It wasn’t just a memory. It had been a promise. One she’d broken long before.

Talia didn’t leave her flat. Not the next day. Or the one after that. She stopped answering Leo’s messages, stopped touching the journals, stopped pretending that anything was normal. Since Silas had stepped into her apartment without crossing a threshold, she hadn’t felt alone. She could feel him now—in the walls, in the air, stirring in her blood with every heartbeat. And the worst part was that she’d started wanting him there.

The fever came first: slow at first, a faint flush beneath her skin, then sudden and sharp. Her body stirred with it, as if something inside demanded release. Her cheeks burned; sweat beaded on her brow. The air in the room thickened, pressing in on her throat, pulling at her lungs. She pressed both hands to the bathroom sink, knuckles white, and bent forward until the tiles bit into her knees. The faucet dripped. She tasted him on her tongue—tasted ash and iron, the cold sweetness of rain on stone. His name echoed in her mind, a drumbeat behind her skull.

Silas. Silas. Silas.

Her vision swam. The mirror’s reflection wavered like a ripple on water. She staggered back toward her bedroom, muscles trembling beneath her nightclothes. The doorframe blurred. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. The world spun, light fracturing into shards against the dark.

Then everything went black.

---

She stood barefoot on cold stone, moonlight pooling in shards around her feet. The chapel towered on every side, black against the sky, lit here and there by flickering torchlight. The scent of burning herbs wrapped around her, cloying and sharp, setting her pulse racing. At the altar knelt a man in red robes, hands bound behind him, face bruised, lips parted in something like prayer. It was Silas—or someone who would become him. He looked ancient and terrible, yet heartbreakingly vulnerable.

When he lifted his head, his silver eyes caught the torchlight, hard and gleaming. “You said you’d come alone.”

Talia tried to speak, but the words that emerged were not hers. A different voice spoke, deeper, melodic, in a language she didn’t know yet understood as if she’d spoken it once before. The figure who’d spoken was a woman in red—hair braided heavy with beads, posture regal and unashamed. Talievra.

“I tried,” Talievra said, voice echoing in the vaulted chamber.

Silas smiled, blood gathered at the corner of his mouth. “Then why do I smell your father’s blood on the blade?”

Talia’s chest constricted. She didn’t answer. Talievra raised a dagger—curved, gold, its edge glowing like molten metal under the torchlight. “Because I couldn’t save you both.”

And then Talievra drove the dagger into Silas’s chest. The blade passed through robes, flesh, bone without resistance, as if the ritual had been prepared long ago. He didn’t cry out. His eyes remained on her, calm and knowing as if he had invited this betrayal. Around them, the chapel walls seemed to breathe, flames dancing in wild shadows, shadows that whispered of chains and fire.

“I’ll remember,” Silas said, voice a soft promise. “Even if you forget me… I’ll remember.”

Everything shattered.

---

Talia snapped awake on the floor of her flat, drenched in sweat, throat raw with unshed screams. The vision lingered behind her eyes, a living stain. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, cold where she’d curled up. She pressed her hand to her wrist and recoiled at the sight of a faint, red circle—an imprint scorched into her skin like a brand. It echoed the ropes binding Silas in the dream. Her breath caught. She scrambled upright, nearly overturning her lamp. Every shadow in the room felt like a doorway; every whisper of wind against the curtains sounded like his whisper.

She dropped to her knees and pressed her palms into the carpet, head spinning. This had not been a dream. She had worshiped betrayal in that chapel—she had slain him, felt his forgiveness, heard his vow. And now he was here. Inside her mind, her blood, her very bones.

Her phone buzzed on the floor. Leo’s name flashed across the cracked screen. She ignored it. Her thoughts raced, fracturing under the weight of fire and chains and love turned to violence.

Even if you forget me… I’ll remember.

Her knees trembled, tears sliding down her cheeks. The grief she’d thought buried in another life—another death—rose now, fierce and cold. She curled into herself, rocking as silent sobs shook her frame.

---

When Silas returned that night, he made no sound. He did not appear at the door or step through any threshold. One moment, the corner of her room was empty; the next, he sat there, shirtless, legs drawn to his chest, eyes glowing silver in the dim light. The tattooed marks on his wrists—runes the color of blood—pulled her gaze. He looked at her as though he owned the space.

Talia’s lips parted, but no words came. She rose on trembling legs. The air between them pulsed, as if charged by the ritual itself. “Get out,” she rasped, voice ragged.

He tilted his head, as though studying a curious animal. “I told you I’d remember.”

“That wasn’t me,” she managed, her voice breaking.

His eyes held hers, old and deep. “It was always you.”

She clenched her fists to keep from stepping back, from begging him not to go. “You said you didn’t know what you were.”

He stood, silent. The air shifted with his movement. He crossed the room in two strides, stopping inches from her. His hand rose to cup her jaw—touching her like he claimed her. Not gentle, but certain, a possessive claim centuries in the making.

“I didn’t,” he said, voice low. “But I know what I was. I was yours.”

She swallowed hard. Her pulse thrummed at her throat. She felt the heat from his palm through her skin, and where he touched, the scar on her wrist flared, a searing pain that left her breathless.

“You’re remembering faster now,” he murmured, lips grazing her ear. “Fires you lit long ago are waking.”

Talia shoved him back. His hands dropped, but he did not retreat. He watched her, fascination and longing mingling in his gaze.

“What are you doing to me?” she demanded, voice trembling.

He stepped forward again, brushing his fingers along her collarbone. “Only what you did to me first.”

His presence pressed against her, warm and dangerous. She could taste smoke on his breath, feel embers dancing beneath her skin. Her heart thundered—caught between fear, anger, and a need she could not name.

He bent, closing the last distance, face inches from hers. “You tried to kill me. And you failed,” he whispered. “Because a wound that deep cannot be undone.”

Talia’s vision blurred with tears. She twisted away, pressing her back against the wall. Her hands flew to her face, covering her mouth as sobs broke free. He stood still, silent, as if watching a ritual conclude.

Then, with a shudder that rustled the curtains, he stepped back. His silver eyes softened just a fraction.

“Sleep,” he said, voice a command and a benediction. “And tomorrow, we begin again.”

He turned, vanished into the darkness beyond her door. The echo of his footsteps faded, leaving only the whisper of her ragged breath. The room was still—too still. The lamp flickered, and her wrist throbbed in time with her heart.

Talia sank to the floor, pressing her head to her knees. Outside, the night wind picked up, carrying something ancient and hungry across the cliffs. She closed her eyes, remembering the promise he’d made, and wondered if she would ever dare to break it again.