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Seven years ago. In the dying light of dusk, Dren knelt before Lysara, bleeding and trembling. Her blade hovered at his throat. He whispered, "Do it. Be done with me." But her hands faltered. And then... she saw him cry.
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The walls of the Ashengar convent were painted in streaks of dusklight and blood.
Lysara stood at the threshold of the desecrated chapel, the scent of scorched incense and rotting roses clinging to her armor. The altar had been split down the middle, cracked like the promise of salvation.
No survivors. Only a single black feather pinned to the pulpit with a dagger she knew too well — curved obsidian with a hilt carved like twin serpents. Dren's blade.
Her breath caught. He'd been here.
"Inquisitor," a voice croaked behind her.
She turned. One of her scouts, barely standing, eyes wild with dread. "There's something you need to see."
He led her through a ruined corridor into the abbess's quarters. There, on the wall, carved into the stone with careful cruelty, were words etched in blood:
"Still dreaming of me, Lysara?"
Her spine went rigid.
Behind her calm exterior, the memory of him surged — that voice, velvet over venom, that touch that had seared through her even when it never should have. The look in his eyes the last time they met — not hatred. Hunger.
She didn't reply. She couldn't. Not with her chest tightening in that familiar ache that felt too much like longing.
Dren watched her from the shadows of the hills above the convent, cloak wrapped tight, his blood-rimmed eyes glowing faintly under the moon. His assassin knelt beside him.
"She came, just as you said."
"Of course she did," he murmured. "Lysara always comes when I call. Even if she doesn't know she's answering me."
He traced her name into the dirt with his gloved finger, then wiped it away with a cruel smile.
Later that night, Lysara stood before a mirror, her armor discarded, her linen shirt clinging to her damp skin. She touched the scar on her hip — the one he'd given her the night she spared him. The one she never let the healers fix.
Why hadn't she killed him?
Why had she let a murderer live? Why had she whispered his name even when he wasn't there?
The door creaked. She turned sharply, sword drawn — but no one stood there. Only the wind. Or maybe… his laughter echoing faintly in her head.
She backed away from the mirror, heart thundering. But not from fear.
It was him.
He was getting closer.
And worse?
She wanted him to.