Ashyra couldn’t sleep.
Long after they’d left the ruins, after the visions faded and the shades vanished into dust, she lay awake in the small outpost nestled deep in the mountains, staring at the wooden ceiling. Her fingers itched with the memory of the mark, of the raw truth that had seared itself into her bones.
Break the cycle, or be consumed by it.
She didn’t know what the cycle was. Not entirely. But she felt the edges of it now—saw it in the way her and Stephan’s bond had triggered chaos, how the past bled into the present in dreams, echoes, and curses. Something old had tied them together. Not just fate.
History.
A knock sounded at her door.
She didn’t need to ask who it was. “Come in,” she called softly.
Stephan stepped inside, shirtless, his hair tousled from sleep. He loo
