Amara lay sprawled on her bed, surrounded by half-read articles, coffee-stained notes, and three open tabs on ancient folklore.
Her laptop screen glowed dimly:
"The Branded Ones: Immortality and the Witches of Caldreth."
A legend. One of the oldest. Almost no sources. But it mentioned a mark — the same one she'd seen on Lucian's chest.
A sigil.
A scar left behind by a witch's curse.
She muttered under her breath, "Caldreth…"
The article was vague, like someone had tried to bury the truth in metaphors. But one line stood out:
"The mark does not fade. It is a price burned into bone. And it binds two fates together — one doomed to remember, the other damned to forget."
She stared at it.
Her heart beat too fast.
Remember what?
Forget who?
She didn't know why the words made her chest ache. But they did.
Miles away, in a quiet stone building older than most of the city itself, Lucian Vale poured a drink that wouldn't get him drunk.
Soren leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
"She's started digging," Soren said.
Lucian's jaw tensed. "I expected that."
"And Isla?"
Lucian's silence was answer enough.
Soren stepped forward. "She's performing the rituals again. She thinks she's protecting the bloodline. Keeping the curse alive like her ancestors."
Lucian said nothing.
"She's your best chance, Lucian," Soren added. "That girl — the witch's descendant — she's close to Amara. If anyone can choose not to finish the ritual, it's her."
Lucian stared into the fire. "But will she?"
A long time ago.
There were candles.
Dozens of them, lighting the marble chamber like stars that had fallen too close to earth.
Lucian was younger then. Mortal. Desperate.
The witch, cloaked in red, stood tall before him. She was beautiful. Cold. Possessive.
"Once the bond is made," she said, "you will never die. Your name will be eternal. But your soul — your soul belongs to me."
He looked over her shoulder.
At her.
The girl caged behind the altar.
Amara.
Only she wasn't called that back then.
She had different eyes. A different voice. But the same fire.
He had fallen in love with her long before the witch ever knew it.
"I refuse," he whispered.
The witch's face fell.
"You promised yourself to me."
"I lied."
He drew the dagger across his palm — not to bind, but to break.
And the curse was born from that moment.
Rage.
Heartbreak.
Betrayal.
Her scream echoed through every life they would live after.
"You will never have her," the witch vowed. "She will die every time she loves you. And you—" she pointed at him, voice a hiss "—will remember every one."
Back in the present.
Lucian blinked.
Soren watched him carefully. "You still see it, don't you?"
Lucian swallowed hard. "Every time."
Amara's phone buzzed.
A text from Isla.
"Hey babe, random! Wanna go with me to this old bookstore downtown? I need something for class. You'll love it."
A bookstore?
Isla hated books.
Something was wrong.
And Amara could feel it in her chest now — that tight, breathless pull — like something inside her was waking up.
Something that had been asleep for centuries.