Amara laughed.
A cold, shocked laugh that sounded more like a defense mechanism than amusement.
"Oh my God," she said, brushing her fingers through her curls. "You and Isla are really committing to this whole thing. Seriously—did you guys plan this for my birthday? 'Let's mess with Amara and pretend there's a curse and reincarnations and ancient assassins'? Very creative."
Nico's face stayed frozen.
Still. Tired.
Broken.
Amara tilted her head. "Come on, Nico. You expect me to believe you're supposed to kill me? What next, Isla's secretly a broomstick-riding witch with a cat named Salem?"
He stepped forward, voice low. "Amara—"
She cut him off, her voice rising, panic seeping beneath the sarcasm. "Stop. Just stop."
He didn't move.
"Go ahead," she continued, laughing bitterly. "Tell me I'm some reincarnated love interest of your magical professor bestie. Tell me we've been playing Russian roulette with my life every lifetime. God, this is so movie-script bad. You even dragged Isla into it."
Her words stabbed deeper than she realized.
Because Nico didn't flinch.
Didn't argue.
Didn't try to deny it.
He just looked… defeated.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I wish it was a joke too."
That night, Amara lay in bed, tossing beneath her sheets.
She clutched her phone.
No messages from Nico.
No apology for the "prank."
Nothing.
Her heart was racing. Her thoughts wouldn't stop spinning.
Then… a cold breeze swept across her room.
The window hadn't been open.
She sat up—
—and screamed.
Lucian Vale stood at the edge of her bed, cloaked in shadow, eyes darker than night itself.
"Quiet," he said calmly. "You'll wake the house."
She clutched her pillow like a weapon. "What the hell?!"
"I needed to see you."
"Breaking and entering isn't romantic, professor!"
He looked her over — like she was some sacred artifact that he didn't trust the world to hold.
"You saw it, didn't you?"
She froze. "Saw what?"
"Your death."
She didn't answer.
He stepped closer, the floor groaning beneath his boots. "Do you believe me now?"
"No," she whispered. "I don't believe anything. I think I'm being played. By you. By Nico. Even Isla. Maybe this is just a weird, twisted birthday stunt."
Lucian paused. Then quietly said, "You were wearing a red ribbon. When it happened. That night. The first time. Do you remember?"
Her throat went dry.
Because she did. The dream. The flash.
And the ribbon.
Lucian's voice dropped lower. "You smiled at me, even with blood in your mouth. You told me it wasn't my fault."
Amara backed up until her spine hit the wall. "No. You couldn't know that. That was a dream. A—a glitch in my brain."
Lucian's fingers brushed his coat lapel. "You died in my arms, Amara. Over and over. And I let it happen every time, because I believed I had no right to fight fate."
She stared at him, heart in her throat.
"I'm done being obedient to destiny," he said. "Even if you hate me for it."
Across town, Isla sat cross-legged in the middle of a glowing circle.
The ghostly voice of her ancestor — Liliane, the witch who had started this — echoed in the candle-lit room.
"She's remembering."
"I know," Isla whispered.
"She'll choose him again."
Isla's jaw clenched. "Maybe she won't."
"You're growing weak."
"I'm growing human."
The candlelight flickered violently.
Amara stood in the bathroom later that night, brushing her teeth.
Then she noticed it.
A faint glow.
Right on her collarbone.
She wiped her mouth and leaned in to the mirror.
There, where her skin had always been unmarked, a symbol was forming — something ancient, something that pulsed softly with warmth.
She ran her fingers over it.
It tingled.
A part of her whispered, You've worn this before.