Valor did not notice the door at first.

  He noticed her.

  She stood at the edge of a vast obsidian plain, scales like polished night, wings folded with ancient grace. A dragon—no, the dragon. Massive, regal, and terrible in her stillness. Her presence pressed against his chest like gravity itself.

  Then she moved.

  The black scales softened, folding inward, reshaping—until a woman stood where the dragon had been.

  She looked like him.

  The same sharp jaw. The same proud brow. The same eyes—dark, burning, alive.

  But her gaze held something his father’s never had.

  Warmth.

  “My son,” she said.

  The word cracked something open inside him.

  Valor ran.

  He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. His feet tore across the stone, breath ragged, heart hammering so loud it drowned out thought. He reached for her, arms stretching—

  —and she drifted farther away.

  “No,” he gasped, running harder.

  She smiled sadly, retreating with every step he took.

  Valor ran until his lungs burned. Until his legs screamed. Until tears blurred his vision and he didn’t remember when they had started falling.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Just—just once.”

  He thought of his father. Of discipline. Of strength. Of expectation carved into him before he had even hatched.

  He had never been held like this.

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  Never been allowed to want it.

  He ran faster.

  She vanished into the dark.

  Valor skidded to a halt, chest heaving, hands trembling in empty air.

  Behind him—unseen until now—a door stood open.

  He didn’t turn.

  He dropped to his knees instead, forehead pressing against the cold stone.

  “I don’t know who I am without you,” he whispered into the ground.

  Silence.

  Then—softly—the sound of hinges.

  The door did not call him.

  It waited.

  Elsewhere.

  Lucien stepped through his door as well—

  —and woke up.

  Morning light spilled through the window.

  Soft. Warm. Ordinary.

  For a moment he didn’t move.

  The room was familiar.

  Too familiar.

  The wooden ceiling beams. The old rug near the door. The faint smell of bread drifting from the kitchens below.

  Home.

  Lucien sat up slowly.

  His hands trembled.

  “No…” he whispered.

  The trials.

  The maze.

  The doors.

  He remembered them clearly.

  But the bed beneath him was real. The sheets were warm. The world outside the window breathed with quiet life.

  A knock came at the door.

  Before he could answer—

  It opened.

  Mira leaned against the frame, arms folded, dark hair falling over one eye.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “About time.”

  Lucien froze.

  She tilted her head.

  “What?” she asked, amused. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  His throat tightened.

  “You’re… alive.”

  Mira blinked.

  Then she laughed.

  “Wow. You dreamed I died?” she teased. “You must really hate me, Lucy.”

  The nickname hit him like a punch to the ribs.

  Lucien stared at her.

  Her heartbeat.

  Her breath.

  Her smile.

  Real.

  Behind her, Mercer walked past the hallway carrying a stack of papers.

  “Breakfast is ready,” he called casually.

  Serena’s voice drifted up the stairs a moment later.

  “If you two don’t come down now, I’m eating it myself.”

  Lucien stood slowly.

  His legs felt weak.

  He followed Mira down the stairs.

  The kitchen was full.

  Mercer joined them at the table. Serena poured tea, her long black hair falling straight down her back and catching the light like ink.

  Everything was… normal.

  No curse.

  No shadows crawling beneath their skin.

  No hollow eyes.

  Just his family.

  Just his people.