Levi's recovery was slow.
Too slow.
The healing chamber hummed softly, a fusion of ancient witchcraft circles etched into the floor and advanced technopolis machinery suspended above her. Tubes pulsed with dark fluid calibrated to her blood—black, viscous, alive. Runes glowed in careful intervals, stabilizing rather than restoring. Demons healed differently. Power returned before flesh, will before strength.
Jane's friends worked in tense silence.
"Her wings won't regenerate quickly," one of them said quietly, adjusting a console. "The damage is… deep. Dragon-forged steel leaves scars even on demons."
Levi lay still, eyes closed, her breathing steady but shallow. Her black wings were bound in a lattice of light, feathers
scorched and torn. Her hair was dark again—not red, not white—meaning she hovered in a fragile balance between exhaustion and survival.
Jane stood beside the chamber, hands clenched.
"She's alive," Jane whispered. "That's enough."
But even as she said it, something inside her twisted.
A pressure built beneath her skin—heat crawling through her veins. The faint purple shimmer returned, more visible now, threading through her wrists, her neck. She sucked in a breath and stepped back.
"I need air," she muttered.
No one stopped her.
Jane slipped out onto the outer platform of the hideout, where steel gave way to open night. Technopolis stretched endlessly below—neon veins, hovering traffic, glowing towers cutting into the sky like blades.
She hugged herself.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Each breath came with heat, with a pull that didn't belong to witchcraft. Her fingers trembled, nails biting into her palms as something inside her stirred—restless, impatient.
"I'm losing control," she whispered into the night.
Above her, the stars burned cold and distant.
Behind her, far inside the hideout, Levi's eyes snapped open.
The runes around the chamber flickered.
She felt it instantly.
Jane's presence—usually soft, warm, grounding—now flared sharp and unstable, like a fractured signal. Levi pushed herself upright despite the alarms that screamed in protest. Pain lanced through her wings, but she ignored it.
"Jane…" she breathed.
She forced the chamber open and staggered through the corridors, following the pull in her chest. Every step hurt, but fear drove her faster than strength ever could.
She found Jane standing at the edge of the platform, staring into the night sky, her veins glowing faintly beneath her skin. The air around her shimmered, distorting slightly, like heat rising from flame.
Levi stopped a few steps behind her.
"You shouldn't be alone right now," Levi said softly.
Jane flinched, turning quickly. "Levi—you shouldn't be out of bed!"
Levi ignored that. Her gaze locked onto Jane's glowing eyes, the way her aura pulsed unevenly. She stepped closer.
"It's getting worse," Jane admitted, her voice shaking. "I can feel it. Something inside me wants out. I'm scared I'll hurt someone. I'm scared I'll hurt you."
Levi reached out, hesitating only a second before placing her hand over Jane's chest. The heat beneath her palm was unmistakable.
"You're not breaking," Levi said firmly. "You're changing."
Jane laughed weakly. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It should," Levi replied. "Because change can be guided. Power doesn't decide who you are—your choices do."
Jane's eyes filled with tears. "What if one day I can't choose?"
Levi stepped closer, resting her forehead against Jane's. Her wings shifted slightly, careful not to touch.
"Then I'll be there," Levi said. "Like you were for me. I felt you tonight—from the chamber. Your power is loud when you're afraid."
Jane swallowed. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," Levi said. "You called me."
For a moment, neither spoke. The city lights flickered below them, unaware of demon queens and half-blood witches standing on the edge of war.
Jane leaned into Levi, just slightly.
"Promise me," Jane whispered. "If I lose control… you'll stop me."
Levi closed her eyes.
"I promise," she said.
Then, quieter:
"And I promise I'll never abandon you."
Above them, the stars watched in silence—ancient, indifferent while something inevitable began to take shape.
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