Selene stood at the war table, her hand still pressed to its worn surface, as if anchoring herself to this moment—this new reality. Around her, nobles and warriors murmured, their disbelief thicker than the storm outside. Yet none dared speak above a whisper. Not now. Not after what they had seen.
She hadn't looked at Lucien since stepping into the fortress. She couldn't. Not yet.
The silence that followed her declaration was absolute.
Call me Queen.
It echoed, not just through the stone walls of the fortress, but through something deeper. Something older. A magic that hummed beneath the skin of the earth itself seemed to stir in answer.
A few bowed. Others, less brave, clutched their medallions or talismans, whispering prayers to gods who had long since turned their backs on this war.
She straightened, drawing her hand back, eyes sweeping the room.
"I know what you see," Selene said, voice steady. "You see a ghost. A myth returned. But I promise you—I am more than memory. I am more than vengeance. I am the blade your silence forged, the fire your loyalty protected, and the storm that will unseat him."
Somewhere near the back, a young warrior—the son of House Ravin, if she remembered correctly—fell to one knee. Then another followed. Then more.
Still, others hesitated.
Vespera stepped forward quietly, her face shadowed beneath the hood she hadn't removed.
"You heard her," she said. "The Queen has returned. And she calls you to rise or fall."
Selene exhaled slowly, trying not to let the rush of heat in her chest show. Power buzzed under her skin, her veins still raw from what the mirror had shown her. Her past self. Her death. The betrayal. And… him.
Alaric.
Just the name made her fingers curl.
She turned away from the table, walking to the tall arched windows. Rain beaded down the glass like a thousand broken futures. Her reflection stared back at her—different, stronger, more scarred than before.
Lucien had followed at a respectful distance, but now, when the others busied themselves in hushed conversation, he stepped closer.
"You've changed," he said softly, not accusing. Observing.
She didn't turn. "So have you."
"I deserve that."
She glanced at him then, eyes unreadable. "You deserve far more than that, Lucien. You helped me once. You loved me, maybe still do. But love didn't stop what happened."
He flinched like she'd struck him. "I tried—"
"I know," she said, her voice quieter now. "And that's what makes it worse."
She closed her eyes. The memories still pressed behind them like a tide waiting to crash. Blood. Chains. Screams. The altar.
Her child.
No. She couldn't think of that now. Not yet.
Selene turned fully to face him, her gaze steel. "We don't have the luxury of dwelling on regret. Alaric won't wait. The runes breaking were only the beginning."
Lucien nodded, swallowing. "We've already lost the western sentries. The frost-peaks packs haven't responded. And we suspect there's a spy in the lower council."
"I'll deal with them." Her voice was ice. "One by one."
He hesitated, then spoke, almost too softly to hear. "Do you remember… everything?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into the folds of her coat and pulled out a small object: a pendant, cracked and scorched at the edges, its center gemstone dull.
Lucien stared at it. "That's… that was mine. I gave it to you before the first siege."
"You promised I'd return it when the war ended," she said, letting it rest between them. "But I died before I could."
He reached for it, but she pulled back.
"Not yet," she said. "Let's see if you earn it again."
He blinked. "You really are her."
"No," Selene said, slipping the pendant away. "I'm what she became."
---
Later, when the council had retired and the fortress was quieter, Selene sat alone in the old strategy room. Dust lay thick on some of the older maps, and many names she once knew had faded from ink to memory.
Her hand hovered over the region once called Aramoor. It had been the heart of the resistance in her first life. Gone now. Salted by Alaric's soldiers. Its people either enslaved or scattered.
The weight of it all pressed down on her, and for a moment, she let herself feel it.
The pain.
The betrayal.
The endless ache of remembering a life she hadn't been allowed to finish.
A candle flickered. The room dimmed.
And in the flickering shadows, a memory rose unbidden.
---
She was in the throne room again—her old one, not this fortress of exile and steel. The marble had gleamed. Her people had sung her name.
Lucien had knelt beside her throne then, not just as a lover, but as her sword and shield. His eyes had held no secrets then. Only fire and loyalty.
And Alaric…
He had stood at the edge of the hall, disguised as an envoy, a gift in hand, his voice velvet. She had not known. Not then.
The betrayal had come days later, wrapped in blood and flames.
The altar.
The scream that tore through her soul.
The child they never found.
---
Selene gasped, the memory fading like smoke.
She pressed a hand to her chest. The pain was worse at night. The old soul and the new fighting for space.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," she called, steadying her voice.
Vespera stepped in, her silver-streaked hair damp from the rain.
"You shouldn't sit here alone," she said.
"I need to remember."
"You already remember too much."
Selene offered a weak smile. "Then stay and help me forget."
Vespera joined her at the table, her fingers tracing the map alongside Selene's.
"There's a storm coming," Vespera murmured. "Not just the one outside. The council will divide. Some will kneel. Others will run to Alaric."
"Then we burn the bridges behind them," Selene said coldly.
"You're colder now than you were before," Vespera observed.
Selene met her gaze. "Wouldn't you be?"
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Vespera said, "Do you want to know what he's become?"
"Lucien?" Selene asked.
Vespera shook her head. "No. Alaric."
Selene hesitated. Then nodded once.
Vespera closed her eyes.
"He's not the same man who took your life. He's worse. He's been drinking from the well beneath the shattered altar. Feeding on things that crawl through time. He wears your death like a crown, Selene. Twists it to justify his rule."
Selene's hands curled into fists.
"Then I'll make him choke on it."
---
The next morning, Selene stood on the battlements, the wind pulling at her cloak. Below, the valley stretched out—wild and unforgiving.
Lucien approached quietly, a bundle in hand.
"What's that?" she asked without turning.
He laid it beside her. "Your old armor. What's left of it. Vespera thought you might want it reforged."
Selene crouched beside the bundle, slowly unwrapping the cloth. Inside lay twisted silver and broken chainmail. Scraps of moonsteel and embossed leather, burned and scarred by the altar's fire.
She traced a gloved hand across it.
"It still smells like blood."
Lucien nodded. "We all do."
She looked up at him, and for the first time, something softer flickered in her eyes. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But recognition.
"I'm not her anymore," she said. "Not entirely."
"I know," he said. "But whoever you are… I'll follow."
Selene rose.
"Good," she said. "Because the Queen doesn't march alone."