The weight of impending war hung over the city like a storm waiting to break. Lyja could feel it in the air, in the magic that pulsed beneath the Quarter's streets, in the way the usual liveliness of New Orleans had dulled under the threat of what was coming.
Tonight, they would finish reinforcing the city's defenses. Tomorrow, the witches would come.
And then, everything would change.
A Moment With Marcel
Lyja was finishing up one of the last protection spells near Marcel's compound when she heard footsteps behind her. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"Figured you'd be here," Marcel said, his voice smooth yet cautious.
Lyja let out a breath, standing up from where she had crouched near the ground. "I thought you'd be with your people."
"I was," Marcel said, stepping closer. "But I needed a minute."
Lyja turned to face him. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, making his usually confident expression seem… softer.
She frowned. "You're worried."
Marcel huffed out a laugh. "Of course, I'm worried. This city's my home. My people are my family. I don't want to lose any of them."
Lyja nodded. "I get it."
Marcel studied her, his dark eyes searching hers. "And what about you, Lyja? What are you fighting for?"
The question caught her off guard.
She could have said she was fighting for Davina. For the people who couldn't defend themselves. For the city that had become her home.
But deep down, she knew there was more to it than that.
She was fighting for herself.
"I don't want to run anymore," she admitted, her voice quieter than she expected.
Marcel's expression softened. "You don't have to."
Before she could respond, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was such a simple gesture, but it sent a shiver down her spine.
"Lyja…" Marcel said, his voice low, hesitant in a way she had never heard before.
She knew what was coming.
She could feel it—the pull between them, the tension that had been building for weeks.
And in that moment, with war knocking on their doorstep, she let herself fall into it.
Marcel leaned in, and she met him halfway.
The kiss was slow, deep, filled with a desperation they both felt but couldn't put into words. Marcel's hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, and for just a moment, she let herself forget about everything else.
About the war.
About the choices waiting for her.
About him.
But when they finally pulled away, the reality came crashing back.
Marcel searched her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. "Tell me this isn't just fear talking."
Lyja's chest ached, because she didn't know the answer.
So instead of lying, she whispered, "I don't know."
Marcel exhaled, his hands dropping from her waist. "That's not the answer I was hoping for."
She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
He nodded, stepping back. "Get some rest, Lyja. Tomorrow… everything changes."
She watched him go, her heart twisting in ways she didn't want to analyze.
Because as much as that kiss had meant something…
She couldn't shake the feeling that she had just made everything worse.
An Unwanted Witness
By the time Lyja made it back to her apartment, she was exhausted—physically, emotionally, everything.
But the moment she opened her door, she froze.
Because sitting on the windowsill, bathed in moonlight like a ghost from a past she couldn't escape, was Klaus.
His posture was relaxed, but his piercing blue eyes told a different story.
"How long have you been sitting there?" she asked, her voice coming out more defensive than she intended.
Klaus smirked, tilting his head. "Long enough."
Her stomach dropped.
Klaus saw.
She closed the door behind her, leaning against it. "And what? You came here to gloat? To tell me I'm making a mistake?"
Klaus chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "No, love. I came here because I care."
Lyja scoffed, crossing her arms. "You care?"
Klaus stood, his movements slow, deliberate. "You think I don't?"
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "You always make everything a game, Klaus. A power play."
Klaus's expression darkened. "And you think Marcel doesn't?"
Lyja faltered.
Klaus took a step closer. "I saw the way he looked at you tonight. The way you looked at him. And yet, here I am—the one you still can't seem to push away."
Her breath hitched, because he wasn't wrong.
Klaus reached for her hand, his touch featherlight. "You don't have to say it, Lyja. I already know."
Her heart pounded against her ribs. "Know what?"
Klaus's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "That you feel it too."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that Marcel was the safer choice, the right choice.
But the truth was, Klaus had always been right about one thing—
The pull between them was undeniable.
And it terrified her.
Before she could say another word, Klaus leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. "Sleep well, love."
And then, just like always—he was gone.
Leaving her alone.
Again.
With too many thoughts, too many emotions, and too little time to figure out what the hell she was going to do about any of it.
Because tomorrow—
Tomorrow, the war would begin.