Lucien did not summon her the next day.
And yet, Seraphina could feel him—his presence lingering in the hallways, in the cold draft that curled down from the towers, in the scent of ink and iron and frost that clung to the very walls.
Something had changed since the mirror dream.
She wasn't just a guest anymore.
She was being watched.
Not just by the castle…
But by him.
Seraphina returned to the east wing by daylight this time. The mirrors were still.
No whispers. No warped reflections.
She didn't dare go near them.
Instead, she asked Mira, "Is there a chapel on the estate?"
The maid paused, her fingers trembling as she folded linens.
"There was," she said carefully. "But it was sealed… after the last Nightbane bride died in childbirth."
"What happened to the child?"
"No one knows. The priest who baptized it vanished the same day."
Seraphina's blood chilled.
She changed the subject. "What about the west garden?"
Mira hesitated again.
"My lady… if you hear humming at night, do not follow it. Especially not into the garden."
Seraphina met her gaze. "Why?"
But Mira had already turned away.
That evening, while the castle slipped into silence, Seraphina lit a single lantern and stepped out into the night.
The west garden had once been beautiful.
Now it lay twisted and overgrown, the fountain cracked, ivy choking the stone pathways. Roses bloomed unnaturally—even in the wrong season—their petals a deep, bruised black.
She walked deeper into the maze of hedges.
At the center, a willow tree stood.
Dead.
Its bark was bleached white like bone.
And beneath it…
A stone slab.
Almost like—
A grave.
She knelt beside it.
There was no name. No inscription. Just a single carved symbol:
Ω
She reached out to touch it.
A wind howled suddenly through the garden, snuffing her lantern.
"Who goes there?" a voice snapped behind her.
She turned, heart racing.
Lucien.
His cloak whipped around him like a living thing. His eyes were darker than the night.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice sharp.
"I— I needed answers," she replied. "I dreamed of this place. The symbol. The grave."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be here."
He moved toward her and grasped her wrist, pulling her up. His grip wasn't gentle, but it wasn't cruel either.
"You're drawing its attention."
"What is it, Lucien?"
He looked down at the slab, eyes unreadable.
"My mother is buried here. Or so they say. No one ever found her body."
Seraphina's chest constricted. "Then why hide it?"
"Because the last time someone tried to dig beneath it…" He paused. "They were found screaming. Blind. Tongue severed."
She swallowed hard.
Lucien finally released her.
"This curse has rules, Seraphina. And it has limits. But once broken, it doesn't simply kill. It consumes."
They stood in silence beneath the dead tree, the wind coiling like a serpent around their feet.
"Why me?" she asked again, softer this time.
Lucien looked at her then.
Really looked.
"You intrigue it," he said simply.
She blinked. "It?"
He turned, beginning to walk back toward the castle. "The castle. The curse. The history. Call it what you like. But I've seen it choose people."
"Have you seen it spare them?"
He didn't answer.
And that was all the answer she needed.
Later that night, she sat alone by the fire, rereading Isolde's journal.
A new passage caught her eye. One she hadn't noticed before.
"If you want to survive Nightspire, you must make the house see you as one of its own."
"You must belong to the blood."
Seraphina whispered the words aloud.
Belong to the blood.
Her thoughts raced.
Was that why Lucien married her?
Was this a pact… or a sacrifice?
She slammed the book shut, heart pounding.
Outside, wind screamed against the glass.
She turned toward the window—
And saw a figure standing beneath the dead willow.
Watching her room.
Lucien?
No.
It had no face.