The Blackwell estate had always been haunted—by secrets, by blood, and now, by silence.
Amara moved through the west wing like a ghost herself. Since Lucien disappeared, she hadn't slept. The bond tethering them was fraying. She could feel it—like a heartbeat out of sync with her own.
Victor had grown colder too.
"You'll need to take control of the board soon," he told her that morning. "Power left unclaimed invites thieves."
But Amara wasn't worried about corporate thieves.
She was worried about the Watcher.
Because every night now, just past three in the morning, her bedroom door creaked open on its own. And every night, when she lit the warding flame, it flickered blue. A sign of cursed presence.
Tonight, she was ready.
She stood with a blade beneath her pillow, warding symbols on her walls.
When the door creaked, she didn't run. She waited.
And then… it stepped through.
A man, or what had once been one. Shadow for skin. Empty pits for eyes.
"Amara Blackwell," it rasped, voice like rust. "The Vault has fed. But it is still hungry."
She raised her blade.
"I won't let you touch me."
The creature laughed. "You already did. The moment you bled in the circle. The moment you woke him."
A shock ran through her.
Lucien.
"What are you?"
"I am what your ancestors buried and hoped to forget. I am the debt owed in blood."
It lunged. She slashed.
The blade struck true—but the shadow didn't vanish. It whispered one last thing before dissolving into smoke:
> "He will choose us, Amara. Not you."