I woke with a jolt, my chest still burning as if someone had driven a hot iron straight through me. The faint light filtering through the gaps in the barn’s wooden walls blinded me for a moment. I was lying on a rough bed of straw and blankets, and the air smelled of damp hay and old smoke. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my ribs forced me to gasp. It wasn’t the pain of the heart attack… it was something more physical, more real: the marks left by the resuscitation, reminding me that I had died.

  I heard hurried footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. Velka, Neyra, and Caelia appeared in the dimness, and the moment they saw my eyes open, their faces transformed. Neyra was the first to move: she dropped to her knees beside me, tears spilling freely as she clung to me with desperate strength.

  —You’re alive… you’re alive… —she sobbed over and over, as if the words alone could bind me to the world.

  Velka quickly joined her, wrapping her arms around me, and for the first time I felt her trembling like a child, her pride shattered. Caelia knelt in front of me more slowly, her eyes shining. She let slip only a few tears, but in her, that was more than a breakdown.

  When they finally gave me space to breathe, Velka fixed her gaze on me with a seriousness that cut through the air.

  —What happened, Lyss? —she asked, her voice still trembling—. When you drew that sword… it wasn’t rancor. I didn’t feel it. It was something else.

  Neyra nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

  —It was anger. But not Irhena’s anger. It wasn’t explosive… it was different. Colder. Controlled. That shouldn’t be possible, Lyss. A magical girl can’t change her base emotion. Your magic… it should have collapsed.

  I stayed silent. I couldn’t deny what they were saying. I could still feel rancor flowing through me, steady as always. I raised my hand and manifested my rifle—solid, real, like I had done a thousand times before. But when I tried to recall what had happened out there in the field, the moment when everything had burst—nothing appeared. The air was empty.

  A shiver ran down my spine. I lowered my eyes to my abdomen… to the scar that had always been there. I had never remembered how I got it, or when. I only knew it had been a part of me since before Seravenn, before everything. And now I understood: that emptiness was the crack through which something older than me was breathing.

  —Lyss, what are you doing? —Velka whispered, alarmed.

  I didn’t answer. I pressed my fingers against that scar, the skin cold and sensitive… and pulled.

  The pain was unbearable. A scream tore from my throat as the scar split open as if it had been waiting for this moment, and from it emerged the blade: a line of steel and crimson light that passed through me from within. There was no blood, no wound—the flesh itself gave way to let the sword slide out, like a secret forced into daylight.

  Velka paled, stumbling back half a step. Neyra covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. Even Caelia, always unshaken, swallowed hard.

  I was left gasping, the sword still trembling in my hands. Its dark surface breathed with me, every pulse of red light echoing my heart.

  —Here it is, —I whispered, barely audible, lips trembling.

  The silence in the barn was absolute. Only the creak of old wood, the distant thrum of the wind against the boards, and my ragged breaths filled the air. I knew it, and so did they: this wasn’t just power. It was a curse. And it had been hidden inside me all along.

  My hands were still trembling. The sword lay at my side, faintly glowing, as if it breathed with me. The silence in the barn was so heavy it hurt to swallow. Then Velka suddenly squeezed my hand, with desperate force.

  —You died, Lyss —she said abruptly, her voice breaking—. Your heart stopped. I tried to revive you, but… I thought I’d lost you forever.

  The echo of her words cut through me like a frozen blade. I didn’t need them to tell me: I had felt it. Still, hearing it in her voice made it unbearably real.

  Neyra leaned closer, her eyes still wet with tears. —I… I shocked you with electricity. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had to try. It was horrible, Lyss. I thought you were going to stay there forever.

  Velka lowered her head, her shoulders trembling. —I… felt your heart not coming back. I panicked so much… —she whispered, barely audible.

  Caelia, who had remained silent until then, spoke with steady calm, though her eyes reflected the strain of those minutes. —You were dead, Lyss. But we refused to give up. We didn’t let time take you. And in the end… you came back.

  Her words made me shiver. I remembered that whisper I had felt at the edge of nothingness, that voice in the storm: “use it. Without losing yourself in it.” My emotion wasn’t just power. It was a sentence, a blade cutting through my body and soul.

  I placed one hand on my chest, feeling the burn of the mark, and the other on my abdomen, where I still felt the echo of the wound the sword had emerged from. I closed my eyes and let out a trembling sigh.

  —If I use it without control… I could truly die —I murmured.

  When I opened them, the three were staring at me as if my life hung from an invisible thread. And the worst part was that I felt it too.

  The silence still weighed on us, each breath a reminder of how close I had been to disappearing. Velka didn’t let go of my hand, as if she feared that, if she did, my heart would stop again. Neyra kept her eyes fixed on me, as if afraid I might fade away at any moment.

  It was then that Caelia, with that calm of hers that always hid an iron core, spoke:

  —I’ve contacted Seravenn’s command, she said, her voice low but steady. They offer immediate extraction. They can get us out of Eiswacht tonight.

  A knot tightened in my throat. The word extraction sounded like both salvation and damnation.

  Caelia held my gaze, and in her face there was a weariness she rarely allowed to show. —I don’t want to decide alone. Not after what we’ve just been through. I need to know if you’re willing to continue… or if we choose to go home.

  Velka reacted first. Her hand squeezed mine with a tremor she didn’t hide. —I’m not leaving you behind, Lyss, she said, her voice a mix of fear and pride. But promise me you won’t draw that sword again unless it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t… I can’t lose you again.

  Neyra nodded firmly, her voice trembling. —I’m with you both. But… Lyss, understand this: what you did wasn’t rancor. It was something else. Stronger. More dangerous. And if you use it again… I don’t know if we’ll be able to bring you back.

  I stayed silent for a few seconds, listening to their words, feeling the weight of what they asked of me. The scar on my abdomen burned as if trying to remind me of everything. Finally, I swallowed and spoke:

  —I’ll try.

  Velka lowered her gaze for a moment, and I knew that “I’ll try” wasn’t what she wanted to hear… but she also understood she couldn’t ask me for more. Her hand clung to mine with a trembling warmth, and though her eyes were wet, she gave me a gesture of acceptance.

  Caelia closed her eyes briefly, as if that answer was both what she expected and what she feared. Then she nodded gravely. —Then we continue together. But we must be aware: we’re at the limit. Every move from now on has to be calculated. There will be no second chances.

  The silence wrapped us again, but this time it wasn’t the silence of fear—it was the silence of a fragile, trembling, but very much alive determination.

  Outside, the storm had quieted, and for a moment, it almost felt as if the world was letting us breathe. Velka still held my hand, as though letting go might mean losing me again. Caelia was bent over her makeshift maps in the corner, her face lit only by the faint light seeping through the cracks in the wood. Neyra dozed against the wall, the bandage on her leg more secure now thanks to healing magic.

  I dared to close my eyes for just a second. The faint warmth of the group gave me a fleeting spark of calm. But that calm shattered the moment I felt it.

  At first it was subtle: the pressure in the air, a prickle at the back of my neck, as though the barn itself was breathing with us. Then, a crunch in the snow—too slow, too deliberate to be the wind or an animal. My eyes snapped open. Velka lifted her head too, her gaze locked on the door.

  —“Did you feel that?” she whispered.

  I didn’t have to answer. Outside, another step sank into the snow, heavy, deliberate. Caelia set her pencil aside without a sound, her body tensing like a coiled spring. Neyra pushed herself upright, fear flashing in her weary eyes.

  The pressure grew heavier. It wasn’t just the intuition of danger anymore—it was the certainty that someone was hunting us. Not an echo, not a mistake. A conscious presence. And though no one said it aloud, we were all thinking the same name.

  Velka stood, her face hardening, hand firm on the hilt of her gunblade. Caelia followed, moving with cold precision. Outside, the wind slipped through the cracks, carrying with it an unnatural silence, as if even the night itself were waiting for the outcome.

  The barn, which minutes ago had been a refuge, had turned into a trap. And we knew that whoever was outside would not stop until they found us.

  The barn shook before we even heard her voice.

  A vibration in the wood, as if the air itself had thickened, ran down my spine. And then, we heard it.

  —So, you finally stop hiding… —Klara Weisshaupt’s voice was a knife wrapped in velvet—. No mask can save you now.

  The side door burst open with a metallic crash. Klara’s silhouette filled the threshold, tall, rigid, her scythe dragging along the ground and leaving sparks like cold fire. Her steel-blue eyes swept over us one by one, and no words were needed: she already knew who we were.

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  Velka stepped half a pace forward, her lips tight, and shot me a glance. No words were needed: this was the end of the facade. Caelia raised her hand, shields forming in a flare of bluish light, taut as a heartbeat. Neyra, though healed, kept her fists clenched and her breath steady, ready to endure.

  I swallowed hard and nodded. The modulator at my throat clicked free, the illusion of Caroline unraveling like smoke. The real weight of my magic surged through me again—alive, dangerous, impossible to hide.

  —Transformation —I whispered, barely audible.

  The barn filled with light. Our civilian clothes tore away in an instant, replaced by the true armor of our emotions: Caelia’s bastion of shields, Velka’s blood-stained mantle, Neyra’s feverish aura, and my own uniform dyed with rancor. For the first time since setting foot in Eiswacht, we were ourselves, whole.

  Klara didn’t smile this time. Her lips pressed into a thin, serious line, all pride.

  —This is how the daughters of Seravenn should present themselves. And it will also be the last time.

  The air became unbearable. The pressure of her gravitational power made the rafters groan, and as her scythe rose, it carved an arc of sparks that split the dust of the floor in two.

  —Out! —shouted Caelia. Her shields covered our retreat, and we all sprinted toward the opposite exit. The barn exploded into splinters as Klara’s scythe sliced it apart in a single lateral cut, as if it were butter.

  The snow blinded us for an instant as we broke into the open. I barely had time to raise my rifle and fire. The bullets gleamed in the air, deflected by an elegant sweep of her scythe, but they bought me precious seconds to breathe. The recoil anchored me: my body knew how to handle that weapon, as if it had always done so.

  —Don’t split up —ordered Caelia, panting.

  But we weren’t alone.

  From the trees emerged two more figures: Ilse, upright as a statue, her short swords multiplying into perfect mirrored copies, and Mareike, her gauntlets humming with a low vibration that made the snow tremble under her feet.

  —Shadowhunters… —Velka muttered through clenched teeth.

  The pride in Klara’s eyes turned to pure ice.

  —Today your farce ends.

  The forest ignited.

  Caelia raised a shield just in time to catch Mareike’s strike, her gauntlets detonating against the barrier like thunder-hammers. The shock rattled my gut. Velka lunged at once, gunblade in hand, firing and slashing in the same brutal rhythm, her shots hissing around Ilse, who countered by multiplying into clones attacking from every angle.

  I squeezed the trigger of my rifle again and again, magical bullets ricocheting against Klara’s aura. The air burned with every shot, the recoil jolting my arms raw, and every time she swept her scythe, the impact shook me to the bone.

  I couldn’t falter. Not now.

  The entire forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Snow burst upward in flurries each time Klara’s scythe cut through the air, its edge leaving bluish trails that burned the eyes. Every clash was a contained earthquake: my rifle shook in my hands, the stock bruised my shoulder, and still I barely managed to keep her at bay.

  —Don’t stop! —Caelia roared, reinforcing a shield that shattered like glass against Mareike’s gauntleted fists. The impact hurled her into a tree, the crack of wood mingling with the crack of her ribs. Even so, Caelia staggered back to her feet, blood dripping from her mouth, and raised her hand again with sheer stubbornness.

  Velka clashed with Ilse in a ferocious duel. The commander multiplied her short swords into blinding reflections, a metallic swarm descending on her from every angle. Velka responded with the brutality of her sword-gun: point-blank shots between thrusts, the recoil driving her forward like a wounded animal. One shot grazed Ilse’s cheek, and Velka’s steel finally marked her: a clean slash across the face that left a red trail on her flawless skin. Ilse didn’t scream. She only clenched her teeth, her gaze now burning with frozen fury.

  Velka’s shoulder cracked when Ilse caught her in an impossible angle and twisted with the precision of an executioner. Velka’s torn scream ripped the air, her sword-gun falling into the snow. Even then, her other hand fired point-blank, forcing Ilse back just enough to free herself.

  —Velka! —I cried, but I had no time to run to her.

  Klara was in front of me. Her scythe came down in a perfect arc, the edge grazing my rifle and splitting the barrel in two as if it were tin. The impact threw me onto my back, the air ripped from my lungs. I felt the iron-cold snow against my spine, the world spinning.

  I saw her above me, relentless. And I understood: I had no choice.

  My hand went to my abdomen, to the scar that had always been there —the wound I never remembered receiving. Heat surged up through my chest, fiercer than any shot, more brutal than any word.

  A strangled roar tore from my throat as I plunged my hand into the mark. The pain was indescribable, like ripping open my own flesh to draw it out. And then, the blade emerged: Blood Crown, gleaming, red and alive, its edge trembling with my breath.

  The forest lit up at its appearance. The air smelled of ozone and iron, the snow began to melt beneath my feet.

  Klara halted for an instant, her icy eyes reflecting not fear but pure surprise.

  I advanced. Each slash was a discharge of rage, each thrust a memory I didn’t remember having. The sword moved as though it had always been with me, guiding my arms more than obeying them.

  —Lyss! —Velka shouted, her voice ragged from the pain of her broken shoulder, but also from something else: the fear of losing me again.

  Ilse, blood still fresh on her face, turned toward me with a cry of fury. I answered with a cross-cut that shattered her duplicates and nearly reached her. The clash of my sword against her blades filled the air with red sparks, like embers in the snow.

  Mareike lunged at me, her gauntlets vibrating with destructive power, but Caelia, gasping, raised a shield that shattered into a thousand shards at the impact. That sacrifice gave me the opening: a wide slash that forced Mareike back several meters, her boots sinking deep into the snow.

  The fury burned inside me, beyond reason. It wasn’t just rancor. It was wrath. Pure, searing, and harder to contain with every breath.

  Then Klara charge after me.

  The sword and the scythe met with a clash that made the air vibrate. Every strike was a metallic roar accompanied by the crunch of snow beneath our feet. Klara swung her scythe with surgical precision, her arcs perfect, each one meant to split me in two; I barely managed to respond, the Blood of the Crown slicing in red circles that lit up the darkness.

  The edge of my blade grazed her side in a fleeting instant, drawing a thin line of dark blood that stained her black uniform. It was a shallow wound, barely a scratch… but enough. Klara paused for an instant, and in her eyes I saw more than pride: I saw fury.

  With a roar, gravity itself seemed to bend under her power. The scythe vanished from her hand in a flash, and before I could retreat, she hurled herself at me. The impact sent us both crashing into the snow.

  The sword slipped from my fingers, sinking a few steps away into the frozen ground, dimming like a smothered ember.

  I didn’t have time to reach for it. Klara was already on top of me, and this time she didn’t use magic or weapons. Her fist came down with brutal force, straight into my face. The first blow split my lip; the second, sharper, broke my nose with a wet crack that filled my mouth with hot blood.

  The world turned red. Each punch was a hammer in my skull, a flash of pain that tore the air from me. I tried to shield myself, turn my head, curl up, but Klara was relentless. Her knuckles slammed into my cheek, my jaw, my brow, as if she wanted to erase me from the face of the earth.

  —Lyss! —I heard Velka scream, her voice cracked with despair.

  But I could barely respond. Snow mixed with my blood, freezing my skin. My breathing burned through my broken nose, forcing me to gulp air in ragged gasps.

  The sword, the Blood of the Crown, lay only inches away, out of reach. I couldn’t summon it. It was part of me, but physical, tangible, and it had fallen with me. Now my hands were good for nothing but trying to block Klara’s storm of blows.

  Her steel-blue eyes glared down at me with a strange, almost feverish hatred. She wasn’t transformed, and yet every strike reminded me that she needed nothing more than her rage and her pride to break me.

  The third punch made me see stars. The fourth left a constant ringing in my ears. And when she raised her arm for the fifth, I knew that if I fell, I would fall disfigured beneath her hands.

  Neyra’s scream tore through the frozen air.

  —Don’t you dare touch her! Don’t you dare touch my sister!

  Her body, already weakened, hurled itself forward with the strength of someone who had stopped caring about herself. The staff struck first, sparks of trembling magic bursting with each impact, followed by her fists, crashing against Klara like desperate hammers.

  Klara staggered only slightly, surprised by the younger girl’s ferocity. But the surprise lasted a single heartbeat. With a sharp twist, she caught Neyra’s arm mid-swing and, mercilessly, wrenched it back. The crack echoed through the forest like a branch snapping.

  —AAAAHHH! —Neyra’s scream ripped the night apart.

  Velka tried to advance, but Ilse intercepted her immediately, her short swords multiplying into duplicates that pressed Velka back into the snow. Every strike was quick, precise, and Velka barely held her ground, her healing magic twisted into a makeshift shield.

  Neyra collapsed to her knees, gasping, tears of pain clouding her vision. Klara seized her by the hair and slammed her into the ground once, twice, three times, until the staff dissolved in a flash of light, dematerializing from her hands.

  That was the limit.

  Something burned deep in my chest. Fury dragged me back into motion, even as every muscle screamed in protest. I charged Klara with a roar I didn’t recognize as my own. Her scythe descended to meet me, but I dodged on instinct, letting the Blood of the Crown carve a blazing arc through the air.

  The blade struck her back first. A brutal slash that ripped through cloth, skin, and pride in a single stroke. Klara gasped for the first time, the ice in her gaze shattering with a flash of pain.

  —Klara! —Ilse’s voice rang out, but it was too late.

  I drove the sword into her abdomen, feeling her magic vibrate against it, resisting, barely holding back the steel of my rage. A low groan escaped her lips as she dropped to her knees, her uniform soaking with blood.

  A roar erupted behind me. Mareike, gauntlets blazing, raised her arm to pulverize me in a single blow. I barely had time to turn my head when a flash cut through the darkness.

  —Not while I breathe! —Caelia shouted.

  Her daggers sliced the air, one burying itself into Mareike’s forearm. With a fluid movement, she leapt, and with the other blade traced a long slash that tore through flesh and muscle. Mareike roared, collapsing backward, dark blood spilling across the snow.

  The scene froze for an instant, like a painting of horror:

  Neyra trembling on the ground, her arm twisted at an impossible angle; Klara on her knees, breathing heavily, her back and abdomen torn open by my strikes; Mareike reeling, blood pouring from her arm like a ruptured fountain; Ilse —and her duplicates still glowing— keeping Velka at bay, her face hardened by fury and loyalty.

  The forest’s cold could not smother the heat burning in my chest. I knew the price was only beginning, but in that moment, the only thing that mattered was that Neyra was still breathing.

  The edge of Blood Crown still vibrated in my hand, but I no longer had the strength to hold it. A sharp pain cut through my chest, forcing me to bend forward. It wasn’t like any wound: not a slash, not a blow, but the reminder that I had been dead… and that my heart had not yet forgiven what I had just done.

  I breathed with difficulty, each inhale turned into knives. I raised my gaze and saw Klara, standing a few meters away, her scythe still in her hand. Her uniform was stained with blood, her side split open by my sword, but her eyes… her eyes still burned.

  Ilse bore a slash across her face, a red line marring her perfection with a scar that would never fade. Mareike clutched her ruined arm, cursing through her teeth as her gauntlets fell into the snow like dead iron.

  It could have been their end—I felt it. But no. Klara took a step back, her breathing heavy, and looked at us as if she wanted to carve us into memory.

  —This isn’t over —she said with icy calm, her voice steady despite the blood on her lips—. I will find you, Lyssandra Velcrux… even if I have to tear you out of Seravenn’s entrails.

  She turned, and with a sharp gesture dragged Ilse and Mareike toward the snowy thicket. None of the three allowed their backs to show defeat, but all left marked, wounded… and alive.

  I closed my eyes for just a moment, and the cold snow brought me back to reality. Velka crawled to me, her hands lit with the faint glow of her magic. I felt it pass over my ribs, over the dried blood on my arm, but the energy wasn’t enough.

  —I’m sorry —she whispered, panting—. I… I can’t do more.

  Caelia came closer then, her gaze hard. I saw her kneel beside Velka and take her injured arm. Before I could ask, she shoved it back into place.

  The snap of the shoulder realigning was like thunder in the silence. Velka screamed in sharp pain, but when I saw her lift her arm with difficulty, I understood what Caelia had done.

  —You’ll thank me later —she said, dry, without looking away.

  Neyra tried to stand, but her arm hung twisted, and each movement made her release a strangled moan. She tried to hold back her tears, but her eyes shone with despair.

  I forced myself upright, though my chest burned. The forest was silent, except for our ragged breathing and the distant crack of branches breaking under the weight of Klara and her squad retreating.

  We hadn’t won. We had only survived.

  I tightened my grip on Blood Crown with the little strength I had left, and the blade trembled before vanishing in a red sigh. I felt the hollow it left, as if it had torn a piece of me away.

  I fell to my knees again, the frozen snow burning my skin, and looked at my friends: bleeding, exhausted, broken… but alive.

  —This… isn’t over —I whispered, though I didn’t know if I said it for them, for me, or as an answer to the promise Klara had just left carved in our chests.