Zina didn't sleep.
Not after the mirror.
Not after the girl—herself?—stepped out of glass and showed her a crown of flame and a future she didn't want.
The sigil still pulsed under her skin, the second ring etched like a vow she hadn't made. Every time she blinked, she saw the sewn mouths of the twelve brides.
And then the note:
> "Next time you look—she'll be waiting."
Zina stared at the fireplace until the flame dimmed.
Then she whispered, "What do you want from me?"
The room didn't answer.
But the door did.
It opened slowly, with the sound of breath being held and exhaled.
Kain stood there.
Cloaked in black. Silver eyes dimmed. As if he had not come to seduce her—but to beg.
"Come," he said.
Zina didn't ask why.
She followed.
They walked through halls she hadn't seen before. Corridors hung with portraits that moved when you weren't looking. One painting showed a woman whose eyes wept ink. Another bled from the mouth. None of them looked away from Zina.
At the end of the hall stood a door with no handle.
Kain placed his hand on it, and it sighed open.
Inside was a room lit by violet flame.
A table of obsidian. Two chairs. A book with her name etched on the cover.
Kain gestured to the seat.
Zina sat slowly, eyes never leaving his.
"You said I broke the name," she whispered. "That I opened a door."
"You did."
"I didn't mean to."
"Intent is nothing here," he said. "Only consequence."
Zina stared at the book. "Is that mine?"
He nodded. "The contract. Not written by hand—but by memory. Everything you've ever done, said, or thought since entering this house."
"And if I open it?"
"You bind yourself further."
Zina stood.
"I'm done being bound."
Kain moved fast—too fast. One blink, and he was in front of her, hand pressed lightly against her heart.
The sigil glowed under his palm.
"You are already mine," he said softly. "But I can offer you more than fear."
She looked up into his eyes.
And saw something she hadn't expected.
Loneliness.
Deep. Quiet. Echoing like the house itself.
"I remember him," Kain said. "The boy. The one who kissed you with ink on his fingers and light in his voice."
Zina's breath hitched.
"I remember your dreams of him. How he used to make you feel seen."
Kain stepped back.
"I offer you a bargain."
"What kind?"
"Let me in. Truly. And I will give you answers. Power. A voice in this house. A seat beside me—not as a prisoner, but as a queen."
Zina laughed bitterly. "A queen of what? Dust and shadows?"
"No," Kain said, voice low.
> "Of memory. Of the forgotten. Of every bride who ever came before you."
Zina's heart thudded.
She should say no.
She should run.
But something deep inside her—older than fear, louder than logic—whispered:
> You want to matter.
Zina stepped forward.
"I'll consider it," she said.
Kain nodded once. "You have three days. At the end of the third, the house will ask. And if you do not answer, it will choose for you."
Zina turned toward the door.
But paused.
"Why me?"
Kain's voice was barely a whisper.
> "Because you're not afraid to look."