Whispers of the Past:

The grand halls of the palace seemed endless, each corridor stretching into darkened corners filled with secrets. The cold stone walls bore witness to countless betrayals, power struggles, and silent wars fought behind closed doors.

Elara walked in calculated steps, her bare feet against the smooth marble. After Ryan had left her with more questions than answers, she had been escorted to a lavishly furnished chamber—a stark contrast to her earlier imprisonment.

She should have been relieved.

Instead, unease coiled in her stomach like a serpent.

The chamber was too grand, too prepared—as if it had been waiting for her long before she ever stepped foot in the imperial palace. The heavy drapes swayed slightly, despite the lack of wind, and golden candlelight flickered across the massive tapestry depicting a dragon with piercing gray eyes.

Ryan's eyes.

Elara clenched her fists.

Everything about this place felt wrong.

And then, she heard it.

A whisper.

At first, it was faint, like the distant hum of wind through a hollow corridor. But as she stilled, the sound sharpened—a soft, urgent voice slipping between the cracks of reality.

"You are not supposed to be here."

Elara's breath hitched. She spun around, scanning the room, but there was no one. The door remained locked, and the large windows only showed the storm raging outside.

But she could still hear it.

"You have awakened."

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. A trick of the mind? No—this was real.

"Who's there?" Elara whispered, her throat dry.

Silence.

Then—a pulse of energy.

It came from within her, deep and ancient, like something buried inside her soul had just stirred awake.

Her breathing quickened. Her wrist, where the strange glowing mark had appeared earlier, began to burn. She clutched it, eyes widening as the soft silver glow flickered beneath her skin.

No.

This wasn't happening.

Not again.

"Elara."

Her entire body froze.

That voice—it was different. Deep, commanding, terrifyingly familiar.

Ryan.

She turned sharply, and there he stood, just inside the door, his piercing gaze locked onto her. His usual calm mask was gone, replaced by something dangerously close to… curiosity? No, it was more than that.

It was recognition.

"You felt it, didn't you?" Ryan said, stepping forward.

Elara took an instinctive step back, her heart hammering. "Felt what?"

Ryan didn't stop. "Don't lie to me."

He moved too quickly. Before she could react, he reached out and grabbed her wrist—the one still burning with unnatural heat.

The moment his fingers brushed against her skin, a spark erupted between them—not of warmth, but of something raw, powerful, and unexplainable.

Elara gasped.

Ryan's eyes widened slightly. If he was shocked, he didn't show it beyond the slight tightening of his jaw.

"So," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the glowing mark. "It's true."

Elara yanked her hand away. "What are you talking about?"

Ryan studied her, his storm-gray eyes unreadable. "I thought I killed the last of your kind."

Elara's blood ran cold.

"What?" she breathed.

Ryan didn't answer. Instead, he stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"You need to rest," he said simply, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Elara opened her mouth to protest, but before she could demand answers, he was gone, leaving behind only his lingering words.

"I thought I killed the last of your kind."

She sat on the edge of the bed, her entire body shaking.

Whatever was happening to her… whatever power she held…

Ryan knew.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

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