Before the Lights Went Out”

Ten minutes before the blackout, Cassian was in the west wing corridor, alone.

He had bribed the tech intern to rig the power cut.

He told himself it wasn't that serious—just a blackout. Just a moment to isolate her.

Just enough to remind Lina who he was.

And who she wasn't.

"She's spiraling," he told himself. "Losing control. Blaming me for things I never meant to cause."

But Cassian hadn't come to stop her. He'd come to contain her.

Ever since she uncovered the truth about the curse—ever since she started asking the wrong questions and pushing past the roles they'd all agreed to play—she had become a threat.

Not just to him.

To everything.

To the delicate lie their families had wrapped around them like velvet: the pretense of safety, of civility, of normal.

Lina was tearing through it like it was paper.

So he arranged a moment. Dark. Isolated.

One-on-one. A conversation under the cover of shadows.

Not to hurt her.

But to remind her of the cost of disobedience.

He would whisper just enough to shake her. Let her feel the weight of his presence, the echo of what their fathers had started.

Make her second-guess herself.

Make her feel like she was the one losing control.

But Cassian had miscalculated.

Because when the lights went out, he wasn't the only one who came prepared.

The hallway was chaos—half-lit, filled with voices, footsteps, gasps. But Lina walked through it like smoke through fire: untouched, unstoppable.

Cassian was behind her now.

Bleeding.

And speechless.

Her hands still trembled, not with fear, but adrenaline. And something colder. Something older.

Power.

Not the kind taught in classrooms or whispered in gossip. This was deeper. Buried. Cursed, maybe. But hers.

She didn't even flinch when someone grabbed her wrist.

"Lina," Theo's voice. Urgent. "Are you okay?"

She looked at him, and for the first time, he looked unsure. Not of her safety—of her.

"I'm fine," she said. And then, quieter, "Better than fine."

Theo's eyes searched hers. "What happened in there?"

She almost told him everything. About Cassian. About the whisper of the curse crawling under her skin. About how, for a second in the dark, she didn't feel cursed at all—she felt awake.

But the moment passed.

Instead, she pulled her hand back gently. "He came for the girl I used to be."

Theo's brow furrowed. "And?"

"I'm not her anymore."

She turned before he could answer, walked toward the east wing, toward the library where the answers were hidden behind bloodlines and forgotten names.

She didn't need saving.

She didn't need forgiveness.

She needed the truth.

And she was done being polite about it.

The east wing library was silent.

No whispers. No footsteps. Just the low hum of forgotten things.

Lina pushed open the heavy doors, half-expecting them to resist her. They didn't. It was as if the house wanted her here now.

She moved past the polished shelves, ignoring the obvious volumes—the gilded family histories, the fake genealogies. She went to the back.

To the locked cabinet.

Her fingers hovered over the latch.

This was where her father used to keep the restricted texts—the ones the council said were too "heavy" for a young girl. The ones he told her were dangerous.

The same cabinet Cassian's family had tried to have removed after the funeral.

But no one had touched it.

They were all too afraid.

She wasn't.

A sharp hairpin from her pocket, a twist, a click—open.

Inside: dust, crumbling leather, and a book so black it looked like shadow itself.

The Reyes Grimoire.

She pulled it out. Heavy. Breathing.

The spine cracked as it opened, and with it came a memory—not hers. A scream. A fire. A girl being dragged by her hair through mud while men in masks chanted her name like a curse.

Lina.

Not her name. A name passed down.

Inherited. Branded.

She stared at the ink. It shimmered like it was still wet.

"Each generation bears the burden until one breaks the line. She will bleed. Or she will burn."

She didn't flinch.

Behind her, the library door creaked.

Someone had followed her.

Lina didn't turn around right away.

She closed the grimoire softly, her fingers marking the page with the cursed prophecy. Her heartbeat didn't spike—it sharpened.

"Each generation bears the burden…"

The door creaked again.

A breath. Then footsteps.

Measured. Confident.

Not Cassian.

Not Theo.

"Not afraid to play with fire anymore, are you?" came a smooth voice from behind the nearest shelf. Male. Calm. Amused.

Lucien.

Lina had only spoken to him twice. Once at the academy's winter gala, where he'd bowed like a prince. And once after her father's funeral, when he said,

"It skips a generation sometimes. Let's hope it didn't skip you."

She turned now, slowly, grimoire still in her hand.

"I'm done playing," she said. "I'm here to burn the board."

Lucien stepped out from the shadows. His pale shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing the faint gold ink of his family's crest tattooed into his forearm. The Sigils of the Watchers.

Observers. Enforcers. Liars.

"You opened that book," he said, nodding toward the grimoire. "You know what that means?"

"That I'm not the first Lina to suffer for someone else's sins?" Her voice was steady. "That the curse isn't just a punishment—it's a leash."

Lucien's smile faded. "It's also a weapon. In the wrong hands—"

"In mine, you mean?" she cut in. "Because I'm not controllable?"

He stepped closer. "Because you're angry. And the curse listens to emotion."

Lina raised the book between them like a shield. "Good. Then it's about time it started listening to me."

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Lucien sighed. "Fine. But if you're going to break the curse…" He glanced at the flickering chandeliers above them, like the house itself was eavesdropping.

"…you're going to need help. And you won't survive long picking enemies from every bloodline."

Lina closed the grimoire, eyes never leaving his.

"Then you better convince me you're not one of them."