CHAPTER 87
Clara didn't understand the sensation at first.
It began as a faint warmth beneath her skin, so subtle she thought it was nothing more than the lingering tension of the night.
The forest was still heavy with the aftermath of Isabella's disappearance, the air thick with Lucian's fury and the scent of scorched earth.
But the warmth didn't fade. It grew. She lifted her hands slowly, her fingers trembling as she stared at them.
For days, they had been steady — precise, controlled, the hands of a witch who had long ago learned to live with less power than she had been born with.
Now they felt… alive. A soft glow flickered beneath her skin. Clara's breath caught.
"Lucain…" she whispered. The air around her stirred. Not with wind but energy.
It curled around her wrists like invisible threads, brushing against her palms, sliding up her arms, responding to her presence the way magic once had — the way it hadn't in so long she had almost forgotten what it felt like.
