Iman didn't remember walking out of the library.
Her pulse still echoed with Lucien's words:
"You are not just mine. You are my tether."
She had stared into his eyes and seen something ancient-something aching. And now, her body moved as if guided by that invisible thread.
The garden was quiet. Too quiet.
Moonlight spilled across the roses, but they didn't sway. The air was thick, heavy with something she couldn't name.
She stepped onto the path, her fingers brushing the petals. They recoiled.
A gust of wind swept through the hedges, and with it came a whisper-not a voice, but a feeling. Cold. Familiar.
She turned.
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of the garden. Not Lucien. Not human.
Iman's breath hitched. Her voice trembled.
"Who's there?"
The figure tilted its head, as if amused.
"You've stirred the blood," it said. The voice was layered, like many speaking at once. "Now they will come."
Iman's breath caught. "Who?"
The figured didn't answer. It raised a hand and released something into the air-a single black feather.
It floated toward her, slow and deliberate, landing on her palm.
The roses shriveled. The moon dimmed. The air thickened.
And somewhere deep within the manor, a door slammed shut.
Iman turned to run-but the path was gone.
Only the whisper remained.
"Elara..."
She froze.
That name. She didn't know it. But it knew her.