Magdalena stood still in the aftermath of the Rite of Fire, her breath slow, her body humming with power. Every nerve in her skin tingled, not from pain, but from awareness—as though she could feel the pulse of the world itself beneath her feet.
Lucien watched her from the edge of the silver rune circle, eyes smoldering with a quiet, dangerous pride. She wasn't the same woman who had been dragged into the crypt. That version had died in silence, buried beneath centuries of obedience.
What stood now was rebirth.
"I feel it," she said, voice low. "Like something ancient waking up in my blood."
Lucien stepped forward. "That's because it is. You were born with a gift they tried to strangle in your cradle. But no flame can be forever suffocated."
She turned to him, golden eyes catching the flickering light. "What did they fear I would become?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he raised his hand and motioned toward the wall. A section of it dissolved like smoke, revealing a vision—not a painting or a mirror, but a living image, suspended in the air.
It was her—but not as she was now.
This Magdalena was cloaked in black fire, her wings—yes, wings—unfurled wide, obsidian feathers catching starlight. She stood in a ruined chapel, surrounded by broken altars and fallen priests. Around her, people knelt—not in worship, but in surrender. Power rippled from her skin like heat.
"She's me," Magdalena whispered. "But I don't remember…"
Lucien's voice was soft. "Because memory is the first thing they steal when they fear your return."
She stepped toward the vision, raising a trembling hand to it.
As her fingertips grazed the edge of the image, a sudden pain struck her chest. She gasped, clutching at her sternum, falling to one knee. Lucien was beside her instantly.
"It's beginning," he said, voice both grim and excited.
"What is?" she hissed through clenched teeth.
"The Mark."
She tore open the neckline of her dress as heat flared beneath her skin. There, above her heart, something was being written in fire.
A symbol—no, a sigil—carved itself in luminous gold. It shimmered like ink made of flame, the edges writhing as though alive. It was beautiful. Terrible.
"The world will see you now," Lucien said. "Even the blind will feel it."
"I didn't ask for this," she said, shaking.
"But you chose it," he replied. "The moment you kissed me. The moment you faced the Mirror. The moment you stopped kneeling."
He touched the sigil gently. Her breath caught.
"You are marked," he whispered. "Not just as mine—but as your own."
The pain ebbed, replaced by a powerful hum that radiated through her spine. She rose slowly, stronger now.
"What happens next?" she asked.
Lucien's mouth curled into a smile that was equal parts lust and prophecy.
"Now we go to war."
She blinked. "War?"
"With those who buried you. Who branded desire as sin. Who sell salvation like a poisoned fruit."
"But I'm just one woman—"
"You were one woman," he cut in. "Now you are a force."
The image on the wall faded, and in its place appeared a map—an ancient landscape drawn in shadow and flame.
He pointed to a mark on the western edge. "Here lies the Sanctum of the First Thorn. The priestess who presided over your burial still reigns there."
Magdalena narrowed her eyes. "Sister Judith."
Lucien nodded. "She was once mortal. Now she drinks from the same poisoned chalice that chained you. If we do not stop her, she will sense your awakening and destroy everything you touch."
Magdalena clenched her fists. "Then we go now."
Lucien reached out and gripped her wrist.
"Not yet."
His touch sent a current up her arm. Their eyes locked. For a moment, the war faded, and it was just the two of them again, bound in something deeper than lust—something ancient and unfinished.
"You must be armed, Magdalena. Not just in body, but in soul."
A tremor of uncertainty touched her voice. "How?"
He raised his other hand. A dagger appeared—black as sin, slick with shadows. Its blade was narrow, elegant, and the hilt bore the same sigil that now burned on her chest.
"This was forged in the heart of the First Rebellion," he said. "By a woman who tore out a god's tongue for lying."
Magdalena stared at the weapon. "And you're giving it to me?"
He nodded. "Not giving. Returning. It was yours once."
She reached for it—and the moment her fingers closed around the hilt, the blade flared to life.
Images poured into her mind: fire-lit battles, whispered spells, lips meeting in sacred fury. She saw herself leading armies not of men, but of outcasts. Witches. Oracles. Fallen angels who sang of freedom in tongues forbidden by heaven.
Her knees buckled. Lucien steadied her again.
"Do you remember now?"
She met his gaze, something ancient shining in her eyes.
"Yes."
The blade pulsed. The air around her thickened with energy. Lucien stepped back, watching her with something close to reverence.
"You were never meant to be a lamb," he said. "You were always the fire that would burn the altar."
Magdalena turned to the mirror once more, but now, she didn't flinch from her reflection.
She was no longer the girl who trembled beneath judgment.
She was power incarnate.
She was wrath with wings.
And as she looked into the image, she saw something else flicker in the distance—another sigil, buried under stone, glowing faintly.
Another woman. Another prisoner.
She turned to Lucien.
"There are others like me."
He nodded. "So many. Forgotten. Shackled. Waiting for the spark."
She lifted the dagger, the flame dancing along its edge.
"Then let's light the world."