The sun cast a gentle golden hue across the sprawling Landon Estate gardens, its warm touch kissing the dew-kissed petals of the blooming flora. Birds chirped in distant harmony as Lysandra walked slowly through the stone paths, her fingers brushing over soft leaves, the air crisp with life.
She felt… serene.
For the first time since arriving in Santossa, there was no tightness in her chest. No sickness pulling at her bones. The child inside her—silent and calm—no longer clawed at her for blood or balance. Her body had stopped warring against itself.
And for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
But as she wandered deeper, her steps slowed. In one hidden corner of the estate garden, beyond the arch of white roses, she found a patch where the life had dimmed—withered blossoms, dry soil, and brittle stems slumped in despair.
A frown tugged at her lips. Instinctively, she knelt down.
Lysandra raised her hand, eyes soft and focused. With a breath, a gentle pulse of magic shimmered from her fingertips. Pale golden light flowed into the soil, curling around the dying plants like a lover's embrace. Within seconds, the wilted flowers unfurled. Petals bloomed. Color returned. Life surged once more.
"Impressive," came a voice from behind.
Startled, Lysandra stood quickly—only to find Maika stepping from the nearby pavilion, her sharp eyes glinting with intrigue, not judgment.
Maika smiled faintly, folding her arms. "That wasn't just garden magic… that was restorative."
Lysandra bit her lip. Her secret fluttered dangerously close to the surface.
Maika moved closer, eyes never leaving the young witch. "That kind of power—healing, revival—it's not ordinary. It runs in bloodlines. Specific ones. Only the Carellos and the Moonwells ever bore that gift."
Lysandra's gaze dropped. She could lie. She should lie. But something about Maika—the steady presence, the unexpected warmth—made her chest loosen.
"I inherited it," Lysandra said softly. "From my Father's bloodline."
Maika froze.
"I wasn't supposed to show everyone what magic do I have," Lysandra continued, voice barely above a whisper. "When my parents realized I had the rare regenerative magic—the kind that could reverse death itself—they concealed it. They told no one. The Council would never allow a mage like me to live freely thinking I possessed that kind of magic."
Silence fell between them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"You can bring back the dead?" Maika asked, her voice laced with awe and dread.
Lysandra nodded slowly. "Yes. But it comes at a cost. Every time I reverse death, a life must be exchanged… a price taken by the universe itself. It alters nature. It… twists fate."
Maika took a step back, breath caught in her throat. "And your family kept this secret all these years?"
"They had to," Lysandra said, tears stinging her eyes. "To protect me. To protect anyone I might one day love."
Maika stared at the girl—no, the woman—before her. So young. So dangerous. So precious. A bearer of a miracle… and a potential disaster.
She exhaled, her expression unreadable.
"Lysandra," she said quietly, "you must never tell anyone else. Not Caveen. Not Carl. Not even your own child one day. This is knowledge that kills kingdoms. This is the kind of truth the Council would burn entire bloodlines to bury."
Lysandra nodded, trembling.
But Maika wasn't finished.
"However," she said, voice sharper now, "this power of yours… it may be exactly what we need one day. Should that time come, I pray you'll be strong enough to use it… and wise enough to know when not to."
A heavy silence wrapped around them once more.
Then, slowly, Maika turned and left, disappearing into the shade of the pavilion. Lysandra remained in the garden, heart pounding, soul unsettled.
And far above them, dark clouds began to gather—fate already shifting, as if it had overheard their secret.
Birds chirped quietly overhead, but Lysandra barely noticed them.
She had wandered farther than usual, finding herself near the west veranda. Her hand brushed over a blooming rose, but her eyes… they were no longer on the flowers.
They were on him.
Caveen.
He stood across the yard, his back turned as he spoke with one of the mansion's guards. The crisp lines of his white shirt clung perfectly to his shoulders, the morning breeze tugging gently at his dark hair. His voice, low and commanding, drifted toward her in fragments, rich and calm like a river beneath moonlight.
She shouldn't have looked.
But she couldn't look away.
The way he moved—measured, confident. The tilt of his head as he gave instruction. Even the simple gesture of his fingers brushing back his hair made her chest tighten.
Why… Why does he look like that?
Lysandra felt warmth rise to her cheeks, and she shook her head quickly.
"No," she whispered to herself. "Don't be stupid."
Her heart thudded traitorously, as if echoing her forbidden thoughts.
You're carrying his child, the voice in her head whispered. It's only natural to feel something.
But that wasn't it.
She admired him.
His strength, his poise, the way he bore pain without flinching—even when that pain was because of her. He hated her, didn't he? He said he didn't care. He made it perfectly clear that she meant nothing to him.
So why… why did she keep hoping for more?
Lysandra gritted her teeth and looked away, nails digging into her palm.
"I deserve nothing," she murmured under her breath. "I tricked him. I endangered our child. I forced this bond."
She took a shaky breath and forced a bitter smile to her lips.
"I'm not allowed to love him."
Still, as she turned to leave, her eyes couldn't help but flick back one more time.
Just one more glance.
One more heartbeat.
One more silent sin.