Chapter 12
[Rogan’s Apartment—Past Midnight]
Pain came first. It was not sharp enough to make her scream, not sudden enough to startle her, just a deep, familiar ache that settled into her chest like it belonged there.
Lyra stood barefoot on cold stone, the ground slick beneath her feet as if it had been soaked by rain or blood.
The air was heavy and metallic, pressing into her lungs with every breath.
She never knew where she was, only that the place felt ancient.
A low sound echoed around her, distant at first, then closer.
It was not a scream or a cry, it was pain
She turned slowly, dread blooming in her chest as her gaze found him.
A man knelt at the center of the space with his head bowed and his dark hair hanging loose around his face.
His body was marked with wounds, deep gashes across his back, blood seeping into torn fabric and pooling beneath his knees.
He looked not weak but broken
Lyra’s chest tightened. This was the part that always hurt the most.
She took a step toward him, then another.
With every step, the ache in her ribs grew sharper, as if something inside her recognized him even when her mind didn’t.
“I am here,” she tried to say but her voice never carried in the dream.
The man shifted slightly with his breath hitching and shoulders tensing as if he sensed her presence.
And then slowly, too slowly he began to lift his head.
Lyra’s heart pounded.
This was always where the dream ended.
“Please,” she whispered, desperate now. “Let me see you p>
His face tilted up and Lyra jolted awake with a gasp.
She sat upright in bed, sheets tangled around her legs and heart racing violently against her ribs.
The room was dark and quiet with only the faint glow of the streetlight outside cutting across the wall.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest.
The ache lingered, it always did.
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back against the headboard, drawing in slow, steady breaths until the panic eased.
The nightmare wasn’t new. She had been having it for as long as she could remember, sometimes once a month, sometimes every few weeks. It always changed slightly, but the ending never did.
The man never showed his face.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed her arms, goosebumps prickling along her skin.
“Just a dream,” she murmured.
But even as she said it, unease settled deep in her bones.
Because the dream had felt closer tonight. It felt more vivid and more real.
[Outside]
Rogan didn’t sleep.
He sat at the small kitchen table long after the apartment had gone quiet, the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound keeping him company.
Lyra’s bedroom door was closed, light spilling faintly from beneath it before finally going dark.
A glass vial sat between his palms, half-empty. The potion inside shimmered faintly, its surface catching the light like something alive.
It had worked but barely.
Rogan rose and paced the length of the apartment. He stopped near the window, staring out into the city lights.
He had done that for years, lied gently, repeatedly, told himself the spells were enough, that the suppression would hold and that Lyra could live a normal life if he just kept her far enough from the truth.
But tonight something had shifted.
He returned to the table, uncorked the vial and the sharp scent of herbs and iron rose immediately.
He tilted it, studying the potion’s glow.
It was weaker than it had been a year ago. No, weaker than it had been a month ago.
Seraphile was right, the spell wasn’t failing because it was flawed. It was failing because Lyra was outgrowing it.
Rogan’s fingers curled into a fist. He had known this day would come and he had prepared for it.
But he had just hoped, foolishly, that would have more time.
He glanced toward Lyra’s room again before leaving the apartment.