He stepped forward, offering them out like sacred artifacts.
“These were your blades in your past incarnation—Armand’s and Isabelle’s.”
Roman extended his hand first.
Malik placed one of the knives in his palm, and Roman turned it over, studying it with awe. “You kept these… after the fire?”
Malik nodded gravely. “I did. I couldn’t let them fall into the wrong hands.”
He exhaled, his gaze locking onto mine. “And now, Olivia, I shall prove the existence of your past lives to you.”
He held out the second dagger.
I hesitated, staring at it.
Something inside me shifted—an echo, a whisper of something forgotten.
I reached forward and wrapped my fingers around the hilt.
A shiver ran up my arm. The blade fit against my palm with an eerie familiarity, as if it had been waiting for me to return to it.
But… nothing.
No rush of memories. No visions.
Only silence.
I frowned, tightening my grip. “I wish I could remember something.”
“You will,” Malik assured me. “One moment, and you will.”
He turned back to the cupboard, his fingers searching for something unseen.
Roman and I exchanged a glance before settling onto the green velvet sofa.
When Malik spun around, a small glass vial rested in his hands, the liquid inside shimmering a deep, dark crimson.
Blood.
My stomach tightened.
Malik’s voice was soft, reverent. “This is Rosie’s blood.”
Rosie’s blood? My mind spun with questions, but I stayed silent, waiting for him to explain.
“You will hold your daggers like this,” he continued, demonstrating, “one on top of the other.”
His emerald gaze flicked between Roman and me, gauging our reactions.
“I will pour the contents of this vial over the blades. When the blood coats the metal, you will come into contact with your past selves—you will see the truth.”
I turned to Roman, locking eyes with him.
For a brief moment, we didn’t need words.
We understood each other.
We sank into the depth of our connection, silently bracing ourselves for whatever was about to happen.
