Iman's eyes fluttered open to darkness. The chamber was carved from stone, damp and suffocating, its silence broken only by the faint drip of water echoing in the distance. A circle of pale runes glowed beneath her, their cold light pressing against her skin like invisible chains. She wasn't bound by iron, but by something far stronger — a prison of power.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Cloaked in black, his voice was low and deliberate. "Iman," he said, savoring her name as though it were a weapon. "You are the key. Through you, Lucien will break."
Her heart thudded, but she lifted her chin. "You think I'll betray him?" Her voice trembled, yet defiance sharpened its edge.
The elder's smile was thin, cruel. "We think you will beg us before the end."
The runes flared brighter, shadows twisting into illusions around her — Lucien turning away, her clan fading into mist, the hollow silence of abandonment. The Order's magic pressed against her mind, whispering doubt.
Iman closed her eyes, shutting out the visions. She whispered his name like a prayer. Lucien. The sound steadied her, a spark of faith in the darkness.
Exhaustion pulled her under, and sleep claimed her.
She found herself standing in a meadow bathed in silver light, the air trembling with echoes of voices long gone. A figure approached through the haze — familiar, impossible. Elara.
"Elara…" Iman whispered, her voice breaking.
Her friend's presence was warm, yet fragile, as though woven from memory itself. "You dream, Iman," Elara said softly. "But dreams carry truth. I want you to see what happened to me."
The meadow shifted. Shadows twisted into fragments of the past: Elara surrounded by cloaked figures, her cries swallowed by the Order's chants. A flash of blood on stone, the cold silence of betrayal, and then — darkness.
Iman's chest tightened. "They killed you," she breathed, tears burning her eyes.
Elara reached out, her hand brushing Iman's cheek with ghostly tenderness. "Yes. But my strength did not die with me. Remember what they did, and do not let them break you. Survive, Iman. For Lucien. For yourself."
The vision flickered, the meadow fading back into shadow. Elara's voice lingered like a whisper in the wind: "They think death silenced me. But memory is stronger than their chains."
Iman woke with tears on her cheeks, her chest aching — but her spirit unbroken. The Order had taken Elara's life, but they could not take her courage. And now, that courage burned inside Iman like a hidden flame.
She lifted her head, eyes blazing with quiet defiance. "You will not break me," she whispered into the darkness. "Lucien will come. And when he does, you will regret ever touching us."