(Arielle's POV)
Arielle learned three things within the first hour of training.
First—warmth was not weakness.
Second—it listened.
And third—it remembered.
The chamber Lucien brought her to felt older than the tower itself. Stone walls curved inward like the inside of a cathedral, etched with symbols that glowed faintly beneath the surface. The air was cool but not cold—balanced, waiting.
"This room was built to contain instability," Lucien said as the heavy door sealed behind them. "Magic. Emotion. Power without direction."
Arielle swallowed. "That sounds like me."
Lucien glanced at her. "For now."
She folded her arms, suddenly self-conscious. Ever since Morwenna appeared and disappeared like smoke, Arielle had felt… exposed. As if something she didn't understand was finally being seen clearly by others.
Lucien stood several paces away, deliberate distance in his posture.
"Sit," he instructed, nodding toward the center of the room.
She obeyed, lowering herself onto the smooth stone floor. It was warm beneath her palms. Not naturally—because of her.
Lucien noticed.
"Control," he said quietly. "Starts with awareness."
Arielle closed her eyes.
The warmth stirred immediately, reacting to the quiet, to him, to the anticipation humming in her chest. It rose like sunlight through her veins—gentle at first, then restless.
"Don't push it down," Lucien said. "And don't let it run free."
"That's not very specific," she muttered.
A pause.
"…Shape it," he added.
She inhaled slowly, imagining the warmth not as fire, but as breath—something that expanded and contracted with her lungs. It resisted, flaring unevenly, brushing against the edges of her awareness like it was impatient.
Her grandmother's voice surfaced suddenly in her memory.
Fire is not meant to burn without purpose, Ari. Even the sun follows rules.
Arielle's breath hitched.
Lucien felt it—the shift. The warmth softened, steadied, responding to something deeper than technique.
"Good," he said, though his voice had gone rough. "Hold that."
The symbols on the walls brightened.
Arielle opened her eyes. "Lucien… my grandmother. She knew about this."
Lucien stiffened.
"She always told me stories," Arielle continued. "About balance. About wolves who forgot how to feel. About witches who made terrible choices for the sake of the world."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "What was her name?"
Arielle hesitated. "Evelyn."
The name landed like a blow.
Lucien turned away abruptly, one hand bracing against the wall.
"That's not possible," he said.
Arielle stood slowly. "You know her."
Lucien exhaled, long and controlled, like he was wrestling something down inside himself.
"I knew a witch named Evelyn," he said carefully. "She vanished decades ago."
Arielle's heart pounded. "She didn't vanish. She ran."
Lucien turned back to her.
"She was Morwenna's apprentice," he said. "Brilliant. Compassionate. Too compassionate."
Arielle's throat tightened.
"She fell in love," Lucien continued. "With a werewolf who believed the world could be changed without sacrifice."
Arielle whispered, "My grandfather."
Lucien nodded once.
"The coven forbade it," he said. "Love between warmth and frost was dangerous. Unstable."
"But she chose him anyway," Arielle said.
"Yes," Lucien replied quietly. "And when Morwenna prepared the curse meant to bind my power—to stop a war—Evelyn interfered."
Arielle felt dizzy. "Interfered how?"
"She altered it," Lucien said. "Without permission. Without telling anyone."
The room seemed to tilt.
"She built a counterbalance," he continued. "A living one. A bloodline meant to carry warmth forward until the Moon decided the time was right."
Arielle's breath came shallow. "Me."
Lucien met her gaze. "You."
The warmth surged sharply in response, flaring like recognition.
"My grandmother knew," Arielle whispered. "She knew she made me part of this."
"She never intended you to suffer," Lucien said. "Evelyn believed warmth would always find its way back to love."
A bitter smile touched his lips. "She underestimated the curse."
A sudden wave of cold ripped through him.
Lucien staggered, the curse reacting violently to the truth being spoken aloud.
"Lucien!" Arielle reached for him instinctively.
Her warmth surged.
The chamber ignited with light.
Lucien dropped to one knee, breath tearing from his chest as sensation flooded him—heat, memory, emotion. The curse shrieked inside him, panicking, lashing out.
Arielle knelt beside him, hands hovering, afraid to touch.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't do anything wrong," Lucien ground out.
He forced himself upright, stepping back despite the pain.
"If you react every time I lose control," he said, "the curse will learn how to use you."
Tears burned Arielle's eyes. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Lucien looked at her—really looked.
"Become stronger than what they made you," he said. "Both of us."
That night, Arielle dreamed of her grandmother—not old and fragile, but young and fierce, hands glowing with warmth as she whispered an apology into the dark.
I did this so you could choose, Evelyn said. What I was never allowed to.
Arielle woke with her chest aching.
And somewhere in the tower, Lucien woke too—hand pressed to his heart, the curse burning, cracking, afraid.