The next night, the city pulsed with an eerie calm. New York always hummed — traffic, nightlife, sirens — but tonight it felt... held. Like something ancient was watching it breathe.
Lucien stood beside Amara at the edge of the alley across from the brownstone.
"This is it," he said. "Sanctum 3. One of the last active branches of the Circle in the U.S."
It looked ordinary. Three stories of ivy-covered brick, warm lights in the windows, a wrought iron gate locked from the inside. But Amara could feel it — a pressure in the air, like static before a storm. The shard in her pocket had been hot all evening.
"Tell me this doesn't end with us getting slaughtered," she muttered.
Lucien smirked. "It ends with us walking out. You just have to trust me."
"I barely know you."
"You knew me once," he said quietly. "That's enough."
She didn't argue.
They moved fast. Through the back alley. Over the side gate. Lucien picked the old lock in seconds. The door creaked open.
Inside, the sanctum smelled of cedar and something darker — incense and blood. Books lined the walls. Scrolls. Artifacts. A fireplace flickered in the main hall, casting shifting shadows across strange symbols carved into the stone.
Lucien pressed a hand to the wall. The symbols glowed faintly, then receded.
"Wards," he said. "But old. Not meant for us."
They crept deeper into the sanctum.
No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of Amara's breath, loud in her ears.
She reached the top of the stairs when something slammed into her from the side.
She hit the wall hard. Her shoulder screamed.
Lucien shouted her name.
A figure stood in the hallway — tall, hooded, fast. Not human. Or maybe not anymore.
The figure reached for her.
And something inside Amara snapped.
She didn't think. She moved.
Her arm lifted — not with the dagger, but with her palm open. Light burst from her hand — not blinding, but cutting, like silver fire.
The figure shrieked — not in pain, but in rage — and staggered back. Lucien lunged, driving a blade into its side. The figure dissolved into smoke.
Silence again.
Amara stood frozen, her hand still glowing faintly.
"What was that?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
Lucien stepped closer, breath ragged. "You've started to unlock it."
"Unlock what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he opened a door at the end of the hallway. Inside: a circular chamber lit by a single stained-glass skylight. At the center, a pedestal. And resting on it — an ancient book, bound in something that looked like leather but shimmered like stone.
Lucien approached it reverently. "This is what they were hiding."
He opened the book — and Amara's knees buckled.
Memory crashed into her like a flood.
She stood in a temple. The same book in her hands. She was chanting in a voice that wasn't quite hers. People knelt before her. Lucien stood beside her, bleeding but smiling.
She was someone else.
The Lady of the Third Flame. That's what they called her.
A name drifted back: Selanar.
She collapsed to the floor.
Lucien was there instantly, holding her upright.
"You remember," he whispered.
"Selanar," she said. "That was me."
He nodded. "You were more than a priestess. You were one of the Flame-Bearers. You guarded knowledge the Circle was desperate to erase."
Amara looked up at him, the memories still burning behind her eyes. "Then why do they keep killing us?"
Lucien's expression turned grim. "Because we had something they lost centuries ago — the Flame. And they want it back. Or they want it gone."
Amara stood slowly, looking down at the book.
The symbols inside glowed in her presence.
"They won't stop coming now," she said. "Will they?"
"No," Lucien said. "But now we have a weapon."
Footsteps echoed downstairs.
Then voices.
They were no longer alone.
Lucien looked at her. "We fight our way out, or we die here."
Amara's fingers tightened around the dagger at her hip. Her heart didn't race anymore. Her mind didn't scream. She felt calm. Solid. Ready.
"Then let's make them regret finding us."
They turned toward the door.
And the battle began.