Evelyn’s gaze remained locked on the locket in Azrael’s hand, her translucent fingers twitching as if she wanted to reach for it but dared not touch it. The weight of recognition pressed against her mind, a whisper of something just beyond her grasp.
The man in the portrait—who was he to her? A lover? A stranger? A killer?
Azrael’s fingers drummed against the locket’s metal surface. “Fear,” he murmured, echoing her earlier words. “It’s the strongest emotion tied to this memory.” He met her gaze, his amber eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You feared him.”
Evelyn shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t know why.”
Azrael exhaled through his nose. He had no patience for hesitation, but something about this ghost—her unraveling past, her very existence—had tangled itself into his path.
He had come here for the Stone of Immortality, not to play detective in a dead girl’s tragedy. But now, the two seemed inextricably linked.
His grip tightened around the locket. “If this man was important enough to be kept in here, then his name must be hidden somewhere in your memories.”
Evelyn frowned. “And how do we unlock them?”
Azrael smirked, stepping closer. “With a little push.”
Before she could question him, he reached out. His fingers, still warm from his human disguise, passed through the air and touched her.
Evelyn’s form shattered.
A surge of memories—blurred, broken, fragmented—exploded through her mind.
A candlelit ballroom. Laughter. Music that wove through the air like silk.
A man standing beside her, his hand warm against hers. His voice deep, familiar, whispering in her ear.
“You are mine, Evelyn. You always will be.”
Her breath caught. His lips brushed her knuckles. She smiled—until something shifted.
The candlelight darkened. The warmth in his eyes turned cold. His grip tightened around her wrist.
“You are mine.”
Pain. Sharp, searing. A cry caught in her throat. The glint of a blade.
Then—darkness.
Evelyn gasped, jerking backward as if she had been burned. Her form flickered erratically, like a spirit on the verge of vanishing altogether.
Azrael studied her carefully. “You saw something.”
She clutched her head. “A ballroom. A man.” Her voice trembled. “I think… I think I loved him.”
Azrael raised a brow. “And yet you were afraid of him.”
Evelyn’s gaze flickered toward the locket again. “He said I was his.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “As if I was a possession.”
Azrael hummed, thoughtful. “Perhaps you were.”
Evelyn shot him a sharp look. “I wasn’t owned—”
“Weren’t you?” Azrael tilted his head. “If you loved him, yet he frightened you… then perhaps love wasn’t what bound you to him. Perhaps it was something else.”
Evelyn swallowed hard. The memory still pulsed inside her, blurred at the edges, but one thing was clear—whoever this man was, his claim on her had not been gentle.
Azrael flipped the locket open again, studying the portrait. “You need a name.”
Evelyn closed her eyes, focusing. The memory was there, waiting, if only she could grasp it. She let the feeling wash over her—the warmth of the dance, the fear in the dark, the blade, the voice…
A whisper slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
“Laurence.”
Azrael’s gaze sharpened. “Laurence.” He repeated the name, as if testing its weight. He glanced back at her. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Evelyn opened her eyes, and for the first time, they burned with something deeper than confusion.
“Yes,” she said softly. “He was the one who killed me.”
Azrael’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Then we have our first lead.”
Evelyn’s fingers curled into fists. The fear had not vanished, but something else had taken its place.
Determination.
For the first time since her death, she had a name. And she would uncover the truth—even if it destroyed her all over again.
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