Amara's POV
Lucian pulled the motorcycle to stop at the crest of the ridge. The road ended there—giving way to stone stairway carved into the side of the mountain, each step etched with runes that shimmered faintly under the pale moonlight. The summit waited above, veiled in mist, whispering with breath of something ancient.
We dismounted together. The air was colder here, almost humming with unseen power. As we approached the first step, Lucian suddenly stopped. His molten-gold eyes flickered with recollection, and without a word, he kneel down.
I watch him, puzzled, as he begin unbuckling his boots. “Wait…are we not allowed to wear shoes here?”, I asked quietly.
He’s not answering right away. When he look up, there’s a reverence in his expression. “This place is sacred,” he said. “On
