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Rage surges through me, and without thinking, I snatch the crucifix from above my bed and hurl it at the balcony doors. It bounces off, not even leaving a scratch. Desperate, I scour the room for something heavier, something that might shatter the glass. But there’s nothing better. I pick up the crucifix once more, striking the doors again and again, but it’s no use.

Panting, I stare out at the burning field beyond, completely swallowed in flames.

We are going to die here.

Magdalena

All I could think of as the flames closed in was Nera. Is this how she felt when she was tied to the pyre? As the fire licked at her feet? Centuries have passed since the 1700s, and yet we are still hunted. Death must run through our veins.

I searched the crowd for the wolf, the Devil who had been my companion all these years. Save me, I commanded. Wasn’t I his creation? I could see the reflection of his yellow eyes in the faces of the angry men surrounding me, but that was all. I was alone—abandoned, not just by God, but by the Devil too.

At least, I thought, if I was to die a second time, it would be in Nera’s honor.

I closed my eyes, ready to accept my fate. But then the chains choking my body loosened. The girl—Petra—had not only proclaimed the truth of my life but saved me.

I attacked the older man first, the one who led the witch hunt. I intended to leave then, to let them be consumed by their own chaos, but something on the ground caught my eye.

A diary. My diary.

It stares at me now from the dirt. Slowly, I lift it up.

In my hands, it feels foreign and familiar at the same time. A precious artifact I didn’t even know I’d lost. As I open the first page, a faint thrum pulses from deep within me.

This diary belongs to Magdalena Derokov.

The words stir something deep inside me. Long-buried memories poke through the darkness of my mind like tiny blooms, growing bigger, stronger. Walking along the shore with Otac as a child, collecting stones. Picking herbs in the woods with Majka. Mixing a poultice to heal an old woman’s cold. The first day I sat down to write in this diary, overcome with loneliness and grief, hoping to connect with the mother I’d lost.

Suddenly, a deep weariness settles into my bones, weighing down every limb. I am tired—so, so tired. Years of nightmares, of waiting in the shadows, of stealing lives in an attempt to reclaim my own. But it was never enough. I always craved more, and more, and more. What would my mother think of the creature I’ve become? Would she even recognize me?

I tear my gaze from the diary and turn toward Lavender House. The place that ruined me, yet made me feel most alive. My home, whether or not it ever accepted my presence. Now it stands tall and defiant, towering above the roaring flames licking at its foundation. As if it believes it can withstand the fire.

A noise catches my attention, coming from the building. Someone is inside, pounding on one of the balcony doors.

Petra.

She is trapped.

My dealings with her and her family are finished. The fierce thirst for revenge that once consumed me has dwindled to a mere flicker. But as I turn away, something tugs within my chest, sharp and painful. I wince, rubbing at the spot. What is this feeling?

A voice echoes in my ear:

We are healers. We must always do good.

Majko.

I can’t remember the last time I heard her voice, but now it rings clear, as if she were standing beside me. I can almost see her, like a glimmer amidst the fiery chaos, with her raven-dark hair that smelled of rosemary. Her gentle hands folded together. She is just beyond. Waiting. Has she been waiting this whole time? Why, after all these years, does she appear to me now?

I turn to face the house again, no longer a symbol of my rage, but a place that holds lives I can save. Perhaps this is what I must do before I can truly let go—I must find the person I once was. Magdalena, the healer.

Closing my eyes, I summon what remains of my power as a mora before it slips away forever. Then, focusing on the balcony, I fly.

Petra

One moment, I am banging on the balcony door, shouting with frustration. The next, a figure appears beside me.

I stagger back, stunned, disbelief flooding my senses.

Magdalena stands before me. Her crown is missing, probably lost amidst the chaos. Her eyes are still human, light brown and widened in fear.