The chapel stood at the far end of Nightspire, behind rusted iron gates entwined with ivy and thorns. It was smaller than Seraphina expected, almost forgotten—hidden under the shadow of a crumbling tower.
She approached alone at dusk.
The sky bled orange and purple as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long, spindly shadows across the courtyard stones. The wind stirred the ivy, brushing her ankles like fingers.
No one had given her permission to come here.
She didn't need it.
She had the letter from Evelyne D'Ambrose.
And she had questions that needed answers.
The heavy oak doors groaned as she pushed them open.
Inside, the chapel smelled of old wood, wax, and something else—something coppery and bitter, like dried blood. The pews were coated in dust. The altar had long since been stripped of its holy symbols.
Only the mirror remained.
It stood behind the altar like a sentry, taller than a man, framed in black iron twisted into vines and roses.
Seraphina stepped forward slowly.
This mirror wasn't like the ones in the east wing. It was older. Wilder. It didn't reflect the candlelight properly—like it drank the glow instead of casting it.
She stared into it.
At first, she saw only herself.
Then—
Movement.
A flicker at the edges.
Her reflection turned its head—but she hadn't moved.
It smiled.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The smile twisted into something cruel.
She reached out—just barely grazing the surface of the glass.
The mirror rippled like water.
And then—
A whisper.
Low. Feminine. Ancient.
"You are the vessel."
Seraphina gasped and stumbled back.
The whisper echoed again—closer this time.
"You were chosen."
"No," she whispered, clutching her skirts. "I chose this. This was my decision—"
"So you believe."
The mirror shimmered. The image of her warped—her hair turning white, eyes black as pitch.
She turned and fled the chapel, slamming the door behind her, breath ragged, hands trembling.
But even as she ran…
The whisper followed her.
She didn't stop until she reached the west wing corridor. A servant stared at her curiously, but said nothing.
Lucien was waiting in her drawing room, standing near the fireplace with his arms crossed.
"You went to the chapel," he said without turning.
She stared at his back. "You knew I would."
"Yes," he said. "Because it calls to women like you."
"Like me?"
He turned, and his expression was not anger. It was resignation. Maybe even fear.
"You feel it, don't you?" he said softly. "The pulse beneath the stone. The eyes behind the mirrors. The sense that something wants you to remember what you've forgotten."
Seraphina shook her head. "I've forgotten nothing. I've lived only one life."
Lucien stepped closer.
"No, Seraphina. You've lived many."
She froze.
He leaned down, voice like silk over broken glass.
"I know because I've seen you before. Not just in this life—but in others."
She stared at him.
"Lies," she whispered. "Is this part of the curse?"
"No," he said. "It's part of you."
That night, sleep did not come.
Seraphina lay in bed, staring at the velvet-draped mirror, Evelyne's letter clutched in her hand.
The fire burned low.
Her mind spun.
Lucien's words replayed in her ears.
"I've seen you before."
What did that mean?
In the past life she remembered—before her rebirth—Lucien hadn't crossed her path even once.
But he hadn't said that life.
He'd said lives.
Could it be true?
Could Nightspire… trap souls?
Rebirth them?
Bind them to this house?
If so, then she wasn't just caught in a political marriage.
She was caught in something much older.
Much darker.
The next morning, she awoke to find a red velvet box on her vanity.
She hadn't heard anyone enter.
Opening it revealed a necklace of black pearls, set with a single blood ruby.
A note beneath it read:
Wear this if you wish to remain untouched.There are things in Nightspire that know the scent of unclaimed blood.—L.N.*
Her hands trembled as she fastened the chain around her neck.
The ruby was warm.
And it pulsed—just once—like a heartbeat.