The library felt vast in the dim light. Firelight danced across rows upon rows of leather-bound books, their spines glowing gold where the flames touched them. The smell of old parchment and petrichor hung in the air.

Cassian Nightshade sat motionless in his armchair, a glass of whiskey untouched at his elbow. The clock on the mantle had just struck midnight when her voice broke through the silence like light through a crack in stone.

The thought was not his own. It appeared inside his skull like a whisper that didn't belong to him, feminine and groggy, dripping with annoyance. Her voice.

Fifteen centuries.

Cassian sat forward slowly, setting his glass down on the mahogany table. His storm-grey eyes reflected the firelight as a smile crept across his pale features—soft, reverent, almost disbelieving.

Somewhere in the world, she existed. His soulmate.