Lyra hadn't slept—not truly. Her eyes had closed, but her mind had wandered into a world she didn't recognize, and yet... one she somehow did.
The same silver mist.
The same blood moon.
And this time, Raven's eyes weren't just watching from afar. They were staring right at her. Deep violet, piercing. Not cruel, not kind. Just curious. Just knowing.
When she woke, her fingers were tangled in her bedsheets, knuckles white from how tightly she gripped them. Her skin buzzed with leftover magic, her heartbeat synced to something that didn't belong in this realm.
The dreams weren't just dreams anymore.
At the Academy, every step she took felt misaligned. She dropped her ink bottle in spellcraft class. Her potion for grounding magic frothed into a violent shade of red instead of soft blue.
Mistress Vioren noticed. Of course she did.
"Your magic trembles," the elder witch said, narrowing her ancient eyes. "And you're trembling with it."
Lyra tried to deny it, but her voice cracked under the weight of unspoken truths. "I'm fine."
But she wasn't. She was unraveling. Slowly, but surely. And it wasn't just her.
Across the veil, Raven stood at the edge of the Moonspire cliffs, watching the crimson haze stretch unnaturally across the sky. It bled into the sea—an omen.
"Something's breaking," he murmured, not to anyone in particular.
"Or something is waking," said a voice behind him. Lucien, his second-in-command, the only one who dared to interrupt his silence.
Raven didn't reply. His thoughts were too loud. The vision of Lyra—the feel of her voice in his head during last night's dream—lingered longer than any haunting ever had.
And then, the wind shifted. It carried whispers. Her voice. Faint, distorted, but there.
He closed his eyes. Reached.
Lyra gasped in her world, stumbling mid-step in the middle of a crowded corridor. The mark on her shoulder, the one she thought had faded years ago, flared to life. Glowed under her skin.
A rune of forbidden origin.
A binding rune.
No one else saw it. But she felt it. Burning, humming, pulling.
"Raven," she whispered.
His name on her lips made no sense. She didn't know him.
Not really.
But her soul did.
In the vampire realm, Raven touched his chest. His pulse thundered—an unfamiliar sensation for the undead. He had lived centuries in calm detachment, but now his instincts stirred like a beast under moonlight.
Their bond—unexplained, forbidden—was calling louder than ever.
And something old… ancient and patient… was listening.
It watched from between realms, where time frayed and the old laws whispered in dust. The connection forming was not new, not random.
It was remembered.
It was feared.
And it would either heal the world… or tear it apart.