The dream returned.
Not like the others—this time, Lyra could feel it. Like rain against her skin. Cold, electric, almost real.
She stood in a forest of silver ash trees, their branches bone-white and humming with soft, unnatural light. The sky above was painted in deep violet hues, heavy with unfamiliar constellations. And across from her, as if summoned by her very breath, he was there again.
The stranger with the storm in his eyes.
But now, he was clearer. Still wrapped in shadow and smoke, but less distant, less veiled. She could see the sharp lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his gaze held hers like it remembered.
"Who are you?" she asked, but her voice came out as a whisper, lost in the wind that rustled the ashes like laughter.
He didn't answer. Just stepped closer.
Lyra's heart thudded painfully, though she knew this was a dream. She could feel the warmth of his presence. Could smell something faint—like burnt herbs and cold stone.
Then his hand reached for hers.
And she woke up.
Gasping, breathless, fingers tingling like the connection hadn't been broken yet. Her bedsheets were twisted around her legs, and her magic—her usually quiet, steady pulse—was flaring beneath her skin like static. Unsettled. Unanchored.
Her room was silent. The candle she left burning had gone out.
But something lingered in the air. The scent of ash. And the echo of a touch that hadn't happened.
---
Across the realms, Raven sat on the edge of a blackened cliff, the wind sharp against his cheek.
He hadn't dreamed in years.
Vampires didn't dream, not like mortals. But for the third night in a row, he had closed his eyes and seen her. The witch with hair like dusk and eyes too wide, too soft.
He could still hear her voice. Not her words—those were always lost—but the sound. Like a hum just beneath his skin.
He didn't know her name.
Didn't know why the dream made his heart race or why, since it began, the shadows in his realm had started whispering things long forgotten. The stones of the castle felt warmer. The blood tasted different. The sky, always blood-red, had begun to crack in the east with streaks of gold.
"Something's shifting," he murmured to himself.
And deep in the earth beneath him, something ancient stirred. Listening.
---
Back in the witchwood, Lyra stood before the Mirror of Truenames, her hands trembling.
It was forbidden to seek visions two nights in a row. Especially for witches still learning to master their craft. But she had to know. Had to see if the dream had left a trace.
The surface of the mirror shimmered like water. Then it darkened.
No reflection.
Just fire.
And a pair of eyes—grey, cold, beautiful—staring back.
The stranger again. Real. Watching.
Lyra jerked back, heart slamming in her chest. The mirror cracked down the center with a sharp snap. Magic like smoke burst from its core.
Someone behind her gasped. "You summoned a cursed image."
It was Thessa, one of the elder witches. Her voice was sharp, her expression pale.
"No," Lyra lied quickly. "It was... it was just unstable. I didn't—"
But Thessa was already retreating, her lips pressed tight. "This kind of magic doesn't come from nowhere. You're touching something that should not be touched."
---
Raven stood at the threshold of the Forbidden Vaults. The whispers had led him here.
It was said that only the cursed bloodlines could open them. And his was the oldest.
The doors groaned open, spilling dust and a scent of forgotten time.
Inside, the walls were covered in murals. One showed a girl made of light and a boy born of darkness. Their hands touched—and the world split into two.
The prophecy.
Raven's breath hitched.
He turned away, suddenly dizzy, but a final whisper curled around his ears like smoke.
"Find her. Before they find both of you."