Amara stood at the center of the ancestral courtyard, wind twisting her hair like threads of fire. Around her, the twelve House Elders formed a circle, their hands linked in a silent incantation.
Victor Blackwell's voice cut through the tension.
"Tonight, the heiress takes the Oath."
The air shifted. Cold. Expectant.
Lucien, cloaked in black, stood at her side. His eyes—gold, glowing, unreadable—were locked on the Elders, not on her. Not like before.
A dagger was passed into her hands.
Black steel. Runed. Thirsting.
"To claim your place," Victor intoned, "you must bleed for the house."
Amara gripped the blade.
Her palm slashed open.
Blood dripped into the stone basin at her feet, and the symbols etched around the courtyard erupted in gold flame. Her voice was steady, but barely:
> "I, Amara Blackwell, vow to protect the legacy, uphold the truth, and never let the Vault fall into the wrong hands."
The flames roared.
But even as she spoke, a chill slid down her spine. Lucien had not repeated the vow. He had not even moved.
After the ceremony, Amara cornered him beneath the withered vault tree—the tree whose roots fed from magic and memory.
"You didn't speak," she said. "You were supposed to seal the bond."
Lucien looked at her, hollow and quiet. "Because the bond has already changed."
Amara's voice broke. "What are you saying?"
He took her hand. "There are things I've remembered. Things… I was never meant to forget."
Then he vanished—vanished before she could stop him, hold him, beg him to stay.
And from the shadows of the estate, someone else watched. Smiling. Waiting.