The glade had vanished.
Or perhaps they had simply been flung from it—cast into another edge of the realm like blood flung from a blade. Lyra's breath caught as her back slammed against mossy earth, Raven landing beside her in a roll that kicked up dust and shattered roots.
Pain speared through her ribs, but the magic in her bones sang louder than the ache. She forced herself up, blinking hard against the swirling sky above. Colors bled through the clouds—violet, crimson, and something that looked like the color of screams.
"I thought we were done," she muttered.
Raven groaned beside her, dragging himself to a sitting position. "You're learning. We're never done."
Their bond still pulsed like a second heartbeat between them—silent, electric, unrelenting. The relic's call still echoed faintly in her veins, like a tune she couldn't forget. She could feel his magic like a phantom touch against her skin—dark, coiled, waiting.
"We need to move," she said, scanning the unfamiliar forest around them. The trees were taller here, bark jagged as if they had once been swords. The air tasted bitter, filled with the scent of smoke and wet stone. "This isn't the witch realm."
"No," Raven said, rising to his feet. "But it's not the vampire realm either."
A third place, then. A merging place.
"We're on the fault line," Lyra whispered. "Where the cracks between worlds begin."
"And where they'll come looking first," Raven added.
They didn't speak of the Guardians. Or the relic. Or how close they'd come to losing themselves in the veil. Not yet. There was no time for that.
Footsteps rustled behind them.
Lyra spun, magic already gathering in her palm—but it was only Kalen, her cousin and a skilled witch-warrior, flanked by two others from the rebellion. His cloak was torn, one eye swollen shut, but his relief at seeing her was immediate.
"Lyra," he breathed. "Thank the old gods. We've been searching since the tremor hit."
"You felt it too?" she asked, stepping forward. "The veil—"
"Is bleeding," Kalen said grimly. "You opened something."
"No," Raven said from behind her, voice like falling ash. "Something opened us."
Kalen's eyes flicked to Raven, wariness flashing across his face. He hadn't trusted the vampire even before the prophecy began winding around Lyra's throat like a noose.
But he said nothing. Just turned and nodded. "The others are gathering. We're forming a war circle at the Hollow. You both need to come."
As they followed the rebels deeper into the forest, Lyra couldn't shake the sense of wrongness still curling under her skin. Like her body didn't fully belong to this world anymore. Like she was halfway between flame and frost.
Raven brushed his hand against hers as they walked—casual, barely touching—but the bond flared in response. And not gently.
He winced. "It's changing."
"I know."
The Hollow was lit with bluefire torches and guarded by twice as many soldiers as before. When they arrived, a hush fell over the gathering witches, vampires, and fae.
Everyone knew.
The prophecy was no longer a riddle—it was a threat. And Lyra and Raven were its center.
"We need to train," Lyra said without waiting. "Together. Not just for war—but for control. If this bond spins further out of reach—"
"It'll consume everything," said Elder Maerin, the witch who had first translated the prophecy. Her silver hair shimmered like stormlight under the fire. "There's an old rite. Forbidden, mostly. But it might help tether the bond between you. Keep it from overriding your will."
Raven's eyes narrowed. "What's the cost?"
Maerin looked away. "You'll feel everything. Each thought. Each wound. Each doubt."
Lyra didn't hesitate. "Do it."
That night, under the fractured moonlight, they began.
The rite was cruel in its beauty. Carved runes traced onto their skin, whispered incantations that burrowed into their minds. For hours, they sat cross-legged in a circle of obsidian salt while the other witches chanted, their voices merging into a single pulse.
At first, it was simple.
Then it broke them.
Lyra felt Raven's fear—cold and sharp like old bone. His memories flashed into her—blood-soaked halls, loneliness that stretched across centuries, a child screaming in a forgotten castle.
Raven saw her pain—her self-doubt, her buried anger, her hunger to be more than what fate demanded.
They nearly tore apart.
But then—then—they rebuilt.
When the rite ended, they didn't speak. Didn't need to. The bond had settled into something deeper. Less volatile. Still dangerous—but now threaded with understanding.
They were no longer just tied by prophecy.
They were becoming something else.
Later that week, Lyra stood before the war circle, her voice steady even as the winds howled through the Hollow. "We don't wait for the realms to burn. We strike first. Find the fracture points. Find the traitors. Train harder."
"And the price?" someone shouted. "What if fulfilling the prophecy kills you both?"
She glanced at Raven.
He didn't flinch. "Then we die on our own terms."
The wind stilled.
Even fate seemed to pause.
Lyra turned back to the crowd. "This is the beginning of the end. But it's also the beginning of us taking control. We're not the prophecy's victims anymore."
And beneath her words, something pulsed through the Hollow—hope, maybe. Or defiance.
Whichever it was, it burned.