The jet to Vienna was wheels-up in three hours.
Madalena was securing passage through old Flame-Bearer networks. The Circle would be watching airports, customs, magical pressure points across Europe. Lucien and Amara would go in quiet, with aliases and forged auras.
But for now, the safehouse was still. Quiet.
Amara stood on the balcony, looking out at the city lights. Her heart wouldn't slow. Not from fear. Not from the war.
From him.
Behind her, the sliding door opened.
Lucien didn't say anything at first. He leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled up, collar open, watching her like she was something fragile that might bite him anyway.
"You okay?" he asked, low.
Amara didn't look back. "I saw her again."
"Calia?"
She nodded. "In the mirror. Just for a second. Not as she is now. As she was. It's like she's slipping between timelines, trying to pull me apart."
Lucien stepped forward slowly. "She's not going to break you."
"Maybe not," she said. "But I feel like I'm standing on the edge of something, and if I move, I won't come back the same."
"You won't," he said. "And you're not supposed to."
That made her turn.
Lucien was closer now. Close enough to feel the heat between them.
She met his eyes — those impossible silver eyes that had watched her die more times than she could remember. Eyes that had waited for her in every life. Eyes that never let go.
"I remember more now," she said quietly. "From before."
Lucien didn't move. "Tell me."
Amara stepped forward. "You were always the one who ran toward the danger. And I was always the one who tried to stop you from dying doing it. But we never got it right, did we?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not once."
She reached out, brushing her fingers along the edge of his jaw. "You've been in every vision. Every life. But I never remember the end."
Lucien's voice was rough. "Because you never got to say goodbye."
Something broke in the space between them.
He stepped closer. His hand came to rest at her waist — not possessive, just there, grounding her. She looked up at him, breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.
"I don't know who I am yet," she whispered. "But I know I've loved you before. And I think I still do."
Lucien's eyes closed for a second, like he was absorbing that, locking it in. When he opened them again, he looked tired. Haunted. Hopeful.
"I never stopped," he said.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't smooth.
It was real.
Years of silence across centuries finally breaking open. Heat blooming between them like a storm. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His hand slid into her hair.
They didn't speak after.
They didn't need to.
Later, wrapped in silence and dusk, Lucien brushed his thumb over her cheek. "Whatever happens in Vienna—"
"We walk out together," Amara said, finishing it for him.
His smile was slow. Sad. True. "In this life, we do."