The church bells tolled softly against the gray sky, their echoes drifting across the quiet cemetery where mourners gathered in clusters beneath black umbrellas. Rain had threatened since dawn, and now a mist fell lightly, blurring the edges of the gravestones and settling on faces already streaked with tears.Dylan’s coffin lay at the center, draped in white lilies and evergreen branches. The scent was heavy, cloying, mixing with damp earth as pallbearers lowered it slowly into the ground.Jackson stood motionless at the front, his shoulders squared but his face carved with grief he could no longer hide. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, as though the only thing keeping him upright was the discipline drilled into him since childhood. Inside, however, the weight was unbearable.He had promised himself Dylan would live. He had promised that all the sacrifices, would mean something. And yet, here they stood—burying another friend, another brother.Bella slipped quietly to

The air shimmered between them like a heatwave, the unnatural hum of Tyler’s corrupted energy pressing on their lungs, bending the light, warping the space itself. Jackson could feel it crawling against his skin as though it was a distorted reflection of the person he once used to be.Tyler’s smile widened, his voice unsteady yet sharp. “The Flameborn Compass, Jackson. Hand it over, or…” His gaze slid to Bella, predatory. “…she burns.”Bella’s breath hitched, but she didn’t back away. She stood tall behind Jackson, though her fingers gripped the edge of the car door so tightly her knuckles whitened.“You won’t touch her,” Jackson said, voice low, steady, and deadly serious. Tyler laughed, the sound fractured like glass cracking. “Always the protector. Always playing the hero. But you don't have that ability anymore Jackson."The distortion in the air thickened, swirling into jagged arcs of light, splitting cracks in the ground. Bella stumbled back, shielding her face from the stingi

The room hummed with the faint buzz of machinery as the last scan flickered across the monitor. A thin green line danced up and down on the screen, steady, unyielding, almost too perfect. The doctor, Sam Simpson—an older man whose years in medicine had carved deep grooves in his face—stood still for a long while, staring as if waiting for the machine to correct itself.Sam Simpson was an old friend of Copper and Philip Hart while Philip was still alive. As a mater of fact, he was the doctor who attended to Philip all through his life time down to the day he died.He had been out of the country for over a year and had just returned three days ago. Copper had called him in when Jackson called to report what had happened, as the only doctor he could trust with such sensitive issues was Sam.Copper had not been himself all day as he was still trying to make sense of what could be responsible for Celestine's immunty, and the only thing that could come to his mind was the possibility that

Mr. Copper and Dr. Sam stopped just outside Celestine’s room, close enough to hear the steady pulse of the heart monitor through the wall, but far enough that their words would not carry back to her or Jackson.“I think she’s the one,” Dr. Sam said first, his voice low but weighted with certainty.Copper turned his head slowly, the deep lines in his face tightening. “You mean the resistant one?”“Yes.” Dr. Sam’s answer was immediate, his eyes narrowing as though even saying it aloud carried danger. “Her DNA… it’s unlike anything I’ve studied before. It’s coded strangely—almost reversed. It mirrors the same shift Philip’s body underwent after he stumbled upon the Flameborn. Only with her, it’s not temporary. It’s permanent. Written into her blood.”Copper exhaled hard through his nose, the sound more like a growl than a sigh. The revelation hit him like a ton of bricks. He pressed his palm against the wall as though steadying himself against the weight of it. “So you’re saying… there’s

The doors opened wide, and Samantha Lewis stepped in first. Gone was her usual pristine elegance. Her navy sheath dress was wrinkled, streaked faintly with dust, and her hair—once always perfectly pinned—hung loose in uneven strands as if she hadn’t bothered with it in days. The faint sheen on her skin wasn’t from makeup but from sweat, the kind born of travel, fear, and sleepless nights. She looked less like the untouchable daughter of Don Lewis she once projected and more like someone cornered, running, trying to keep her poise alive by sheer will.Jack followed close behind, and his condition only deepened the impression. His shirt was rumpled, the collar askew. Stubble darkened his jaw, and shadows under his eyes made him look older. His hands shoved deep into his pockets and they weren't casual—they were the stance of a man trying to anchor himself, trying not to betray the anxiety in the jittery set of his shoulders. His gaze flicked across the room, restless and defensive.Ja