The sky was a bloodied canvas above the abbey, stars drowned in crimson light. Magdalena's breaths came shallow and fast as she stood in the center of the ritual circle, the silver runes on the stone floor glowing faintly beneath her bare feet. Lucien's touch lingered at the edge of her senses even though he had stepped back to complete the markings.
"It's nearly time," he murmured, eyes gleaming with restrained power. "The eclipse will pull the veils between realms taut. If we don't open the gate by then—"
"You'll be trapped here. Forever."
Magdalena didn't say it with fear. She said it with understanding. The truth had settled between them like fine ash—suffocating, but strangely comforting. He had come to her as temptation. He had stayed for something else.
Lucien walked to her slowly, reverently, his footsteps echoing like the beat of a second heart. "If I fail, they'll come for me. The Thrones. The Seraphim. And this world will be their battleground."
"And if we succeed?" she asked.
"Then you'll become more than flesh and vow. You'll be the one who opened Heaven's throat and whispered rebellion."
A shiver of desire and dread ran down her spine. Their lips met like lightning strikes—wild and burning—and the world tilted beneath them. Lucien's hands traced fire down her back, and Magdalena pulled him closer with the ferocity of someone who had already fallen and no longer cared where she landed.
The ancient magic responded, pulsing beneath their feet. Sigils on the walls blazed white. Candles hissed and flared, though no flame had touched them. The heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath.
In the center of the circle, Magdalena knelt, and Lucien before her. Their hands locked. Their eyes met. And she began to speak the words he'd taught her.
"In tenebris lux mea est... Aperi portam inter caelum et abyssum... Veni."
The stones trembled beneath them. The air thickened like honey, charged with energy too old to name. A crack split the chapel wall, spiderwebbing through the icon of Saint Elara.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—Sister Agnes.
"Magdalena!" she cried out. "What have you done?"
The circle reacted violently. A ring of fire erupted, sealing Magdalena and Lucien inside. Sister Agnes shrieked, shielding her face from the heat.
"She's opening a gate," Lucien said coldly. "And you, Sister, are not invited."
But Agnes stepped forward anyway. She had always feared Magdalena's strength. Now she feared her destiny. And jealousy, like holy fire, burned bright.
"No!" Agnes shouted, and threw the vial of holy water at the circle.
The collision was instant and deafening. Light exploded outward. Magdalena screamed as pain seared her mind. Lucien's hand gripped hers tighter. "Hold on!" he roared.
But in the blast, their hands were torn apart.
Lucien staggered backward, blood dripping from his temple, wings—great black things—erupting from his back in fury and desperation. His disguise shattered. His true form emerged in all its glory and dread.
"Lucien!" Magdalena cried, crawling to the edge of the circle.
He looked down at her, eyes wild with pain and longing.
"I'm slipping back, Magdalene. They're pulling me into the Void."
"Then take me with you!" she sobbed.
But he couldn't.
With a roar that shook the heavens, he vanished.
The fire died. The sigils went dark. Silence returned like a curtain.
Magdalena collapsed.
Sister Agnes fled.
And the eclipse reached its zenith.
She awoke three days later.
The world had changed. The air tasted different—charged, broken. The abbey stood silent, cloaked in a veil of unease. Alaric was gone. So were the other sisters. All except one.
Agnes.
Magdalena found her by the altar, head bowed in prayer.
"You ruined everything," Magdalena said, voice hoarse.
"I saved your soul," Agnes replied without looking up.
"You damned us all."
Magdalena turned and left her. She had no interest in prayers now. She had seen too much. Felt too much.
That night, she returned to the circle. The sigils were faint, but they still whispered to her. The veil might have closed—but not completely. And as she placed her hand on the stone, a warm breath danced across her cheek.
She turned. No one there.
But in the corner of the chapel, a single feather lay on the floor.
Black. Glowing faintly.
Lucien.
He wasn't gone. Not entirely.
And she would find a way to bring him back.
Even if it cost her soull.