She didn't know how she got here.
She didn't know where this was, or if it was even real.
The last thing she remembered—
The mirror.
The scar.
And her name,
screamed by the walls of Moretti Manor.
Now, she had no body.
But she could hear the heartbeat of the past.
Dark. No stars. No ground beneath her. Only emptiness, closing in like a shroud.
And in the midst of that void—her.
Her soul was naked. Not her body.
There was a sound. Not music. Not a voice.
Just the scrape of nails on marble… and the sobs of a woman sacrificed.
Like a scream trapped in the throat of a century—too ancient to die, too broken to fade.
Seraphina…
It was a whisper—not a call, not a warning. Just a sentence carved into silence.
Where am I?
She tried to speak, but no sound came out of her mouth.
It wasn't a voice that answered—but fire.
From beneath her feet, a light crawled, red, like blood with a mind of its own.
It drew a circle around her.
There were symbols. An old language.
Engravings of a cursed vow.
She looked at her own hand.
There were no wounds, but why the stinging? Why did it feel like something was being taken from her mind—memories being erased one by one?
Lucien's name. Their wedding. The fire. The scream.
Everything, being relentlessly erased by the darkness.
She heard a sound again. The clinking of chains.
From the void, a wall gradually formed in front of her—made of smoke, memories, and lies.
And behind that wall.
A sound. A court. A pit.
The voice whispered again.
Are you ready to remember?
She didn't answer and she didn't object either.
Because deep in her heart
she was ready to face the ghost of the past.
And in a flash—the door opened.
The wall became stone. The smoke became pillars. The emptiness became a place.
She was under Moretti Manor—the Blood Memory Vault. A room not for memories, but for sins.
It was cursed by magic, not just memory but judgment.
Now it was alive again—Because of Seraphina's blood.
Because of the vow of love that was burned. Because of the sin that time could not hide.
Vast. Heavy. Everything was black.
And in the center, there was the Court of the Dead.
Accusation Hall.
A wide courtyard made of old stone. Black pillars, weathered by the poison of time. In every corner stood hooded judges, faceless creatures, only darkness under the cloaks.
They lined up in a circle, like an old court.
In the center of the circle, there was a large pit that looked like an altar but was clearly not for prayer, but for fire.
The moon was red. Like blood.
And even without fire, the air smelled of smoke. As if memories were being burned.
Seraphina stumbled forward, almost falling on the stone, wet with dew.
With each step, there was a clinking sound like chains even though she wasn't wearing any.
Fog curled around her ankles like smoke from a forgotten pyre.
In front of her, someone was kneeling.
She opened her eyes. She gasped.
She screamed.
Not because of horror—but because of the truth.
Her own ghost, appeared in the middle of the pit, on the day the world cursed her.
It was her—only nineteen years old. Scratched cheeks, bloody knees, and chained hands.
On her wrists, there were bruises—traces of the marks of a battle she tried to escape.
In the middle of the courtyard, a memory was being played out.
Seraphina couldn't move.
Her chest tightened.
What... is this?
She looked around.
Behind the hooded judges, there was a familiar figure.
Tall. Silent. And no matter how much darkness covered its form, she knew it.
Lucien.
Standing behind the judgment circle, his eyes unreadable.
But something was flickering at the edge of his eyes. Whether it was a drop of tears or grief?
He didn't speak but his hands were trembling.
Speak..?! Her voice echoed, but it seemed he didn't hear it. Speak, Lucien! You knew I wasn't a witch!
No one answered. No one moved.
The silence was like a whip of memory—it didn't just strike, but slowly sank into the flesh.
Until she heard the clinking of metal.
The High Inquisitor stepped forward.
Slowly, he removed his hood and the world she had tried to build in her own mind completely crumbled.
It wasn't Lucien. But it wasn't someone else either. Twin? No. Older. More brutal.
It was Lord Cassian Drevarre, Lucien's ancestor.
A man who lived hundreds of years ago, known as the leader of the Inquisition.
In his eyes, sin was not condemned—it was burned. No questions. No mercy.
But their faces were the same. Not just similar. Like one soul reborn.
From the curve of the lips, to the jawline, to the look in the eyes. Like Lucien.
Seraphina's throat tightened.
This wasn't a dream. Not a hallucination. This was the truth.
This was the truth covered by time and false love.
They chained my body...she whispered weakly, trembling. but it was your silence Lucien that sentenced my soul.
In the middle of the pit, a fire was being lit.
The soldiers of the Inquisition held torches. The young Seraphina was being dragged towards the fire, even crying, even begging.
"I'm not a witch! Please!"
The young Seraphina screamed, almost voiceless. Crying. Begging for mercy.
But they had no mercy at all.
No one looked down. No one spoke. The judges remained unyielding.
The soldiers tightened their grip on her arm.
As if each of her tears was proof of guilt—not of innocent helplessness.
And Lucien then, wasn't just cold. He chose to remain silent as she was slowly destroyed.
"No!" She screamed, and finally, something moved.
But the judges didn't look at her.
After a while, something stirred.
Music.
It didn't begin—it returned, like a forgotten breath exhaled by the dark.
From somewhere—between earth and heaven—a violin began to weep.
Its notes slid between shadows,
soft as sorrow, sharp as memory.
Like the cry of a restless soul.
It was her wedding song.
The same one that played as she walked down the aisle—on the day Lucien promised her forever. A vow made in front of fire,
now echoing through the ashes.
The young Seraphina was only one step away from the fire.
And the violin continued to sing of lies.
Shadows gradually enveloped his face—if it was really Lucien—and in the darkness, tears formed again that never flowed. But he remained silent.
And in the last second of the scene, the wind passed.
Carrying the voice of a dead woman. You left me to burn...
The same courtyard. Darker now. The air was heavier.
The hooded judges remained silent, like statues who only lived to judge.
In the middle of the courtyard, the pit now had fire, hot, raging, and blazing.
And on top of the fire, tied to a wooden post, a woman, bloody, and almost unconscious.
Seraphina.
Her hands were bound. Her feet shackled in chains.And in her eyes—
blindness wasn't the cruelest punishment, but the veil that covered them:her wedding veil.
Not woven for love,
but for silence.
Not to bless,
but to bury.
Draped over her face like an insult to the love promised in lies.
She couldn't see Lucien. But she knew he was there. Near. Breathing. Hiding in the darkness.
The man she gave her love to, but who repaid her with death.
She heard the clinking of metal.
The sound of footsteps familiar to her heart.
Lucien slowly approached.
He was wearing a black cloak,
like the judges, but it couldn't hide the trembling of his hands.
He held a torch. The wind blew. The fire swayed.
And between the heat and the silence, Lucien whispered, a whisper only for her.
'Forgive me... in another life."
And before she could scream in protest, Lucien dropped the torch.
The fire was like a monster that suddenly came alive. It erupted under her body. It climbed the post. It consumed her hem. It devoured her hair. And burned her skin.
Lucien!
The young Seraphina screamed, a scream full of pain, of questions, of last hope.
But it was unanswered.
Lucien's eyes just stared, as the fire consumed her vow.
On the edge of the memory, the present Seraphina was stunned—as if awakened by a fire that had long been sleeping within her.
She knelt on the cold stone.Her hand clasped her chest. And there she felt the curse.
The Blood Vow.
A mark engraved under her skin. A thread of fire piercing her heart now.
As if her soul was being burned again.
As the fire grew, as the past screamed the name of the man she loved, something burst in the sky.
A burst. Like something breaking.
And suddenly, the whole memory shattered like glass and fell from a high tower.
From the fragments of memory, she saw a detail: On the wrist of Lord Cassian Drevarre, Lucien's ancestor, there was a mark.
Like hers. The same Blood Vow sigil. The same curse.
And there she understood. She wasn't the only one cursed.
You didn't just kill me, Lucien... You brought me back only to burn me again. My death was not a moment. It was a ritual.. Seraphina whispered.
The wood flew. The post fell. And her body was burned. Nothing remained but ashes and memories.
And before the darkness completely swallowed the surroundings.
No more fire. No more judges.
No more breath.
Seraphina opened her eyes, drenched in sweat, her heart about to burst.
And in front of her, Lucien. Whole. No fire. No tears.
Standing in the light.
But in his eyes, there was still a trace of guilt.
Seraphina stood tall.
She was no longer the child left to burn.
"You didn't save me. You watched me burn." Seraphina rebuked coldly and full of resentment.
Moretti Manor was silent.
In the cold hallway of the old manor that was once home to luxury, now only ghosts of memory remained.
The floor creaked with every step, and the walls were full of burn marks—black, like the skin of a possessed creature.
Around, whispers seemed to accompany every gust of wind, She heard cursed whispers echoing from the walls—words not meant for the living.
There was Seraphina, alone in the dark. And something inside her—
grief, rage, or memory—
was fighting to break loose.
She was no longer the woman once consumed by belief.
Now, she was just ash—of love that was burned, and belief that was killed.
On the other side of the hallway, there was Lucien. Silent. Like a shadow, part of the old house.
His presence was broken, like a wall that could no longer stand the weight of secrets.
And the eyes that once seemed like heaven—now were gloomy, heavy with unshed sorrow.
Seraphina stepped towards Lucien and stopped in front of him.
'Tell me," she said, her voice cold like ice on the skin. "Tell me what I already know but never heard from your mouth."
Lucien didn't move immediately.
His breath was shallow, and his hands were trembling.
He approached, only one step, but at one glance from Seraphina, he was nailed to the spot.
As if there was a wall between them—not physical, but made of years, of silence, and of nightmares that would never be silent.