Chapter 87: The Hidden Spark
The neon buzz of Arvanis General Hospital faded behind Caveen as he walked down the crowded street, his lab coat tucked under his arm and his black scrubs loosened at the collar. The night air was cool, brushing against his skin like a whisper. He paused in front of a quiet corner bar—a vintage place with golden lanterns and low jazz humming through the windows.
He exhaled, weary from a twelve-hour shift filled with emergency surgeries, endless consultations, and more than a few flirtatious glances from nurses and patients alike. He was used to the attention. His storm-grey eyes, sculpted jawline, and broad shoulders gave him a presence that turned heads—but Caveen never noticed much. His mind was elsewhere. Always.
Especially tonight.
Slipping into the bar, Caveen took a seat in a quiet corner booth. His bracelet, always around his wrist, shimmered briefly in the light. It concealed his aura, keeping his vampire, lycan, and witch bloodlines sealed tight. Here, he was just a man. A doctor. Nothing more.
He ordered a whiskey.
---
Elsewhere in the City…
Lysandra stepped down from her carriage, her silver cloak pooling like moonlight around her ankles. She was breathtaking. High cheekbones, lavender eyes, and long white hair cascading like silk down her back. She drew looks as she passed, but no one dared approach. There was something otherworldly about her—untouchable, dangerous, divine.
A witch of noble blood.
Her family was ancient, steeped in the politics of the Witch Council, known for their power and rigid tradition. And now they pressed her to marry—to continue the bloodline with a union of status. But Lysandra had no desire for binding contracts. No love. No shared throne. She wanted only a child—one that was truly hers.
She had scoured regions for someone exceptional—not only beautiful, but someone whose magic could birth a being of true potential. She sought perfection. She sought a donor.
And tonight… her vision brought her here.
The moment she stepped into the bar, her senses pulsed. Her breath caught. In the far booth, a man sat alone, head bowed slightly over a glass of amber liquid.
She paused.
It wasn't just his beauty—though he was like a painting from an old celestial temple. It was his silence. His sadness. His magic… cloaked, but faint. Her eyes narrowed. No ordinary man could shield his aura this well.
"Found you," she whispered.
---
Inside the Bar…
Caveen didn't notice her at first. He was lost in thought until the faint scent of lilac and something ancient stirred in the air. He looked up.
She stood before him, ethereal and glowing beneath the hanging light. Her gaze was steady, like she had known him in another lifetime.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked.
He blinked. Then nodded. "Sure."
"I'm Lys," she said, extending a slender hand.
"Caveen." He shook it, feeling a strange warmth where their palms met. A pulse of something. Familiarity?
"You look like you've had a long day."
"I'm a surgeon," he replied. "Long days are my normal."
"A healer," she murmured. "That makes sense."
He tilted his head. "And you? What brings someone like you here?"
She smiled softly. "I'm… traveling. Looking for someone."
Her voice dripped with elegance, but there was a wildness under the surface—like a storm barely contained.
They drank. Talked. Laughed. She asked about his work, his past, his dreams. He asked about her travels, her views on fate. He didn't realize how many hours passed. Her presence dulled his worries. She made the night feel like it didn't carry ghosts.
When she asked if he'd like to walk, he agreed without hesitation.
---
The Hotel Room
The room was warm and dim, flickering candlelight casting shadows across their faces. Caveen stood near the window, watching the city lights.
Lysandra came up behind him and gently touched his hand. "May I?"
He turned, and their eyes met. His heart raced. He didn't understand it—but it felt like destiny. Something unspoken passed between them.
She leaned in. "Only if you want this."
And he did.
Their night was slow, powerful—like the weaving of old magic. She did use enchantments, but not to control—only to heighten, to mask identities, to veil the memory. As a noble witch, she knew the ethics. She didn't want to harm him. Only to protect her choice. When morning came, he would not remember her face, nor the heat of their connection. It would feel like a vivid dream. A flicker.
Before dawn, she kissed his temple, whispering a spell that washed gently over his mind, not invasive—just enough to seal the night like mist. She left with silent steps and no trace.
---
Back at the Estate of the Moonwells
Lysandra returned to her sanctuary, her hand resting over her womb. A smile touched her lips.
"He was perfect," she whispered.
If fate willed it, her child would change the world.
---
Elsewhere in Arvanis
Caveen woke up in his apartment with a faint headache and no memory of how the night had ended. He frowned, running a hand through his hair.
"I need to stop drinking alone," he muttered, staring out the window.
But deep in his chest, something stirred.
A bond. A shift.
He didn't know it yet, but the path he was on had just changed forever.
----
The steady hum of the city outside his apartment window was a soothing lullaby after a long day in the operating room. Caveen poured himself a glass of water, still dressed in his scrubs, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to his skin. The apartment lights were dim, save for the soft glow of a crystal lamp on his reading desk.
He opened the leather box that had sat untouched on his shelf for weeks—the gift his mother gave him before he returned overseas. Inside were royal scrolls: records of noble bloodlines, sealed proposals, and a long, rolled parchment bearing names of eligible women from elite clans.
He had promised his parents he would begin considering a bride. He was turning twenty-eight soon. The following year would mark the Bloodmoon, when the lycan blessing of bond would take hold for those ready to wed. Maika and Carl didn't pressure him, but tradition—and now secrecy regarding Elira—made it necessary to act.
He unrolled the scroll with a sigh.
Dozens of names, each etched with perfect calligraphy.
But one stopped him.
Lysandra of House Moonwells.
His hand froze above the name.
The air around him shifted—so subtly he almost didn't notice. His breath hitched. A flash of silver… a scent like lilac… eyes the color of dusk—
Then nothing.
Just emptiness.
"What was that?" he whispered to himself.
He blinked and rubbed his temple. Nothing else came. No clear memory. Just… a sense.
A feeling.
Drawn.
It unnerved him.
Caveen rolled the scroll back up and stood, walking toward the phone on his kitchen counter. His hand hovered over it for a moment before finally picking it up and calling his father.
Carl answered on the second ring.
"Caveen," he greeted warmly, the sound of logs crackling in a fireplace behind him. "Everything alright?"
"I want to proceed with the bride visits," Caveen said without preamble. "One house per month, like we planned. I'll visit them all."
Carl was silent for a second, then replied, "You're sure?"
"I am."
A pause. "Is this about something… or someone?"
Caveen hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe. I just—need to be certain. I want to meet them face to face. Like Alaric did."
Carl let out a chuckle. "He got lucky, finding peace in the middle of a political circus. Let's hope you get the same."
"I'm not looking for perfection," Caveen murmured. "Just that feeling. Like home."
Carl's voice softened. "I'll start contacting the houses. Some may be excited."
The name rang again in his head.
Lysandra.
"Thanks, Dad," he said.
"We'll support you no matter what. Just remember," Carl added, "sometimes fate works in quiet ways. Be open to it."
As the call ended, Caveen stood in the silence of his apartment.
His fingers brushed the name on the scroll once more.
He didn't know why her name caused such a pull. He didn't remember seeing her, didn't recall a moment shared.
But something inside him stirred like ancient roots waking beneath the earth.
And he would find out why.
---
Far away, in a snow-draped valley, Lysandra stood in the garden behind her ancestral home, her hands pressed to her stomach. A subtle heartbeat echoed within her. The child had begun to stir.
She had kept her distance from news and names, from politics and the Council's watch. But tonight, something in the air shifted.
Her hands tensed.
She didn't know his name. Only the sound of his laughter, the heat of his touch, the stillness he carried. But the moment they had shared… it had created something far greater than she imagined.
And somewhere, somehow, he had begun to remember her.