The storm broke at midnight.
Not in the sky—but in them.
Lucien awoke from one of his silent nightmares, sweat clinging to him like a second skin. He sat upright, breathing heavily, his eyes flickering around the dimly lit room. Aaliyah was asleep between them, her breath soft, her hand resting gently on her belly.
Silas was already awake. Watching him.
"You heard it too," Lucien whispered.
Silas nodded slowly. "I dreamt of fire again. Of him."
Lucien stood up, pacing barefoot across the old wooden floor. "It's not over. He'll find us. He always does."
Aaliyah stirred. "Then let him."
Both men looked at her.
"We're not who we were before. He can't break what he didn't build. This—" she placed her hand on her belly, "—is not just life. It's defiance."
Silas exhaled shakily. "If we run again, we lose ourselves."
"We fight then," Lucien said. "But not just for survival. For peace. For a future."
Aaliyah rose from bed, the moonlight casting her in soft silver. She stood between them—one man shaped by fire, the other by silence. And her, a girl once draped in faith, now wrapped in the impossible ache of loving both monsters and men.
"We end it," she said. "On our terms."
They nodded.
That night, they didn't sleep. They made lists. They mapped everything they knew. Every alley, every friend-turned-threat, every place he might be.
And then in the quiet just before dawn, Aaliyah pulled out the prayer mat.
"Come," she said softly, "I want to teach you something."
Silas came first. Then Lucien, hesitating, until he saw her eyes—unshaken, unafraid. She taught them how to kneel. How to surrender—not to weakness, but to something greater than fear.
"We don't have to be perfect," she whispered. "Just willing."
They prayed.
Three broken people in a borrowed cabin, whispering words to a God they didn't yet understand. But in that moment, it was enough.
Because if they were to burn, they had chosen to burn together.
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