Images crashed over me—vivid, fragmented, real.
Lazarus hovered over me in a darkened chamber, his hands moving with a ritual.A sudden sting, the warmth of blood trickling down my skin.Ancient, red, faintly glowing symbols etched onto my flesh, then fading into nothingness, like whispers lost to the wind.
“There were symbols…” My voice broke, the memory crawling from the shadows.“He marked me—with blood.On my arms… my chest.And then it was gone.”
“Blood runes,” Amir said quietly, as if naming them carried weight.“A rare healing rite.Ancient.Forbidden.Lazarus used them to save you—at a great cost.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, fingers trembling as if I could still feel the symbols beneath my skin, branded into my soul.
“Mary said I never left home…” I whispered, my voice cracking beneath the weight of betrayal.“She swore it.”
“Magic distorts memory,” Amir murmured, his grip on my hand tightening, anchoring me in the truth I had never known I needed.“He altered what you saw.How he put you back… made you believe you were there the entire time.”
The pieces of my past shifted like sand, slipping through the fingers of a woman who didn’t recognize the life she’d lived.Each memory fractured, realigned, leaving a tapestry I couldn’t decipher.
The revelation hung heavy in the room, a storm pressing against the walls, each word a leaden weight that tethered me to a reality I scarcely understood.
Amir’s eyes locked with mine, obsidian reflecting a sorrow older than time.“It was all Lazarus’ doing.He made you forget to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”The question slipped from my lips, born of fear and the ache of confusion.
Amir’s gaze darkened.“From Salvatore.”
The name fell like a stone, echoing in the silence.A shroud of dread wrapped around me, and I shivered, a cold finger tracing the length of my spine.A memory flashed—Salvatore in my father’s study, his malevolent gaze locked with Father’s, both men ensnared in a dance of power and deceit.The room.The tension.The promise of danger.
My hand flew to my mouth, stifling the gasp that clawed its way up.“Oh gods.”
Amir’s expression hardened, the protector awakening in him like fire stoked from embers.The lines of his face, carved by war and loss, now bore the fury of love’s vow.
“You’re safe, my love,” he said, his voice firm, a fortress built in sound.“Salvatore is hunting the person who crafted the Noctyss poison.”
He paused long enough for the truth to settle like ice in my veins.
“But he doesn’t know it’s you.”
His declaration sliced through the silence, ferocity forged into every syllable.It wasn’t just a truth—a shield, a ward against the darkness that still hunted us.It was as if by naming it aloud, Amir could make it permanent, forever locking the threat away.
“Lazarus cloaked your blood,” he continued, his voice low and unwavering.“To Salvatore, you are dead.It’s like you don’t exist.”
His words painted a stark image—me, a ghost in the eyes of a predator.Unseen.Untouched.Unreachable.
“You wouldn’t be seen as that person—the one who crafted the poison.”He searched my eyes, his dark gaze filled with something I couldn’t name—hope, fear, perhaps guilt.Maybe he was asking forgiveness for the life he was begging me to live—a life in hiding, wrapped in shadows, stripped of everything I had once been.
“But still… you must be careful.”His voice was a bell tolling in the night, its warning clear.“Danger is never far, Elizabeth.It prowls at the edges, watching.Waiting.”
I nodded, the truth of his words sinking deep into the marrow of my bones.Safety was a fragile illusion, a breath held in trembling silence.And I was the fulcrum, balanced precariously between peace and peril.
A shiver coursed through me, Amir’s revelations a heavy cloak draped over my shoulders.
“What must I do?”My voice cracked, barely audible over the drumbeat of my heart.
Amir’s hands clasped mine—strong, sure, yet heartbreakingly gentle.His touch was both a tether and a plea.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice solid with resolve, “you must stay away from alchemy.Live a normal life.Become a seamstress.Keep your head down.Avoid herbs, healing, and anything that draws attention.”
His words were a requiem—a burial hymn for the life I’d lived and the purpose I had breathed.Each one cut deeper, slicing into the core of who I was.
Tears welled up, spilling over like a dam breached by sorrow.
