The road twisted like a scar carved into the earth.
Kaelith drove in silence.
No music. No GPS voice. Just the hum of tires over old asphalt and the soft clink of the relic in her coat pocket every time she turned the wheel.
The coordinates led her north, past the last stretch of cellular reception. Past gas stations with rusted pumps and diners that had never been on a map.
Upstate New York was all trees and memory.
The kind of place that didn't forgive.
She reached the final turn.
A narrow dirt path swallowed by pine. The car jostled and shuddered as she drove slowly into the woods. After half a mile, the trees opened into a clearing.
And there it was.
The house.
Not abandoned.
Preserved.
As if someone had been maintaining it from the shadows.
Two stories of pale white wood. Shutters nailed open. A porch that creaked even without footsteps. And at the very center, above the door—
A symbol carved into the lintel.
The slit sun.
Kaelith stepped out of the car.
The air here felt different. Heavy. Like breath that had never exhaled.
Her boots crunched softly over old gravel.
The door wasn't locked.
It didn't need to be.
She pushed it open.
Inside was a memory.
But not hers.
Not yet.
The furniture was sparse. Child-sized chairs. A long wooden table. Curtains that had yellowed with time.
And the smell.
Worn incense. Candle wax. Something metallic beneath it all—blood, maybe. Old. Stale.
She moved slowly.
Drawn, not curious. Compelled.
There was no dust.
No cobwebs.
Just stillness.
At the end of the hall, a staircase led upward. But Kaelith didn't climb it.
Her feet turned left.
Into a small room lit by stained glass.
The colors were faded. Red, gold, violet. They painted the room like a memory of fire.
In the center of the floor:
A circle drawn in ash.
Kaelith stared at it.
And the moment her foot crossed the threshold, her knees buckled.
Not pain.
Recognition.
Images slammed into her mind like static resolving into clarity.
A girl in white.
Kneeling in that exact spot.
Chanting.
Surrounded by others. Hooded. Silent. Watching.
And in front of her—
Saevus.
Younger.
Unshackled.
Smiling down at her with something between worship and ruin.
"Ashema," he had said.
And she—
She had smiled back.
Not with fear.
With devotion.
Kaelith gasped.
The vision shattered.
She was on the floor, hand braced against the wood.
Her skin was damp. Her heart galloping.
And in her hand—
The relic pulsed with heat.
Like it remembered, too.
She stood slowly.
And that's when she saw it.
A mirror in the corner.
Cracked.
The same one from her dreams.
Only now it didn't reflect her alone.
There was a figure behind her.
Not Saevus.
A woman.
Face pale. Hair tangled. Eyes wide with warning.
Dahlia.
She was mouthing something.
Kaelith turned—
But no one was there.
When she looked back—
The mirror had gone dark.
Her reflection was gone.
Just the symbol remained.
Burned into the glass like a brand:
ASHEMA
Kaelith stepped back, breath ragged.
Something in this house was still alive.
And it remembered her better than she remembered herself.