The rain had finally stopped. The rhythmic patter against the windshield faded into a haunting silence. Steam curled up from the wet asphalt, painting the streets in ghostly wisps. Neon signs glimmered in puddles like fractured constellations.
Zhypher Valestryn sat in the driver's seat of his sleek black Audi, the leather interior closing around him like a cocoon. His fingers rested on the steering wheel, tense and unmoving, as if even the smallest motion might release the storm trapped inside his chest.
Ring. Ring.
The screen on his dashboard lit up—Rowan.
Zhypher exhaled through his nose and tapped the steering wheel control. "Yeah?"
"Zhypher, where are you?" Rowan's voice was tight. Breathless. Off.
"I'm on my way home," Zhypher replied, forcing a dry chuckle. "Had that meeting with the Draviens, remember? I'm not running away, Rowan. Why do you sound like a funeral bell?"
Rowan didn't laugh. "Your father found out about the land."
The wheel creaked under Zhypher's tightening grip.
"He's demanding to see you now. And—he's already reopened the deal with them."
Zhypher slammed the brakes, the Audi lurching to a halt in the middle of the deserted road. The seatbelt dug into his shoulder as the car jerked. Outside, rainwater dripped from the edge of the windshield like grains of sand falling through an hourglass.
"What?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "He's selling it again?"
Silence stretched over the line.
Zhypher swallowed, his voice rough. "Why doesn't he remember the people who once lived there? It's only been four years. How can he forget what we fought for—who we lost?"
Rowan stayed quiet, as if silence could soften the truth.
"Why doesn't he ever think about what it cost me?" Zhypher's voice cracked, betraying the rawness beneath his fury. "He knows I can't—"
"Zhypher," Rowan cut in, gentler now. "You need to come. Now. Before he finishes what you tried to protect."
The call ended abruptly.
Zhypher sat frozen.
That land wasn't just soil and stone. It was blood. It was memory. It was her.
He rolled down the window, letting the damp, cold air rush in. The rain-washed scent of earth seeped into the car, grounding him. He inhaled, slow and deep—then stopped.
The breeze carried something else.
Wild jasmine. Amber. Rain-soaked roses.
His wolf surged awake inside him, claws raking at his ribs, a deep, primal roar vibrating in his chest.
Fiora.
His mate.
His heart skipped, then pounded hard enough to hurt. His breath caught in his throat. He hadn't felt that scent in four years—not since the day she vanished. Not since the day he buried his hope alongside everything else they'd lost.
He shoved the door open and stepped out into the misty dusk. Steam rose from the road in soft coils, the lamplight above cutting through the haze in fractured beams. His sharp senses locked on to the invisible thread pulling him forward, every step heavier with disbelief and rising, desperate hope.
The trail led him down a narrow side street choked with weeds, past the bones of forgotten buildings, until it stopped at the gates of an old, crumbling church. Its bell tower leaned as if in surrender, vines clawing up the stone like they were trying to drag it back into the earth.
The scent was stronger now—thick, undeniable.
Zhypher pushed the rusted gate open with a groan of iron and stepped onto the moss-slick path. His boots echoed faintly against the cracked stone.
Then he saw her.
Beneath the arch of the fallen bell tower, a girl lay curled on the damp ground. Her dark hair was streaked with mud, clinging to her pale face. She looked fragile, almost breakable, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
Zhypher's pulse roared in his ears. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he brushed the wet strands away from her face.
Fiora.
Even in ruin, she was breathtaking. Her skin caught what little light there was, soft and pale under the shadow of the tower. Long lashes trembled against her cheeks as though she dreamed of someplace far away.
"You're alive…" His voice broke, the words tumbling out like a prayer he didn't dare hope would be answered. "My goddess—you're alive."
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, those unforgettable silver eyes opened, hazy but alert enough to meet his storm-grey gaze.
Zhypher leaned closer, afraid that moving too fast might shatter the fragile reality before him. "Fiora," he breathed. "It's me… Zhypher."
She blinked.
Her brows furrowed, confusion darkening her gaze. "Who… who are you?"
He froze. "You don't remember me?" His voice shook. "It's me, Fiora. I'm your—"
"I'm not Fiora," she said quickly, pushing herself up on her elbows. "I'm Monic. Where am I? What are you trying to do?"
The words hit him like a blade.
"That's not possible. Fiora, please—don't you remember anything? Our bond? You—"
She jerked away as his hand reached for hers, panic sparking in her eyes. "Don't touch me!"
Her voice was sharp, edged with fear. And then, with strength he hadn't expected, she shoved him back.
He stumbled, his boots slipping on the wet moss, and fell hard. His skull struck the cold stone with a sickening crack. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
The world tilted violently.
Through the spinning haze, he saw her get to her feet. The church door creaked, swinging on its ancient hinges, and then closed with a hollow thud.
Her silhouette was swallowed by the mist outside.
"Fiora…" he whispered, though his voice was barely a breath.
The scent of jasmine and rain still lingered, wrapping around him like a cruel ghost. But the weight of it was different now—emptier, heavier.
His vision darkened, the cold stone seeping into his bones as he lay beside the broken altar. Somewhere far away, the wind rattled the rotting wood, and the world went black.