The Hollow Heart
Modern Day — Oslo, Norway
Oslo Airport — 8:17 AM
Lirael Mercer had never hated turbulence more. The plane shuddered violently as it descended through a thick bank of clouds, and she dug her nails into the armrest, knuckles whitening. She knew it was irrational—she had died in far worse ways over the centuries. And yet, something about the helplessness of being in a metal canister hurtling through the sky at eight hundred kilometers per hour made her stomach churn.
Across the aisle, Alaric Kane sat unnervingly calm, his gaze fixed on a weathered leather journal. He'd barely spoken since they boarded, his jaw tight as if chewing on unspoken words. The thick, inky shadows under his eyes hinted at sleepless nights.
"You're glaring at me," he said without looking up.
"I'm glaring at gravity," she snapped. The dagger, wrapped in velvet and tucked into her carry-on, seemed to hum in agreement, as if amused by her irritation.
He finally met her eyes, a flicker of amusement softening his stern features. "You've died by sword, fire, and poison in past lives, and airplanes scare you?"
"At least those deaths made sense. This feels like a cheese grater with wings."
The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt. Lirael exhaled. Alive. For now.
---
The Munch Museum — 10:45 AM
The first heart-key fragment was hidden in Edvard Munch's The Scream, according to Alaric's research. Specifically, behind the painting's frame—a theory that nearly gave the museum curator a stroke.
"You want to dismantle a national treasure?" The curator, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard, looked ready to summon security.
Alaric leaned in, his voice honeyed and low. "Dr. Halvorsen, your 2019 paper on Munch's occult influences was brilliant. You know he dabbled in Norse symbolism. This isn't vandalism—it's a historical revelation."
Lirael watched, grudgingly impressed, as the man's resistance crumbled. He's good.
Twenty minutes later, they stood in the restoration lab, the iconic painting laid bare. Alaric's gloved fingers probed the frame's edge.
"There's a compartment here—"
A click. A small drawer slid open, revealing a crescent-shaped amulet piece no larger than a thumbnail. Its surface swirled with gold and iron, like a galaxy forged in fire.
Lirael's breath caught. "It's… warm."
"Don't touch it yet," Alaric warned, but she'd already brushed it with her fingertip.
A flash of searing light.
She stood in a sun-drenched field, laughing as a man spun her in circles—Alaric, but younger, softer, wearing a farmer's tunic. "Marry me, Lira," he pleaded. "Forget the clans, the wars—"
The vision shattered. Alaric gripped her shoulders, his face pale. "What did you see?"
"You proposed to me. In a field. You looked… happy."
He flinched as if struck. "That life ended with a spear through your chest. My brother's spear."
The curator cleared his throat. "Should I call a medic?"
"No," they said in unison.
---
Flashback — 1889, New Orleans
Lila's Herbal Shop — Rue Dumaine, 9:00 PM
The bayou's humidity clung to Lila's skin as she ground dried magnolia bark into powder. Her shop, a cramped room above a jazz club, smelled of sage and betrayal.
Alaric's footsteps thudded on the stairs. He burst in, his tailored suit speckled with mud. "They're forcing me to marry Celeste DuPont. Her father owns the railroad."
Lila didn't look up. "Congratulations."
"Don't." He gripped her wrist, stilling her mortar and pestle. "Run away with me. Tonight. We'll go north—"
"And do what?" She wrenched free. "You'll play farmer? You've never worked a day in your life."
His voice cracked. "I'd work a thousand days if it meant one night with you."
The truth lodged in her throat: she'd seen the future in a tea leaf reading—a lonely man on a bridge, a river swallowing his shadow. Him. She couldn't be the reason he lost everything.
"Leave," she whispered.
When the door slammed, she hurled the mortar against the wall. It shattered, like her heart, like the cursed amulet she'd hidden in her apron. Let him hate me. Let him live.
---
Modern Day — Oslo Train Station — 6:30 PM
Lirael stared at the amulet fragment in her hotel room, its glow pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Alaric had barely looked at her since the museum, his silence a fortress.
"Why did you hide the vision?" she asked abruptly. "The one where I die in a car crash."
He froze, his back to her. "Who told you?"
"The dagger. It… whispers sometimes." She didn't mention the other things it said—liar, coward, murderer.
He turned, his eyes storm-dark. "If I tell you, you'll pull away."
"Try me."
"The crash happens tonight. On the way to the airport." His knuckles whitened around the amulet. "I've seen it six times. In every version, I'm driving. You die. I survive."
The room tilted. "So what's the plan? Hide here forever?"
"We take the train. Change the pattern." He reached for her, then stopped. "But the curse adapts. It could make things worse."
She stepped closer, her anger a live wire. "You don't get to decide for me. Not again."
His resolve fractured. "I can't lose you. Not this time."
The raw ache in his voice disarmed her. He's terrified. Of me. For me.
"Then we fight together," she said.
A scream tore through the train station.