"The past never sleeps. It just waits for silence."
—Almond
Kairo's breath was thin. Barely there.
Almond sat cross-legged on the cold altar floor, his head in her lap. Her hands hovered over his chest, glowing faintly, trying to seal the wounds with what little healing magic she hadn't buried under rage.
But he was colder than memory.
His skin was bruised from years of captivity—skin she'd once traced like scripture. There were sigils etched into him now, deep and crude, burned into his collarbones, his ribs, his soul.
"How long?" she whispered, brushing sweat from his brow.
"Since the rooftop," he rasped. "Since the night I said I'd kill for you."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in years…
She cried.
The Prophet hadn't just taken Kairo's body.
He had fed on his love—turned it into something sour and weaponized. Kairo was tethered to Almond through spellcraft now, bound by obsession turned ritual, devotion turned torment.
Every memory she buried?
The Prophet dug up and corrupted.
Across the city, Aren stood in front of a mirror.
Naked. Bruised. Lost.
Her sigil throbbed over his heart like a wound that refused to close.
He hadn't eaten in days.
Every time he tried, Almond's voice would crawl down his throat like silk and ash.
"Why are you so weak, Aren?"
"Don't you want to be mine?"
He slammed his fist into the wall.
Then he laughed. Laughed.
Because it felt good.
The pain. The punishment.
It reminded him of her.
He stumbled to the motel desk, writing one word on a torn napkin in red ink:
Obey.
Then he tattooed it into his wrist.
No gloves. No care. Just ink and blood.
Because he needed to feel owned.
And Almond? She owned him without trying.
Back in the church, Kairo stirred.
"She thinks you're strong," he whispered.
Almond blinked. "Who?"
He turned to look at her.
His eyes were dull. Dead. Something else speaking through him.
"The Prophet's daughter."
Almond froze.
"No," she breathed.
Not her.
Not Velda.
Flashback.
Nineteen. Almond. Red dress. Black lipstick. A masquerade party in Prague. A girl with white-blonde hair, sharp nails, and too much confidence. Almond had kissed her against a statue of a burning angel. They danced barefoot through a garden of cursed roses. They had laughed, fucked, bled, and broken something beautiful together.
Velda.
The Prophet's child.
Her ex-lover.
The one Almond left without a note.
Present.
Kairo's body tensed.
"She wants revenge. She wants you in the Prophet's hands."
"No," Almond whispered. "She wants my heart. And she can't have it."
Thunder cracked above the church.
A second sigil lit under Kairo's spine.
And in that moment, Almond knew:
If she didn't sever the bond now, he'd die.
Or worse—become something else.
She kissed his forehead.
Then she pulled the dagger from her boot and sliced open her palm.
She pressed it to his mouth.
"Drink," she ordered.
He hesitated.
"Kairo—DRINK."
He obeyed.
Almond's blood hit his tongue like molten sugar and sin.
And for a moment, the sigils stopped glowing.
But only for a moment.
Because now, the altar caught flame.
Miles away, The Prophet stood in a chamber of bone and light.
He smiled as the candle snuffed itself out.
"She remembers," he said.
Velda stepped from the shadows behind him, dressed in black silk, her lip pierced with an onyx spike.
"I'll bring her home."