Seraphina no longer dreamed in her own voice.
When she slept, she heard whispers in a tongue she could not name, felt moonlight where fire should have been, and tasted ash on her tongue instead of breath. It was not violent like before. That was what made it worse.
Ilyra had grown quiet.
And quiet things, Seraphina was learning, were the most dangerous of all.
She spent the morning alone in the western tower, pacing in slow circles with her hands stretched out, trying to pull magic from the air the way she used to.
It no longer obeyed her.
It swirled near her skin, then sank beneath it like oil into fabric. Her veins hummed. Her fingertips burned. When she spoke a summoning spell, it came out in two layers, one her own and the other older, silkier.
Seraphina clenched her fists and tried again. And again.
The third time, the candle burst into blue flame.
Not gold. Not her color.
She stared at it and whispered a single word.
Stop.
The flame vanished instantly
Her magic listened.
But she was no longer sure it was listening to her alone.
Lucien watched her from the other side of the warded glass.
He had not approached her directly since the night she pulled herself from Ilyra's hold. He brought her food, gave her space, waited for her to come to him.
She had not.
And he had not yet dared to speak the apology forming like a thorn in his throat.
Instead, he read.
The scrolls in the library were filled with forbidden theories, all of which he had once locked away to protect her. Now, he opened every seal and studied every line.
Soul fragmentation. Magic inheritance. Tethering rites and counterspells.
One scroll referenced a relic. The Ashroot Mirror. An artifact made to sever residual bindings between the living and the dead. Lost to time. Hidden by the Starborn Council long before Lucien was born.
He knew where it might be.
He also knew what it might cost him to retrieve it.
And he had already decided that her freedom was worth the price.
Riven found Seraphina just after nightfall.
She sat by the reflecting pool, her hair damp, skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. A swirl of magic hovered around her shoulders like a shawl. It was not just hers.
He watched her for a moment before speaking.
"You look different."
She glanced at him. "Everything feels different."
Riven nodded.
He sat beside her, close but not touching. "You're still you."
"I'm not so sure."
"You are. That thing inside you might have history, but it does not own you. You are not a body for rent."
Seraphina closed her eyes.
"Lucien knew. He kept it from me."
Riven did not argue. "I know."
"Do you hate him?"
"I want to. But I also know what it is to try and protect someone the wrong way."
She looked at him.
And Riven, for the first time, looked away.
Later that night, Seraphina stood before the cracked mirror in her room.
She stared into it for a long time.
At her reflection.
At the faint shimmer behind her eyes.
At the jagged line splitting the glass.
She raised one hand and touched the crack.
A pulse of energy surged through the room.
And from the mirror, something whispered.
Not Ilyra.
Something else.
Older.
Watching.
Lucien left at dawn.
He did not tell anyone where he was going. He left a single line for Riven, scrawled on parchment and sealed with a binding glyph.
Protect her until I return.
He cloaked himself in old magic, magic from his bloodline, and vanished into the fold between realms. The forest swallowed him whole. The path ahead was marked only by whispers and cold air.
He would find the Ashroot Mirror.
Or he would die trying.
Riven read the note in silence.
Then crumpled it and let it fall to the floor.
He did not believe Lucien was doing this just to save Seraphina.
He believed Lucien was doing it to silence Ilyra for good.
And maybe, just maybe, Riven was beginning to wonder if that was not a mistake.
Seraphina dreamed again.
This time, she was standing in a hall of stars.
Columns rose around her, carved from obsidian and laced with runes. In the distance, a woman stood with her back turned. Her gown trailed like mist. Her hair was silver.
Not Ilyra.
But similar.
Seraphina walked toward her, slow, cautious.
When she reached her, the woman turned.
Her face was her own.
But older. Sharper. Crowned in fire.
Seraphina opened her mouth to speak.
The woman raised a finger to her lips.
And everything turned to ash.
She woke to find her bed surrounded by petals.
Black ones.
The roses from the garden had bloomed again.
Only now, they grew in patterns that resembled sigils.
Seraphina stood, heart racing.
She whispered a spell of banishment.
The petals turned to dust.
And in her chest, something laughed.
That evening, Riven confronted her in the moonroom.
"I found something," he said.
Seraphina looked up from her book.
"In the archives," he added. "A letter Lucien wrote. A name he never mentioned. A promise he never shared."
Seraphina said nothing.
Riven walked to the window.
"He said you were meant to be queen. Not by title. By power. That Ilyra was his chosen match, but you were his fated one. It was not just a mistake. It was a decision."
She inhaled sharply.
"I need you to know that," Riven said.
"I already did," Seraphina replied.
Her voice was quiet.
But steady.
The following morning, the air around the manor shifted.
A storm was coming.
But it was not made of clouds or wind.
It was magic, It was memory
It was something that had been buried, now rising.
And Seraphina stood at the edge of it, not running.
Not afraid.