The Piemonte Hospital in Messina was shrouded in the muffled silence of the pre-dawn hours—that fleeting moment when the veil between life and death grows as thin as gauze. In the intensive care unit, the only sound was the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, yet the air was heavy, saturated with a static electricity that made the hair on one's arms stand on end. Belinda sat beside Elia's bed, her hands still intertwined with her husband's, feeling the warmth slowly returning to his fingers.
Elia had not yet fully opened his eyes, but his consciousness seemed to be surfacing from a profound abyss, bringing with it secrets that had remained buried beneath the mud for generations. His breathing, though assisted, had shifted in tone: it was no longer the gasp of a drowning man, but the breath of one searching for the words of a final warning.
"Belinda…"
Elia's whisper was so faint that she had to lean in until her ear brushed against his parched lips.
"I'm here, Elia. Don't strain yourself; the doctors say you must rest."
He shook his head slightly, a movement almost imperceptible. "There is no time for rest. The pier has fallen, but the root is exposed. You must know… about that boy. About Oliver."
Belinda stiffened. The name Oliver, spoken there, in that room steeped in Sicilian drama, sounded alien yet profoundly necessary.
"Oliver is with Azzurra, Elia. He saved her. He's a good boy; he's carrying the weight of the Draunara for her."
Elia gripped Belinda's hand with a sudden, almost painful strength. His eyes snapped open, glassy but burning with a feverish lucidity. "It is no accident, Belinda. Nothing in the Strait is an accident. Samuele… my father… he wasn't the only one building lighthouses. In 1908, after the great earthquake, engineers arrived from all over Europe to rebuild Messina. Among them was an Englishman, a man named Ward."
Belinda felt a glacial shiver race up her spine. Ward. Oliver's surname.
"Samuele and Ward worked together on the old Lighthouse at the pier," Elia continued, his voice growing firmer, fueled by a memory that seemed to incinerate the drugs in his bloodstream. "But Ward did not understand the Sicilian sea. He wanted to tame it with steel and calculation, while Samuele knew one had to listen to it. They fought. Ward cursed this land, saying the concrete would never hold without a foreign soul to act as a counterweight. He left, taking the secret blueprints of the lantern with him."
Belinda listened, paralyzed. The story she thought she knew was splintering, revealing a much older and more complex tapestry.
"Oliver is his descendant, Belinda. The blood of the Wards has returned to claim its share of the debt. When Azzurra dances and Oliver supports her, it isn't just young love. It is the circle closing. English steel and Sicilian mud have finally reunited. But there is a price. Oliver isn't just helping Azzurra; he is the missing piece of the Lighthouse. If he falls, the Lighthouse will never shine again. The Draunara has recognized him. It is using him as a bridge between the past and the present."
At that moment, the heart monitor jolted. Elia coughed, a cavernous sound that seemed to echo from the very foundations of the villa at Sant'Alessio. "You must tell him, Belinda. You must tell that boy he is no stranger. He is the Keeper of the Lantern. Without him, Azzurra will burn from within. The heat he feels on his arms… it is the light of the Lighthouse trying to break through his flesh."
Belinda felt the weight of this revelation crush her. She had left her daughter in the hands of a boy who carried in his blood the same curse that had decimated her family. He was not an external savior; he was an integral part of the tragic mechanism of the Draunara.
She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling as she searched for Oliver's contact. She had to warn them. While Oliver's car sped toward the cliffs of Dover, the truth was traveling faster than they were through the radio waves.
"Elia, rest now. I understand. I will find them. I will bring them both home."
Elia closed his eyes, his duty as a messenger exhausted. His breathing returned to a regular, almost serene pace, as if releasing that secret had untied a knot in his chest.
Belinda stepped out into the hospital corridor, looking out the window toward the Strait. The lights of Messina seemed to flicker differently now. This was no longer just a battle against Erica, against greedy developers, or against bureaucracy. It was a rite of reconciliation that demanded the blood of two different lands.
She called Oliver. The phone rang hollow three times, then the boy's voice, tense and surging with adrenaline, answered.
"Signora Belinda? We're almost at Dover. Maya is looking for a way to board the car, but there are patrols everywhere."
"Oliver, listen to me carefully," Belinda said, her voice as steady as Nonna Anna's during an incantation. "You are not there by chance. Your family, the Wards… they owe a debt to this sea. The heat you feel, the burns… they are not a sickness. They are your inheritance. You are the Keeper of the Lantern, Oliver. Without you, Azzurra cannot finish the dance. Never let her go, no matter what happens. Not even if you feel the fire eating you alive."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Oliver looked at his arms, where the violet marks were beginning to pulse with a golden, almost solar light beneath the skin. He looked at Azzurra, sleeping exhausted in the back seat of his car.
"I feel it, Signora Belinda," Oliver replied, and his voice was no longer that of a frightened eighteen-year-old, but that of a man who has accepted his destiny. "I've felt it since I first touched the mud at the Richmond. I'm not a Ward of London tonight. I am a Ward of the Strait. I will get Azzurra to that pier, even if it's the last thing I ever do."
Belinda hung up. She knew the war had just entered its mystical phase. While she remained beside Elia, the past and the future were racing toward each other in a dark sedan through the English mists. The Lighthouse had found its Keepers, but the sea still demanded a tribute. And the tribute, as Samuele had always known, was made of bone, concrete, and the indomitable will of those who are not afraid to burn in order to provide light.