyes were sharper. Her posture more grounded. Her expression unreadable.
It wasn't a funhouse mirror. It was showing her a version of herself she didn't recognize. It wasn't distorted, but it was focused. It showed her something quieter.
Then the voice returned.
Not hers. Not Kade's.
His.
"It's not the pain you fear. It's what you'll become once you stop hiding from it."
She froze.
The wall in front of her rippled.
An image emerged. A dark and warm room bathed in muted red light. She was in it — lying on the stone platform — curled, breathing, still.
Watching herself sleep again. Just like before.
Except this time, the angle moved. Drifted closer.
A breath sounded, low and even. Not hers.
Then:
"You carry your shame like a blade. But it only cuts you."
The image faded.
The wall sealed again.
Aurora stepped back, the air returning to silence around her.
The voice didn't mock or preach. It just knew too much. And somehow, that was more worrisome for her more than Kade's rejection was.
She turned and walked back toward the chamber with each step steadier than the last.
When she crossed the threshold, the door behind her vanished without sound.
She sat on the edge of the stone platform again, knees drawn up loosely. Her hands didn't shake. Her breath was still fast, but it wasn't panic anymore.
Something was happening. To the realm. To her.
And somewhere in the dark, he was watching.
But not like Kade had watched her once, out of duty or pride.
This was different.
It felt like he was watching to see what she'd do next.
Aurora, still on the edge of the stone platform. Her arms were loosely wrapped over her knees. Something had changed in her and in this place. Her body was still, even if her mind wasn't.
Slow, deliberate footsteps resonated.
She didn't look up.
He too didn't speak.
But she felt him. She felt the shift in the air, how the sudden weight behind her was steady and certain. She didn't need to see his face to know he was there.
"You heartbeat's not as fast as the last time," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it filled the room. It was the same one that had haunted the wall — the voice that had seen through her.
"I guess so" she answered.
A pause. Then the faintest trace of something in his tone. Approval, maybe. Or amusement.
"You're adjusting," he said.
She still didn't turn around. "I don't know what I'm adjusting to."
"Not yet. But you will."
Something in his words sent a flicker down her spine. Not fear, not excitement either.Maybe it was the awareness that she wasn't alone in the dark anymore and maybe never had been.
She finally turned.
He was standing just a few steps away. Composed. No threat in his stance, but no softness either. His eyes were incomprehensible, yet they were fixed on hers, as if he was observing her for the first time again.
"You brought me here, why??," she said.
"No," he replied. "You crossed over. I only opened the way."
"Why?"
A tilt of his head. "Because you were already breaking. I just gave you space to decide what you'd become."
Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. "And if I want to leave?"
"You don't," he said simply.
She stared at him, jaw tight. "You think you know me."
"I know what lives beneath you. You've tasted control once. And now you crave it even while you fight it."
He stepped closer, and she stood to meet him, no longer wanting to sit like a waiting thing.
The space between them was thin. Electric. Not quite hostile. Not safe, either.
"You keep talking like I'm some puzzle," she said, voice lower now.
He didn't blink. "You're a mirror no one thought to look into."
She could hear her own heartbeat again—steady yet loud. He got too near. Not touching. However, the closeness made her feel something.
A figure moved from the shadows.
Aurora became tense as a figure appeared. Veiled in dark violet, she moved like smoke, not quite touching the ground. Not threatening. Not friendly.
Nyra.
Her eyes were silver, and they gleamed as she walked a half-circle around them, trailing a finger lightly across the stone wall as if it were a curtain she could draw back.
"She's raw," Nyra whispered gently, her gaze focused on Lucien. "Not yet shaped."
"She's willing," Lucien said.
"I didn't say unwilling," Nyra said with a small smile before vanishing as quickly as she appeared.
Aurora's throat felt dry. "What does she mean?"
Lucien didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped into her space fully now. His hand came up slowly and without force, brushing a knuckle along her jaw. Testing. Measuring.
"You've already begun," he murmured.
She shivered, but held his gaze. "Began what?"
"Becoming."
And then he turned toward the chamber's edge.
"There's a room waiting. You can sleep there. Or stay here. Either way, I'll be back."
"Why?"
He glanced back. Just once. Just enough.
"Because you're not ready to be alone with what's waking up inside you."
Then he walked away and didn't look back again.