The crack in the ceiling hadn't been there the night before.
Seraphina stared up at it, the jagged black line slicing across the ornate silver etching above her bed like a scar finally reopening. Dust drifted slowly from it like falling ash. But the room was silent. Too silent.
Nightspire was reacting.
To her awakening.
To the truth.
To the vow no longer sleeping.
Lucien found her in the west wing conservatory, standing barefoot among overgrown vines and frostbitten roses.
"You haven't slept," he noted.
She didn't look at him. "Did you know the house could break?"
Lucien paused. "No. But it's never remembered so much of itself at once."
Seraphina turned slowly, her expression unreadable. "It's remembering me."
He stepped closer. "You're not afraid?"
"I'm furious."
Her voice shook, not from fear—but from pressure. The weight of centuries trying to right themselves in a single breath.
She walked toward him, stopping only when they were inches apart.
"I remembered something else," she said. "The night of my first death. The priestess who stood behind me… she wasn't a stranger. She wore my mother's crest."
Lucien's brows lifted.
"You think your family was part of the betrayal?"
"I don't think. I know."
Down in the library, Seraphina retrieved the ancestral records that had been collecting dust for generations.
The Velloraine crest—silver falcon wrapped in ivy—was etched onto every contract, every letter of alliance between her house and the Church. Her mother's name appeared often, always next to one figure:
High Seeress Orienna D'Rosven.
Calis's great aunt.
And the woman who led the last blood rite that banished Seraphina's soul from its original body.
"I was a threat," she whispered aloud. "Even then. They knew what I'd become."
Mira, who had come to deliver tea, paused in the doorway.
"My lady…" she said hesitantly, "I overheard something."
Seraphina looked up sharply. "What?"
"Lady Calis. She met with someone in the west tower last night. I heard your name."
Seraphina stood.
So did Lucien.
"Who?" she asked.
"I couldn't see," Mira said. "But he wore a cloak. And when he spoke… he sounded like the Archbishop."
Seraphina stormed into the west wing just after sunset.
The hall was empty.
But the scent of holy ash still lingered—a bitter, cloying smoke that always accompanied the Church's highest members.
She stopped outside the sealed music room. Her hand hovered over the knob.
The mirror opposite the door shimmered.
Then whispered:
"He's already inside."
She kicked the door open.
It was empty.
Except for Calis.
She sat at the piano, fingers hovering above keys but never playing a single note.
"I wondered how long it would take you," she said, not turning.
"Who was here?"
"No one," Calis replied. "No one you'll catch."
Seraphina crossed the room in three long strides. "You think if they hand you the crown again it'll change the outcome?"
Calis finally turned.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her lips were cracked. The flame trial had left a mark.
But her gaze burned with something deeper.
"You don't get it," Calis said. "I don't want the curse. I want to be free of it. Just like you."
"Then why fight me?"
"Because only one of us is allowed to live through the vow."
Seraphina left her there and returned to her chamber.
The mirror was still whispering.
This time it didn't warn her.
It asked a question:
"Would you sacrifice him to survive?"
She froze.
The reflection warped.
Now it showed Lucien—standing in the rain, bleeding, surrounded by fire.
Her memory.
Her death.
But this time, the mirror showed what she hadn't seen before:
Lucien turned away.
...............
The house remembered her.But it also remembered betrayal.And this time, it would make her watch it happen again.