The sky above Eldhollow cracked open with thunder.
Dark clouds billowed like smoke, bruising the heavens with rage, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The oaks lining the academy path shivered in anticipation, their branches clawing toward the sky like they, too, sensed the unraveling. Rain drizzled in fits, not yet a storm—just a promise of one.
Seraphina walked alone.
Her cloak dragged through wet earth and rotting leaves, the weight of it clinging to her ankles like guilt. She held her mother's spellbook pressed against her chest, wrapped tightly in the folds of her arms. Every step forward felt like a betrayal—of truth, of memory, of herself.
She hadn't spoken to Julian since the masquerade.
Not after the kiss.
Not after the slow, shivering silence that followed—like the world had paused to let her shame echo back.
And Rowan?
She hadn't dared to face him. Not after the lies. Not after the choices that couldn't be undone.
The bell tower cried out noon with a jagged clang—five, six, seven times. Each chime a wound. Each toll a question.
By the eighth, the world stopped.
"Seraphina!"
Rowan's voice struck her like lightning.
She turned. Slowly.
He stood just beyond the tree line, black coat slick with rain, his shoulders squared like armor. The air between them buzzed with an electricity she couldn't name.
"I waited," he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. "You said you'd come back."
"I know."
"You didn't."
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
She hesitated. The spellbook burned cold against her ribs.
"Because I didn't know how to tell you I broke everything."
His gaze narrowed. He took a step forward. "Julian told me what happened. Between you two."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Then you know."
"He said it wasn't a mistake."
"It was," she said, quickly. "It was desperation. Confusion. A moment that didn't belong to either of us."
Rowan stared, eyes unreadable. "Did it mean anything?"
She wanted to lie. Wanted to undo the ache that lined his voice.
But she didn't. "Yes. But not the way you think."
His jaw tightened. The rain came down harder now, beading along his lashes. "Then what way?"
"It meant I was still trying to escape who I am."
He blinked.
"And I can't," she finished. "Not anymore."
Wordlessly, she unwrapped the spellbook and held it out.
Rowan looked at it like it might bite him. "What is that?"
"My mother's book. Bloodbound. Forbidden."
He didn't move.
"She was Marked. Not dead. Not lost. Just hidden. And now I know why."
Only then did he take it—gingerly, reverently. His fingers brushed the edge of the cover like it was hallowed.
He opened it.
And froze.
A symbol stared back at him, inked in crimson: a Veil sigil twisted into a phoenix, but beneath it, the unmistakable glyph of blood magic.
"This is…"
She nodded. "Truth. Buried so deep, even the Council stopped digging."
His voice dropped. "This is treason."
"Only if I lose."
Midnight rose like a secret.
The Whispering Hall had no doors, only crumbling arches, and it echoed like a mausoleum. Rumor claimed it was built atop one of the oldest ley lines, where magic pooled wild and feral. Where voices never stopped whispering.
Seraphina stepped inside.
The moonlight carved cold paths across the marble floor, painting ghostly runes she couldn't read. The air was wet with fog and secrets. Rowan was already there, standing by the shattered altar, one hand gripping the spellbook like it was both salvation and damnation.
"You're late," he said, not looking at her.
"You're always early," she countered.
He opened the book again. "There's a ritual. In here. One I hoped didn't exist."
She stepped closer. "Binding?"
He nodded once.
"Soul-binding?"
"Yes."
"Is it permanent?"
He hesitated. "Only one way to undo it. Death."
Silence.
Then: "Would you do it?" she asked. "Bind your soul to someone?"
He didn't answer.
She tried again. "Have you?"
This time, he did answer. "Yes."
Her heart stuttered. "When?"
"The Summer Rite. You almost died. I didn't have a choice."
"You bound us?"
He nodded, not looking at her. "It was selfish. Stupid. But I couldn't lose you."
She was shaking now—not with fear. With rage. With awe. With heartbreak. "And you didn't think I should know?"
"I wanted to tell you. But you were already slipping away. Into Julian. Into questions I couldn't answer."
"That wasn't fair."
"I know."
The pain between them was an open wound. Bleeding. Beautiful.
Then a noise cracked the quiet.
A door that didn't exist creaked open. Shadows lengthened.
Julian stepped inside.
He moved like a ghost, coat trailing, expression unreadable. His presence turned the room colder.
"I figured you'd come here," he said.
Rowan tensed immediately. "You shouldn't be here."
"I could say the same."
"I trusted you," Seraphina said.
Julian met her eyes. "I never lied about what I felt."
"But you lied about everything else."
He sighed. "You're not just a Marked. You're the last Bloodmarked."
Seraphina stilled. "That's not possible."
Julian pulled a parchment from inside his coat and unrolled it. It showed a woman—fierce, ethereal, eyes burning with the same eerie light as Seraphina's.
"Her name was Seraphine. Your ancestor. The first Bloodmarked."
Rowan stepped forward. "She was executed. Her line was severed."
Julian shook his head. "That's what the Council told everyone. She was exiled. And pregnant."
"No," Seraphina whispered. "No, that can't—"
"It's why the book calls to you. Why you feel things others don't."
She stumbled back. "You knew this? All this time?"
Julian's eyes darkened. "I was sent to find you. To monitor. Contain, if needed."
The betrayal hit like lightning.
"You used me."
"No. I fell for you. That wasn't part of the mission."
Rowan unsheathed a dagger in a single breath. "You're dead."
"Stop!" Seraphina shouted, stepping between them. "Not here. Not now."
"Then when?" Rowan hissed.
"When we know what side we're all on," she snapped.
Julian's voice was hoarse. "They're coming, Sera. They know."
"Then let them come."
She turned, her voice steel.
"I'm not hiding anymore."