Amara couldn't sleep.
Even in the lavish velvet bed, surrounded by silken sheets and guarded halls, her mind spun like a wheel on fire.
Why did the wolf bow to her? What is the Vault? And why did Victor call her "chosen"?
The air in the room felt heavy—like it was watching her.
Then the mirror flickered.
Not her reflection. Not her body.
A woman. Drenched in blood. Screaming silently. Reaching out to her.
Amara gasped and stumbled back. The vision vanished, like smoke. But on the mirror's surface, something remained—written in a crimson script only she could see:
"THE VAULT CALLS FOR BLOOD."
What the hell is going on?
A knock came at her door again—but not gentle this time. Urgent.
"Miss Blackwell!" A voice she recognized: Rowan, Victor's assistant (and, let's be honest, a walking six-foot distraction). "There's been an incident. At the Vault."
Amara threw on her robe and followed him through a corridor glowing with soft blue runes.
"Is this about the wolf?" she asked.
Rowan shook his head grimly. "Worse. Someone tried to break into it. And the Vault… retaliated."
They reached a set of blackstone doors guarded by three cloaked figures.
The doors hummed with power.
Victor was already there, hand pressed to the surface, lips moving in an incantation Amara couldn't understand—but her body responded to it. Her veins lit up with warmth. Magic?
The Vault pulsed.
Then clicked.
Then opened—only for her.
Inside, darkness.
And in the center of the room: a floating orb of liquid gold. Beneath it, a coffin.
Rowan stepped back. "Only you can go in now."
Victor turned to her, gaze sharp. "This is your inheritance. But beware… what sleeps inside remembers everything."
Her heartbeat thundered.
She stepped into the Vault.
The moment her foot hit the golden floor, a whisper curled through the air.
"Amara... at last."