The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond

Morning at the Callahan estate came with no warmth. Snow piled heavy on the roofs, weighing them down like the unspoken truths pressing on Magnolia’s chest. She stood at the window of her private chamber, palms braced on the cold sill, eyes fixed on the courtyard where fresh tracks cut through the white , Sterling’s boots, pacing circles like a predator testing the edges of his cage.

Behind her, Beckett’s voice scraped across the room, rough with disbelief. "Tell me you’re not doing this."

Magnolia didn’t turn. "I’m doing this."

"You’re telling him yes?" His laugh was short and vicious. "Have you lost your spine?"

She flinched. Not because he was wrong , but because he was too close to the part of her that wanted to crawl under blankets and pretend none of this was real.

"Sterling thinks he holds the blade," she said, steadying her breath. "I’m going to make him think I’ll press it to my own throat."

"And if he calls your bluff?"

"Then I’m already dead."

Beckett crossed the chamber in three strides, the old floorboards groaning under his boots. His hand slammed into the wall near her head, close enough that she smelled the iron tang of old blood on his knuckles.

"Stop it. Stop playing the martyr. There’s always another way."

She met his eyes, hers dark and hollow from the ritual hours before. "There isn’t. You saw her, Beck. You felt it. Camille’s buried so deep the only way I’m pulling her out is if I walk through Sterling’s trap first."