Chapter 87: Magic restored.

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.

Behind her, Lucian was still speaking, his voice distant, lost in the labyrinth of his own fractured memories.

But Clara wasn’t listening anymore. Because the warmth turned into heat. Her vision blurred for a moment as power surged through her veins like liquid fire.

She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her chest as her heart began to pound. “I can feel it…” she breathed.

The forest reacted. Leaves trembled. Branches creaked. The shadows around her feet deepened, stretching toward her like loyal things returning to their master.

Clara had not felt this much magic inside her body since that ritual mistake. Her eyes widened slowly as realization began to form.

“Isabella…” The name left her lips like a discovery and a confession.

It made sense. The girl’s condition. The instability. The Blight that had never behaved like any curse Clara had studied.

Isabella had not only been sick. She had been feeding. And now that she wasn’t there anymore, Clara magic was flowing back to its rightful place inside her.

The glow beneath Clara’s skin strengthened. The hollow lines of exhaustion that had carved into her face for days began to soften.

The grey tint of her complexion warmed. The faint tremor in her hands stilled. Lucian watched in silence.

Watched as the witch who had looked centuries old only moments ago straightened slowly, her shoulders pulling back as strength returned to her body.

Her spine lengthened. Her breathing steadied. Even the fine lines around her eyes began to fade, as if time itself were being forced to loosen its grip on her.

Magic rolled off her now in quiet waves. Alive. Restored. Young. Lucian’s expression did not change.

But something cold settled behind his eyes. Here he stood — his chest hollow, the bond getting torn open, the echo of Isabella’s rejection still clawing through him like broken glass.

And there she stood. Recovering. Renewing. Because that same girl was gone. A bitter thought crossed his mind, sharp and quiet.

So this is what she leaves behind.

Relief for everyone else. Power returned. Balance restored. While he was left with silence.

Clara flexed her fingers slowly, her gaze distant as she tested the flow of energy moving through her veins.

“It’s coming back faster than I expected,” she murmured. “The drain is completely gone.” Lucian did not answer. His attention had already moved elsewhere.

Toward the horizon. Toward the direction the shadows had taken her. His jaw tightened. If Isabella believed she could walk away from him… then she understood nothing.

Nothing about what she was bound to. Nothing about what he was. And nothing about the mistake she had just made.

Because there was one thing that mattered more than her rejection.

Caleb. Lucian turned without another word and began walking toward the mansion.

Clara noticed the shift immediately. The air around him had changed — no longer chaotic, no longer wounded.

Cold. Focused. Dangerous. “Lucian,” she called carefully, falling into step behind him. “My magic is back”

Lucain eyes darkened but his steps never faltered, he walked without looking back.

The night parted around him as he crossed the estate grounds, his movements sharp and purposeful, every step carrying the quiet weight of restrained violence.

Behind him, Clara followed. She could feel it, the change in him. The grief was still there.

The rejection. The wound. But it had been buried beneath something far more dangerous.

Control.Strategy. By the time they reached the mansion doors. The massive entrance opened before Lucian touched it, the interior lights flickering slightly as his presence crossed the threshold.

He did not pause in the grand hall. He did not speak. He walked straight through the marble corridors, past the sweeping staircase, and toward the north wing.

Clara followed in silence. She knew better than to interrupt him now. Upstairs, the air grew colder. The north wing had been Isabella’s domain — isolated, quiet, carefully controlled.

Lucian stopped only once. Outside the single door. He stared at it for a moment. Then he pushed it open and entered. The scent hit him immediately.

Honey. Jasmine. And something uniquely hers that no other blood, no other presence, had ever carried.

The room was empty. The bed there. The curtains slightly open to the night. Her absence was louder than any scream.

For a brief moment, something flickered across Lucian’s face — a tightening of his jaw, a sharp inhale he did not need.

Pain. Then it vanished. He walked inside and closed the door behind him. Clara remained near the entrance, saying nothing.

Lucian crossed the room slowly, his fingers brushing the edge of the desk, the back of a chair, the windowsill — small, silent confirmations that she had been real here.

That she had lived here. That she had left. When he reached the bed, he stopped. Without ceremony, he sat.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, releasing more of her scent into the air. It wrapped around his senses.

Comforting but still Cruel. Lucain eyes closed. The bond echoed faintly — distant now, stretched thin, but still there.

Not gone. Not broken. Just… far. Lucian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. If Isabella wanted to run, he would let her. If she wanted to hate him, he would tolerate it.

But Caleb… That was not something he would ignore.

Slowly, Lucian straightened and closed his eyes fully, his expression going completely still. “Clara,” he called quietly, “Do not disturb me.”

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