The morning after the crypt, Magdalena's hands would not stop trembling.
She tried to sew. She tried to pray. She even tried to scrub the altar steps with blessed water, but the burn of the vision Lucien had shown her—her own luminous body, unbound and bathed in power—would not leave her.
That night had awakened something that now clawed at the inside of her skin, restless and hungry.
And worst of all, the part that terrified her wasn't Lucien.
It was herself.
She craved that feeling again—that strange sense of grandeur. For the first time in her life, she had felt whole.
She needed to confess.
The confessional booth stood silent and dark in the corner of the chapel, its wood cracked with age, velvet curtain moth-eaten and faded. But for her, it had always been a refuge. A place where she could lay her sins before God and feel the weight lift from her shoulders.
She stepped inside, the old wood creaking under her weight. The scent of incense and time filled her nose.
The screen slid open.
"Forgive me, Father," she began, her voice nearly a whisper, "for I have sinned."
Silence.
Then, a voice—rich, velvet-dark.
"Go on, Magdalena."
Her breath caught.
That voice wasn't Father Adriel's.
It was his.
Lucien.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, fear and fury mixing in her chest.
"I'm everywhere you are. You summoned me the moment you stepped into this box."
"I didn't summon anything. I came for forgiveness."
"From whom?" he asked gently. "The God who lets you suffer in silence? Who teaches you to fear your own fire? Or from yourself?"
"Stop," she breathed, pressing her hands to her ears. "You're not real."
"But I am. You know I am."
Silence hung thick between them.
Then she said, "Why me?"
"You were born with fire in your veins," Lucien replied. "You've simply never been shown how to burn."
His words curled into her chest, slow and smoldering.
"You're afraid," he continued, "but not of me. You're afraid of what you could become. Afraid of what you might do if you were truly free."
She clenched her jaw. "I'm not yours."
"No," he said, "but neither are you theirs."
Magdalena tore open the curtain and fled the chapel, her heart slamming against her ribs like a caged bird. Behind her, the shadows seemed to shift with laughter.
Later that night, as the abbey slumbered, she stood before the tall mirror in her chamber. Her reflection stared back, pale and uncertain.
She took off her veil.
Then the robe.
Then the silver talisman.
Her skin felt electric.
She touched her collarbone where Lucien's fingers had grazed her. The memory sparked a flood of heat in her stomach.
It wasn't just desire. It was defiance.
She wanted to know the truth—about herself, about him, about the powers that ruled above and below. She was done being a pawn in a game she didn't understand.
Still, she hesitated at her door.
But then—
Knock.
A soft sound.
Then a folded slip of parchment slipped under the door.
Magdalena lunged for it, heart hammering.
There were only three words scrawled in elegant, ink-black script:
"Come to me."
She should have burned it.
She dressed quickly and left through the servant corridor, her steps silent, sure.
The abbey groaned as if in warning, the wind curling through stone like a ghost.
Down the stairs. Through the arch.
The iron door to the crypt opened without a sound.
Lucien stood beneath the flickering candles again, this time wearing a black robe lined in red. His chest gleamed where it was bare beneath the neckline. The air trembled with something unspoken.
"You came," he said.
"Only for answers."
Lucien smiled.
"That's always how it starts."
He walked toward her, slow and graceful.
"You asked why I chose you. The truth is… I didn't."
She frowned.
"You chose me, Magdalena. Every time you questioned the silence of your prayers. Every time you looked at the stars and wondered what was real. Every time you dreamed of more."
He extended his hand.
"Let me show you what they've kept from you."
She didn't move.
"You're not asking for permission," she said.
"I'm offering liberation."
The air grew heavy with magic, with heat, with hunger.
"Will you say no?" he asked, eyes glowing faintly. "And return to your quiet cage?"
Her hand trembled. She reached out—slowly, deliberately—and placed it in his.
Power surged through her like lightning made of silk.
Lucien pulled her gently into the center of the circle.
Around them, the symbols on the walls began to glow, one by one.
"This is the first rite," he said. "Not of darkness. Of awakening."
"What do I have to do?"
He stepped closer. Their bodies nearly touched.
"Say your true name."
She blinked. "My name is Magdalena."
"No," he said. "That's the name they gave you. The name they buried you under. Your true name is the fire in your blood. The thunder in your soul. Speak it—and the chains will fall."
She tried.
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came.
Lucien's hand touched her heart.
"Feel it," he whispered.
Her knees buckled. She gasped.
And then—like a crack in her soul, like the shatter of stained glass—
She knew.
She spoke a word she didn't understand, didn't recognize, but which thundered off the crypt walls with ancient resonance.
The candles flared.
The air trembled.
Lucien smiled like a man who had waited centuries for this moment.
"Welcome back," he said softly.
Then everything went black.