They touched down in Vienna just before midnight.
No jet bridges. No main terminals. A private airstrip used only by diplomats, mercenaries, and people with more secrets than luggage.
The air was sharp and cold. The wind off the Danube tasted like iron and memory.
Lucien kept his head down beneath his black coat. Amara wore sunglasses despite the dark. It wasn't about disguise — it was about pressure. Every ward in the city was keyed to the Circle's surveillance threads. One wrong step and their auras would flare like fire across magical radar.
They moved fast.
A contact met them in the shadows behind a closed bakery: Marek — broad-shouldered, heavily tattooed, ex-Flame-Bearer turned smuggler. He didn't talk much. Just handed Lucien a map burned into a piece of old leather and nodded toward the northeast corner of the city.
"The Nexus is under the Musikverein," he said. "Yes, the concert hall. Yes, they're that arrogant."
Lucien didn't blink. "And the gate?"
"Still functional," Marek said. "But warded tight. You'll need her to open it."
Amara raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
"You're the last true Flame," he said, then turned and disappeared into the fog.
No pressure.
They moved through the city in silence, the old streets slick with rain. Amara recognized nothing — and everything. The buildings were different, but the bones beneath them felt familiar. Every alley hummed with energy. Like her memories were hiding in the stone.
Lucien led them into an old service tunnel beneath the concert hall. It smelled like dust and mold and forgotten magic. Their boots echoed on the tile floor.
"Do you feel it?" Lucien asked, low.
Amara nodded. "It's close."
The tunnel opened into a chamber. Black stone. High ceilings. Carved arches. The Nexus.
At its center: a gate. Twice the size of the one they'd destroyed. Covered in flame sigils. Sleeping, for now.
"Are we sure it's just a gate?" Amara asked.
Lucien looked at her. "No."
She stepped toward it anyway.
The moment she got close, the symbols flared to life. Not just glowing — responding. She didn't chant. Didn't raise her hands. Just existed.
And the stone opened.
Behind it — stairs.
Leading down.
"Trap?" she asked.
"Definitely," Lucien said.
"Still going?"
He smiled. "Wouldn't miss it."
They descended together.
The chamber beneath was vast.
Stone walls. No windows. Braziers burned with blue fire. Symbols old as time etched into the floor. And at the far end — a figure in white.
Calia.
No hood this time. Her hair long, silver streaks at her temples. Her eyes the same as Amara's — only colder. Smarter. Sadder.
"I told them you'd come," Calia said.
Her voice rang out like music through crystal.
Amara stopped at the bottom step. "Then you know we're not leaving empty-handed."
"I'm not here to kill you, Selanar," Calia said. "I'm here to show you what you forgot."
Lucien stepped forward. "Don't listen. She's twisted everything."
Calia's gaze flicked to him, unimpressed. "Still following her into every fire, Lucien? Still dying for a ghost?"
He didn't respond. But his jaw locked.
Amara took a slow breath. "What do you want, Calia?"
"I want you to see."
Calia lifted one hand.
The floor split.
And a vision erupted — not a memory, but a full projection. Glowing threads connecting past lives. Scenes spinning in circles. Amara saw herself in robes, in chains, in fire. Over and over.
And each time?
Lucien. Dead.
"I tried to protect you," Calia said. "You kept loving someone who would always die."
"I chose him," Amara said, voice like steel.
"Then die again," Calia whispered.
From the shadows — the Circle emerged.
Cloaked figures. Thirteen. Silent. Magic ready in their hands.
Lucien stepped in front of her.
"No," Amara said. "This time, I fight beside you."
She pulled both blades. One in each hand. Fire danced across her skin.
The Circle raised their hands.
Amara raised hell.