Lorenzo woke with a start, his heart pounding against his ribs. The remnants of a dream lingered in his mind, vivid and strange. A girl with violet eyes—eyes that mirrored Isolde's—stood surrounded by shimmering magic, her form blurred as though she were both there and not. A radiant woman appeared beside her, her presence calming yet powerful, like an angel descending from the heavens. Her voice echoed in his mind: "Only magic can save her. Her life is bound to it."
He sat up, brushing a hand through his messy hair, sweat clinging to his skin. The words felt like a warning, yet also a plea.
Rising, he moved to the window, pushing it open to let in the crisp night air. The city stretched before him, alive with its usual hum of noise and light, but tonight, it felt foreign. The streets seemed to pulse with an energy that made his skin crawl.
"Lorenzo?"
The soft, familiar voice behind him pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to find Isolde sitting on the edge of his bed, her ethereal form illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window.
"I had a dream," he stammered, still caught between the vivid images and reality. "About you ", he added.
"About me?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern.
He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. You were… surrounded by magic. And there was a woman. She said only magic could save you, that your life is bound to it."
Isolde froze, her violet eyes wide as her lips parted in shock. "Magic?" she whispered, the word trembling on her tongue like a fragile secret.
"Yes. Isolde, what does it mean?"
She stood abruptly, pacing the room. Her expression shifted from shock to anger, then to sorrow. "No, Lorenzo. No! This can't be true. Magic isn't the answer—it's the curse. It's what gave that witch the power to destroy my family, to destroy me!" Her voice broke as she turned to him, tears glistening in her eyes. "Do you know what it feels like to exist but not live? To be nothing more than a shadow of what you once were?"
Her pain cut through him like a knife. He moved closer, gently taking her trembling hand in his. "Isolde," he said softly, "if magic did this to you, then maybe magic is the only thing that can undo it."
She shook her head, biting her lip as if trying to keep her emotions in check. But she didn't argue. Instead, she stood there in silence, her fingers tightening around his as she absorbed his words.
---
The next morning, Lorenzo wandered the city, his determination unshaken. He found himself drawn to the hidden corners and forgotten alleys until he stumbled upon a tiny shop tucked between two crumbling buildings. The sign above the door read: "Mystical arcane attic"
Inside, the shop was dimly lit, its air thick with the scent of ancient parchment and something herbal, almost medicinal. Shelves overflowed with dusty tomes, strange artifacts, and jars filled with substances he couldn't identify.
He searched for hours, flipping through books and examining scrolls, until a particular leather-bound volume caught his eye. The cover was etched with golden runes that seemed to glow faintly under his touch. The title read: "The Art Of Fated Shadows."
"This has to be it," he murmured, clutching the book tightly.
When he returned to his apartment, Isolde's gaze immediately locked onto the book. Her face darkened with worry.
"Lorenzo, no," she said, stepping back. "You don't know what you're doing. Magic isn't something you can control. Please, don't do this."
"I have to," he replied, his voice steady. "If this can help you, how can I not try?"
"Because it's dangerous!" she cried, her voice breaking. "Magic isn't just power—it's chaos. It takes more than it gives. Please, Lorenzo, stop before it's too late."
Their argument was interrupted by a sudden chill that swept through the room. The sky outside darkened unnaturally fast, clouds swirling like a vortex. Thunder cracked, and a bolt of lightning lit up the apartment, casting jagged shadows.
"Lorenzo…" Isolde's voice was barely a whisper as she clutched his arm, her grip tight with fear.
Before he could respond, a figure began to materialize in front of them, the air around it warping and shimmering. The witch.
Lorenzo's heart pounded as he recognized her from the slide of isolde—the same malevolent presence that had haunted Isolde's life.
"You," he spat, his voice filled with anger. "You're the one who did this to her."
The witch smirked, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "So clever, aren't you?" she said, her voice like silk laced with venom. "But tell me, Lorenzo, what do you plan to do? Save her?" She laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally. "Let's see how far your courage takes you."
Before he could react, the witch raised her hand and began chanting in a language he couldn't understand. A surge of energy erupted from her palm, striking him with the force of a hurricane.
Lorenzo was flung across the room, crashing into the wall where a mirror hung. The glass shattered, shards raining down as pain shot through his back. He groaned, struggling to move.
"Lorenzo!" Isolde screamed, running toward him.
The witch turned her attention to Isolde, muttering another incantation. A wave of dark energy enveloped her, and she collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain.
"It's no use," the witch sneered. "This curse is eternal. No one can save you, Isolde. Not him. Not anyone."
Through the haze of pain, Lorenzo pushed himself up, his vision blurry but his resolve unshaken. With a primal shout, he lunged at the witch, his hand connecting with her shadowy form.
The moment he touched her, a blinding light erupted between them. The witch let out an ear-piercing scream before disappearing into nothingness.
The storm outside ceased instantly, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
Lorenzo stumbled to Isolde's side, his face etched with worry. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice shaking.
She nodded weakly, tears streaming down her face. "I'm fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He reached for her hand, holding it tightly, as if afraid she might vanish like the witch. "I won't let anything happen to you," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.
As they stood, Isolde gasped, her eyes widening in horror. "Lorenzo… your back…"
He turned slightly, wincing as pain flared. Blood stained the floor, and the shards of broken glass glinted ominously.
"It's the mirror," he muttered, piecing it together. "I must've hit it when she threw me."
Isolde began to cry, her hands trembling. "Lorenzo, I'm so sorry. You wouldn't have been hurt if it weren't for me. Maybe… maybe this is my fate. Maybe I can't be saved."
"No." His voice was firm, cutting through her despair. "Whatever happens, I don't care. I'll find a way to save you."
She looked at him, her tears shimmering like stars. "Why?"
He hesitated, then spoke with quiet conviction. "Because for the first time, I feel like I have someone to care for. And I'm not letting that go."
Her heart ached at his words, but for the first time in years, hope flickered within her. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought. Her tears slowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
But before either of them could speak again, a faint laugh echoed through the air, cold and taunting.
Lorenzo froze, his blood running cold.
"That light…" the witch's disembodied voice hissed, "was only the beginning. You've awakened something far worse than me, Lorenzo. Let's see if your courage will save you now."
The room grew icy as her voice faded, leaving Lorenzo and Isolde standing in silence, their hearts pounding.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled again.