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"You're not afraid of me?" the boy whispered, his eyes too pale, too piercing.
Lysara shook her head. "Why would I be?"
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Because one day, I'll haunt you in every mirror you pass."
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The graveyard on the cliffs of Narethmoor was a place untouched by sun, even at noon.
Mist curled like spectral fingers around the tombstones, and a black sea churned far below the drop. Lysara Vale dismounted her horse, boots crunching on the frost-slick earth. Behind her, the Inquisitorial guards held formation, but none dared step forward.
"Are you certain he's here?" one asked, voice hushed.
Lysara didn't answer. She was already moving—drawn not by orders, but by something older. Something that had once whispered her name in dreams.
Something she had never buried properly.
A faint tune drifted on the wind. A haunting hum — low, slow, seductive. The type that settled beneath your skin and stayed there. The type that knew you.
She followed it beyond the mausoleums, past a crumbling statue of a weeping saint.
There he stood.
Leaning against a cracked crypt door like he belonged there, the figure was tall and draped in black silk. He wore no armor. His shirt, deep violet, was open to the navel, revealing a collarbone marked with ink — twisting, unholy symbols that shimmered like they were breathing.
Long, dark hair fell in waves down his back, but it was the eyes that held her: ghost-pale, almost silver, set in a face that was too elegant to be real.
When he smiled, it was slow. Pleased.
"Lysara Vale," he drawled. "Still chasing shadows, or have you finally come to let me bury yours?"
"Kaelen," she said his name like a curse. "You were exiled."
He stepped forward, boots silent despite the gravel. "Oh, I was. For saving a boy you condemned. What irony, considering who you spend your nights dreaming of now."
Her spine stiffened. "You don't know anything about me."
Kaelen stopped inches from her. He was taller now, more filled out than the wraith-thin acolyte she'd known. And yet...the same coiling menace remained, as though he could strip souls with a glance.
"I know you burn for the boy with blood on his hands," he whispered, reaching up to toy with a lock of her hair. "And I know you tried to forget me. But guilt has a scent, Lysara, and yours has led me through fire."
She slapped his hand away. "You're a traitor."
"And you're a hypocrite," he said with a wicked grin. "Tell me, how many nights did you pray after what we did in the ruins? Did you beg forgiveness for me, or just yourself?"
The air grew colder.
Behind her, the guards shifted uneasily, hands near blades. But Kaelen ignored them.
He leaned in until his lips brushed her temple. "I still remember the taste of your name."
Her breath hitched — involuntary, infuriating. "If you came here to die, I can arrange it."
He laughed, rich and indulgent. "Darling, I didn't come here to die. I came because he sent for me."
Silence.
She didn't need to ask who.
Dren.
Kaelen's smile turned predatory. "He's gathering his wolves, you know. The ones he marked with kindness and cruelty. And me? I'm both. Perhaps that's why he likes me best."
"You're lying."
He stepped back, turning to face the sea. "Am I? Or are you just afraid of what happens when all the ghosts come home?"
Lightning cracked the sky. Rain began to fall — slow at first, then harder.
But Kaelen remained untouched, face lifted to the storm as if it baptized him.
"I'll see you soon, High Inquisitor," he murmured. "Save me a place at the gallows… or in your bed."
Then he vanished into the fog, as if the graveyard had swallowed him whole.