The storm had quieted by the time Dora led Amara through the dense woods. But the air remained heavy, like the world itself held its breath. Rain dripped steadily from the leaves, soaking through Amara's thin, tattered dress. Her bare feet stumbled over gnarled roots and wet moss. Each step sent a jolt through her aching bones.
She could barely walk.
Her legs shook. Her body didn't feel like hers. It was too light in some places, too heavy in others. Her breath came in shallow gasps. It felt like she was relearning something as simple as moving forward. Ten years in the dirt had made her forget the rhythm of life.
"You'll find your strength," Dora said, glancing back. "The magic is still settling."
Amara didn't answer. Her jaw tightened as she forced herself to keep going. She didn't want to appear weak, not even to the woman who pulled her from the grave.
Eventually, they reached a crooked little hut tucked between the trees. Smoke coiled lazily from its chimney, and the inside glowed with a faint, reddish warmth. Dora pushed the door open and stepped in. Amara hesitated at the threshold, the warmth calling to her, even as her mind screamed caution.
But she stepped in.
The heat hit her like a wave. Her soaked skin prickled. A fire crackled in a stone hearth at the far end. Strange herbs hung from the ceiling, and shelves were lined with old books and vials of glowing liquids. The scent was thick: dried sage, iron, and something like burnt roses.
Amara sat slowly, her limbs creaking. A rough woolen blanket was draped over her shoulders. Her fingers clutched it tightly. She felt like she might collapse if she let go.
Dora crouched near the fire, stirring something in a blackened pot. Silence sat between them like a third presence until Amara finally whispered, "You said you loved him. Magnus."
Dora paused.
"I did," she said, her voice rough.
She stood and walked to a low wooden table. From a jar, she poured a dark red liquid into two chipped cups. She handed one to Amara.
"Drink," she said. "It will help."
Amara took a cautious sip. It was bitter, thick, but it warmed her throat. Her stomach tightened as it settled inside her.
"Tell me everything," she said, her voice firmer now. "Tell me why you brought me back."
Dora sat opposite her. The firelight painted deep shadows on her face, making her look older, haunted.
"He promised me everything," Dora said, her voice low, almost broken. "When I was young, Magnus found me. Said I was powerful. Said he needed me. We worked side by side, rituals, sacrifices, secrets no one should carry. I gave him everything. Believed him. Loved him."
She looked away, her voice cracking.
"And then he discarded me. Just like that. Took lovers. Built his empire. Left me in the dark with nothing but the stain of what we did together."
Amara looked at her, heart racing. Dora's pain was real. Not just bitterness. Betrayal etched in every wrinkle on her face.
"So this spell... the Womb of Return?"
Dora nodded. "Ancient. Forbidden. It only works on women who died while pregnant, and in grief. Women who died with vengeance in their hearts. It uses that pain as fuel. But the cost is high."
Amara swallowed. "What cost?"
Dora's eyes locked onto hers. "You don't come back whole. Part of you, your warmth, your innocence, is gone. And in return, you are bound to the curse. Until the source of your death is destroyed, the curse will burn in your blood. It will take you again on a precise date if you fail."
Amara's breath shook. The cup trembled in her hand.
"So Magnus... he killed me?"
Dora looked away. "He orchestrated your death. But not directly. He offered you. Your soul. Your life. As payment."
"To who?"
"To the Circle of Thorns. His cult. His legacy. A secret order of sorcerers obsessed with keeping their wealth and bloodline through dark rituals. Your death was part of a sacrifice to ensure his empire lived on."
Amara's throat went dry.
Dora leaned in. "And the one who inherited it? Elias Blackthorne. Magnus's son. Your lover. He gained everything after you died, the wealth, the empire... all of it under Blackthorne Corporation."
Amara's chest twisted. "No... Elias wouldn't... he wouldn't do that."
"Whether he knew or not doesn't matter," Dora said coldly. "The curse doesn't care about ignorance. Only blood. He is tied to Magnus. He enjoys everything because you died."
Amara dropped the cup. It shattered on the floor. Her hands shook uncontrollably.
Her memory flickered.
A fire.
Her own screaming.
Elias, holding her. Crying. But unable to stop it.
And Magnus's voice, distant, commanding.
She gasped, clutched her stomach.
"I remember... he said... I had to burn."
Dora nodded. "You were the price. Now you are the reckoning."
Silence settled again. The fire cracked and popped. Outside, wind brushed the windows like ghost fingers.
Amara stared at her dirt-covered hands.
She had died with fire in her lungs. Her child gone. Her love shattered. And now she was back, stitched together by grief and vengeance.
"I want to destroy him," she whispered. "All of it."
Dora didn't smile. But something in her face eased.
"Then we'll begin tomorrow. You'll rest tonight. Your body will finish reforming. But remember this, Amara Voss: You did not come back to forgive. You came back to end this."
Amara nodded slowly.
Her eyes burned with purpose. Her heart, though broken, beat with one goal.
She didn't return for love. She returned to burn it all down.
To watch every lie collapse under its own weight. To unearth the rot beneath their golden legacy. They thought her dead and forgotten, just another sacrifice in their empire of shadows. But she was back now. Breathing. Thinking. Burning.
Every step she took would be a strike against them. Every breath, a curse returned. She would not rest until their world crumbled, until the name Blackthorne was ash on her tongue.