Seraphina dreamed again.
But it wasn't like before—no cryptic mirrors or distant whispers. This dream bled color, memory, and pain. She stood beneath the dead willow tree, her hands bloodied, a sword at her feet.
Across from her was Lucien.
Not the man she knew.
He was younger, dressed in royal black, eyes filled with fury. His hand clutched a bloodstained dagger.
They weren't speaking—but she felt everything. Rage. Grief. Regret.
He took a step forward, and so did she.
Their hands reached for each other—
And just before they touched, a shadow fell between them, splitting the dream apart like a sword slicing through silk.
She awoke gasping.
The ruby necklace pulsed warm against her throat, like it had shielded her from something that had tried to crawl into her mind.
Later, in the library, she sat at the window, Evelyne's journal open in her lap.
The last few pages were different. Hasty. Frantic.
"It watches from the glass now. Not just the chapel. Not just at night. It grows stronger the longer she stays. The woman of fire. The phoenix bride. I see her in the walls. In the garden. In my own face."
"She is not the end. She is the beginning. The curse does not fear her—it waits for her."
"I fear I have brought her back by naming her."
Seraphina's breath stilled.
She turned to the last page.
Just one sentence was scrawled in ink that had dripped like tears.
Her name is Seraphina.
She slammed the journal shut.
Her fingers trembled.
This curse didn't just recognize her—it had always been about her.
But how? Her family never once mentioned a connection to the Nightbane line. Her mother had died young. Her father was a political merchant, rarely home.
Could they have hidden something so monumental?
She stood, gripping the book, when the doors creaked open behind her.
Lucien.
"You look like someone dug up a corpse," he said casually.
"I might've," she muttered. "Tell me something honestly."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Did your mother ever say what she thought this curse wanted?"
Lucien's expression darkened. "She said it wasn't a curse at all. Not in the beginning. It was a bond. Between one soul and this house. Until it was broken."
"By who?"
"No one knows. Maybe it broke itself."
Seraphina stared at him. "And you think I'm the soul it was originally tied to?"
Lucien didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
He led her into the east tower, up a narrow spiral staircase lit only by torches.
At the top was a locked door.
Lucien produced a key—black iron—and handed it to her.
"You're not coming in?" she asked.
"It only opens for you," he said.
Seraphina swallowed, then unlocked the door.
The room beyond was not what she expected.
It wasn't a dungeon. It wasn't a shrine.
It was a bedroom.
Elegant. Feminine. Dust-covered, but untouched. A harp rested in the corner. Books lined the walls. A faded portrait of a woman sat on the mantle.
The woman looked exactly like her.
Seraphina's legs nearly gave out.
She stepped to the center of the room, heart pounding.
"Who lived here?" she whispered.
Lucien answered from the threshold. "You. Or rather, the version of you before everything broke."
"I don't remember this."
"You wouldn't. That's the cost of each return."
Seraphina turned slowly. "How many times have I come back?"
Lucien was silent for so long she thought he might not answer.
Then, finally—
"Three."
That night, Seraphina sat by the hearth in her chamber, the necklace heavy around her neck.
Three lives.
Three versions of her.
All bound to a curse that clung like smoke to her soul.
And if what Lucien said was true—she had failed every time.
She turned to the mirror across the room.
For once, it was still.
But her reflection didn't comfort her.
It mocked her.
"You've returned," she whispered. "But will you survive?"
Just before midnight, a knock came at her door.
Not Mira.
Lucien.
He stood at the threshold, eyes unreadable.
"You need to hear something," he said. "Now."
She followed him through the silent halls until they reached the lowest level of Nightspire—the crypts.
The air was damp. Cold. Breathing felt like swallowing frost.
They passed sealed tombs, some cracked with age. Candles flickered on the walls like watchful eyes.
At the very end, Lucien stopped before a sealed arch.
A mural was painted across the stone—a woman in flames, chained by roses.
The name beneath had been scratched out.
Lucien looked at her.
"This was the first Seraphina," he said. "Before you. Before memory. She made a pact to protect Nightspire with her life."
"What happened?" Seraphina asked, voice hoarse.
"She died breaking it."
He turned to her, stepping close.
"And now the curse wants it back. Through you."
................
She was not just a victim of the curse.She was its original keeper.And Nightspire had come to collect what it was owed.