The wind screamed like a dying god through the broken spires of the Obsidian Temple, and rain pounded the stone like fists trying to get in. Lysander stood in the corridor just beyond the main gate, shrouded in shadow, gloved fingers resting loosely on the windowsill. His reflection flickered in the lightning—pale, distant, unreadable.

The last week had carved new hollows into him. The witches had been crueler in her absence, testing the boundaries of what they could get away with. They always pushed harder when Seraphine was gone. And she had been gone for seven days, drawn into the wildwood for the Trial of the Eclipsed Star—an ancient rite said to grant power at a steep price. He hadn't eaten much. Hadn’t spoken a word. He’d barely slept, only sharpening his knives and feeding the crows.

But tonight, the wind shifted. Something in it changed.

A flicker of movement beyond the outer wards. Then—lightning struck, and for a split second, her silhouette appeared against the storm.

She stepped through the wards with a presence that made the very storm seem to hesitate.

Seraphine.

Her appearance was more terrible and beautiful than he remembered. Her long black hair clung to her face, wet from the rain, strands wrapping around a crown of obsidian and gold, adorned with curling, demonic horns and glimmering orbs of magic. Her eyes were darker now—deeper, as if they had glimpsed something beyond time—and streaks of black ceremonial ink trailed like veins from them down her cheeks. Her dress was shadow-wrought, layered in thorns and feathers, gilded veins of gold magic pulsing softly across her chest and shoulders. Chains and jewels wrapped her like the spoils of a conquered world.

She was no longer just the daughter of the High Witch. She looked like a queen from a forgotten age.

Their eyes met across the stone courtyard, thunder cracking above them. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

But in his chest, something unfroze.

She was back.