The silence that followed London's death was suffocating.
Hope's scream still echoed faintly in the forest clearing where it had all happened—where London had stood between her and the enemy, and where he'd fallen.
Raphael stood frozen, blood dripping from a cut above his brow, his werewolf instincts raging to tear something apart. Hope had dropped to her knees, her hands trembling over the patch of scorched earth where London had vanished into flames.
He was gone.
There was no body.
Just heat... and ash.
"W-we have to go," Raphael said finally, his voice hoarse. "Whoever that was… they'll be back."
But Hope didn't move. She stared blankly at the ashes. "He saved me."
Raphael knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He was—he was brave. But you know he wasn't like us. He didn't stand a chance."
Hope clenched her fists. "Don't say that. He was more than you know."
She didn't understand it. London had never shown power. He had never fought. He was awkward, kind, and weirdly calm under pressure—but he was supposed to be human. So how did he vanish in fire?
"Hope!" a voice shouted from behind.
Stephen burst through the treeline, Daemon right behind him. They looked like they'd run across half the forest, weapons drawn and eyes burning with adrenaline.
"What happened?" Stephen gasped, looking around. "Where's the cinnamon bun?"
Hope looked up at him with wide, teary eyes.
"Gone," Raphael said grimly. "He... he died protecting her."
Stephen froze, his usual humor evaporating. "No. He didn't even like violence."
Daemon's face was unreadable. "Was it Trent?"
Hope nodded slowly. "But he was different. His eyes… he wasn't himself. Something controlled him."
"Possession spell?" Daemon asked.
"Or a blood curse," Stephen added. "This is Blackmoor—we collect enemies like it's a hobby."
Hope stood shakily. "We're not safe. None of us. We need to get back."
As the group made their way through the woods, Hope felt numb. She didn't cry anymore—there were no tears left. Just questions. Too many.
Why did London burn?
What was he really?
Back at the dorm, Jessa and Celeste were waiting—Jessa's eyes widened at the sight of Hope's torn clothes and Raphael's injuries.
"Where's London?" Celeste asked, looking around.
Nobody answered.
Celeste stepped back, horror dawning on her face. "No…"
"He saved me," Hope whispered. "And then… he just—he burned."
Jessa shook her head, trying to hold it together. "That doesn't make sense. That's not a witch's death. Not a vampire's. Not even a human's."
Daemon, always the serious one, muttered, "Unless he wasn't any of those."
Stephen crossed his arms, his voice unusually quiet. "Phoenixes are myths. Extinct. No one's seen one for centuries."
"What if he didn't know?" Hope said, her voice barely a whisper. "What if London didn't know he couldn't die?"
And then… the wind outside howled.
The lights flickered. A strange warmth spread through the room.
Stephen walked to the window and blinked.
"Uh… guys?" he said. "You're gonna want to see this."
They rushed to the window. Outside, in the middle of the Academy courtyard, where no one should be standing…
A boy was rising, naked, from a pile of glowing embers.
Hope's heart skipped a beat.
He stumbled to his feet, blinking in the firelight.
It was London.
Alive.
Again.
---