Torre de Madrid, Spain — 8:18 A.M.
Lucien stood by the window of his high-rise apartment, eyes fixed on the gray Madrid sky, but his thoughts were miles away—in Marseille. The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly, untouched. The morning chill outside didn't faze him. Not when the storm inside his chest raged louder.
It had been over twenty hours. No word from Reyna. And that… that was never a good sign.
Her last message was short.
"If I don't reply within a day... don't come. Remember what we said in Paris."
He repeated those words in his head again and again, like a broken prayer. His breath had been erratic since last night.
"What did we say in Paris, Reyna? Why can't I remember it without falling apart?"
He closed his eyes. The memory came back, sharp and cruel.
"I'll find that Vault… even if I have to die for it." Her whisper.
"I'll find you first," he had replied.
But now, silence was the only thing that answered him.
Lucien flicked the ash into a crystal tray. His hand trembled—not from fear, but restraint. Every fiber in him wanted to get on a plane and tear Marseille apart with his bare hands to find her.
"I should've been there with you. I should've dragged you out of this madness…"
He leaned against the wall, head tilted back, and slowly slid to the cold marble floor. The city outside was silent from the 35th floor. No Madrid. No Reyna.
"Reyna… please. Just say something. Yell at me. Call me once. I'll come."
His phone lit up.
Inez calling.
He answered before the second ring.
"Lucien?" Her voice cracked, breathless. "She's not answering. Since last night."
"I know," he rasped. "Marseille. She went alone."
A long silence. Then a sharp exhale from Inez.
"I felt something this morning. Like a string snapping in my chest. Just like… when her mother was in danger."
Lucien pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes closed. "She's alive. I know it. But something's wrong."
"You promised, Reyna… you said if anything happened, you'd walk away and come back. Why does it feel different this time?"
BOOM.
The memory hit like lightning. Gunshots. Shattered glass. Her name screaming inside his soul.
"If she's hurt… if she's captured… if she never reads my letter…"
Lucien rose, slowly, and stood once more at the window. He brought the cigarette to his lips, this time taking a deep, aching drag.
"If you're alive, Reyna… I will find you. I don't care who stands in the way. I'll burn the whole world down if I have to."
His eyes welled up, but no tears fell. Men like him weren't allowed to cry. Not when the woman who made him human might already be gone.
One truth remained.
If La Reyna truly vanished… the world no longer deserved forgiveness.
Milan, Italy — 3:11 P.M.
Inez stood inside Reyna's private study, surrounded by the scent of dried roses and old ink. The room felt colder than usual. Dim sunlight filtered through the curtains, reluctant to touch anything.
In her hand—a silk scarf. Reyna's favorite. One she only left behind when she was truly afraid. A tear along the hem. As if time itself had bitten through it.
Inez clenched it tightly. Her scent lingered faintly. Enough to rip the calm from Inez's chest.
She walked to Reyna's desk, opened the small drawer, and pulled out a locked leather journal—filled with sketches of symbols, maps, and unsent letters to Lucien. One page was slightly open, the ink still bold:
"If I die before I learn the truth, tell Lucien… I regret never saying what needed to be said."
Inez didn't cry. But her throat burned.
She dialed Enzo. No answer.
That was a sign. He was already on his way to Marseille.
And if even Enzo had started moving, it meant only one thing: they all felt it. That creeping sensation of loss carving into hope. Like God Himself was pulling them toward the edge—without a promise of light on the other side.
Madrid — 8:34 A.M.
Lucien sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, staring blankly at the floor. The morning light did not touch him. Cold. Frozen.
He had felt this before—waiting for a woman he loved to return from the battlefield.
But this wasn't war.
This was vengeance.
And vengeance was always thirsty for blood.
He moved, slow and deliberate, every corner of the apartment haunted by her shadow. Her soap. Her voice. Her laughter—the one only he ever heard.
He opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, Reyna's second pistol—one she gave him in Prague. Etched on the barrel:
"Whatever hell awaits, I'll stand beside you."
He grasped the weapon. Closed his eyes. Kissed the cold steel.
"You better come back, Reyna," he whispered. "Because I don't want to live in a world without you."
Outside, the sky began to darken—as if the world itself was waiting to see whether it would end today… or be saved by a woman named Reyna El'Raez.