Lucian’s POV

The city slept beneath a haze of fog, soft and deceptive—like peace stretched thin over chaos. Lucian sat by the window of his apartment, the lights of passing cars painting fleeting streaks across his reflection.

He could almost see it—the other version of himself that haunted the edge of his mind. The one that didn’t quite belong here. The one that remembered things he shouldn’t.

Sometimes it was flashes: a hand reaching through water, Nareth’s voice calling his name, a crimson thread coiling around his wrist. Other times, it was pain—a deep, bone-etched ache that made him wonder if he’d really survived that accident… or if he was still trapped somewhere in between.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Lucian,” Nareth said softly.

Lucian didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to see you,” Nareth murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve been… distant. And not just from me. From yourself.”

Lucian’s fingers tightened around the edge of the window. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” Nareth whispered, his voice breaking through the distance between them. “Because I’m losing you, and I don’t know why.”

Lucian turned then, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—an echo of someone else. Someone older.

“I’m not sure I know who I am anymore,” he confessed. “And if I tell you what I see when I close my eyes… you might stop seeing me at all.”

Nareth reached for him, but before he could touch him, the lights flickered—once, twice—and the glass beside Lucian cracked in the shape of a web.

A warning.

Or a reminder.

---

Daelen’s POV

He hated that Irian was getting under his skin.

He hated that every word, every look, every silent challenge lingered long after they parted.

Daelen was supposed to be in control. This was supposed to be his revenge, his game. But lately, he was the one being played—and it infuriated him.

He found Irian in the university library that afternoon, tucked between the shelves with a notebook open and a look of quiet focus that made Daelen’s chest tighten.

“Still ignoring me?” Daelen asked, leaning against the shelf.

Irian didn’t glance up. “Still pretending this is a game?”

Daelen stepped closer. “Maybe it started that way. But now… I don’t know what it is anymore.”

Irian finally looked at him, his eyes steady, unreadable. “Then stop before it turns into something neither of us can control.”

Daelen’s throat worked silently before he forced a smirk. “You think I’m afraid of losing control?”

“No,” Irian said quietly, closing his notebook. “I think you already have.”

He brushed past him, his scent—soft, clean, maddening—lingering in the air. Daelen didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there, staring at the space where Irian had been, feeling the cracks spreading inside him like fractures in glass.

And in that silence, he realized the most terrifying thing of all:

He didn’t want to destroy Irian anymore.

He wanted to keep him.