Lucian’s POV

The thunder rolled across the city like a heartbeat that refused to slow.

Lucian sat on the edge of his bed, drenched in sweat, clutching at his chest. The dream—no, the memory—still clung to him, heavy and vivid.

He saw it again. The crash. The flash of metal. The scream that wasn’t his but still tore from his throat. Then, a hand—his own hand—reaching toward a fading light.

When he blinked, Nareth was there, standing in the doorway with worry carved deep into his face.

“You’re shaking,” Nareth said softly, moving closer. “Tell me what you saw.”

Lucian hesitated, his voice fragile. “A car accident. Flames. But the person dying wasn’t me.”

Nareth’s breath caught. “You think it’s connected to—?”

“I know it is,” Lucian whispered. “Someone’s soul was pulled out that night… and I think it found its way into me.”

The words hung heavy in the dark room. Rain hammered against the windows, as if echoing the chaos inside him.

Nareth sank down beside him, hand resting lightly over Lucian’s trembling fingers. “You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Even if what’s inside you isn’t what it seems… I’ll stay.”

Lucian’s throat tightened. The sincerity in Nareth’s voice was a blade and a balm at once. He wanted to tell him the truth—that maybe he wasn’t Lucian at all—but fear chained his tongue.

So instead, he whispered, “Don’t promise that. You might regret it.”

But Nareth only smiled faintly. “Too late.”

And in that moment, the lights flickered again—this time, the mirror across the room flashed red.

For just a breath, Lucian saw another figure standing behind him.

Someone with his own face.

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Daelen’s POV

It had been two days since the rain. Two days since Irian’s touch burned through him like confession.

Daelen thought the ache would fade. It didn’t.

He found himself thinking about Irian constantly—the way he spoke softly but always with weight, the way his silence said everything words couldn’t.

He told himself to stay away. He didn’t.

Irian was at the art building again, sketching under the glow of the studio lamps. Daelen leaned against the doorframe, watching him draw. Every line was careful, deliberate.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

Without looking up, Irian said, “You.”

Daelen’s heart stopped for a beat. “You don’t even like me.”

A small, humorless smile tugged at Irian’s lips. “I didn’t say it was a good portrait.”

Daelen chuckled, stepping closer. “You’re cruel.”

“Cruel?” Irian finally met his gaze, eyes cool but shimmering with something Daelen couldn’t name. “Cruel was what you planned to do to me. I’m just painting the truth.”

Daelen swallowed hard. “Then tell me the truth, Irian. Do you still hate me?”

The Omega stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, “No. I think I’m starting to hate that I don’t.”

Daelen’s breath caught, his chest twisting painfully. The distance between them felt unbearable—so he closed it. One step, then another, until the scent of paint and rain surrounded him.

He stopped inches away. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured.

“Why?” Irian whispered. “Because you’ll kiss me again?”

The tension snapped like glass.

Daelen’s hand found the back of Irian’s neck. “Because I won’t stop this time.”

And when their lips met, the world outside disappeared—the thunder, the rain, the memories. Only fire remained.