Iman woke with a strange heaviness in her chest, as if the night had left something behind.
Her body ached - not from pain, but from something deeper. The bite had faded, but its echo remained. She could still feel Lucien's memories pulsing beneath her skin.
She wandered into the east wing of the manor, a part she hadn't explored before. The air was colder here. Older. As if time had folded in on itself.
A door creaked open.
Inside was a gallery - portraits lined the walls, each one painted in oil and shadow. Warriors. Scholars. Women on gowns that whispered of centuries past.
And then she saw HER.
A woman in crimson. Eyes like hers. Smile like hers. But older. Sadder.
"Elara," said a voice behind her.
Iman turned sharply.
A man leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk half formed. His hair was dark, tousled, and his eyes gleamed with something sharp - like he saw too much and trusted too little.
"You must be Iman," he said. "Lucien's latest gamble."
She stepped back instinctively. "Who are you?"
"Dorian," he said. "Lucien's closet friend. And the one who usually cleans up his messes."
Lucien appeared moments later, tense. "Dorian, you weren't supposed to be here."
Dorian didn't flinch. "And yet, here I am. She found Elara. You knew she would."
Iman looked between them. "Who was she?"
Lucien's voice was quiet. "She was everything. And she was lost."
Dorian stepped forward, gaze flicking to the portrait. "She died in fire. Betrayed by someone she trusted. Lucien never forgave himself."
Iman's throat tightened. "She looked like me."
Lucien nodded. "Too much."
Dorian's eyes narrowed. "That's why I'm here. Because history has a habit of repeating itself - and Lucien has a habit of not learning."
Iman turned to Lucien. "Then tell me the truth. All of it."
Lucien hesitated. Then walked to the painting.
"Elara was powerful. Not just bonded to - she was becoming like me. But she was hunted. Feared. And when they came for her, I wasn't fast enough."
Dorian's voice dropped, colder now. "He buried her name. Erased it from every record. Even I wasn't allowed to speak it. But I remember. I always do."
Iman stared at the painting. "Then why does she look like me?"
Lucien's voice trembled. "Because fate doesn't forget."
Dorian leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Or maybe fates just cruel. Either way, I'm watching you."
Iman met his gaze. "You don't trust me."
"Not yet," Dorian said. "And maybe not ever. But Lucien does. That's the only reason you're still standing."
Lucien stepped between them, voice firm. "Enough."
Dorian gave a half-smile. "Just doing my job, old friend, someone has to."