Seraphina woke to the scent of scorched wood and iron. She sat up in bed, heart already thudding. Moonlight spilled through the curtains in fractured silver, but it wasn't what lit the room. The mark was. It glowed on the far wall, a twisting sigil burnt deep into stone, seared so cleanly that it hadn't damaged the surrounding frame.
Just a symbol.
Just a message.
A spiral within a circle, crowned by three jagged points. The moment she saw it, her magic reacted. It flared, instinctive and defensive, pulsing like a heartbeat against her ribs. The mark was old magic, Royal, Forbidden. And worst of all, it was Ilyrian.
Lucien arrived less than a minute later, summoned by her magic surge.
He stepped through the door without knocking, eyes scanning for danger, hands already humming with magic. He saw the mark and froze.
"Don't move," he said.
Seraphina was already out of bed. "It was here when I woke up."
"Which means they got through the wards." He moved to the wall, extending his hand. "This symbol,do you recognize it?"
She hesitated. "Yes. And no."
Lucien pressed his palm to the wall, muttering a spell under his breath. Sparks of blue danced along his skin before the wall pulsed with heat and hissed.
When he pulled back, his hand was bleeding.
That's not just a mark, he said. "It's a claim."
She felt the word settle like a stone in her stomach. "Claim?"
He nodded. "Someone's staked territory. On you."
By morning, the estate was sealed tighter than a war bunker.
Lucien summoned old wards, ones not used since the last high war. Glyphs etched themselves into windows, doorframes, and mirrors. Candles flickered blue instead of gold. The air itself seemed thicker, like magic had turned into something physical.
Riven did not take it well.
He appeared in the sunroom before breakfast, leaning against a pillar with arms crossed and a permanent scowl carved into his face.
So we're prisoners now, he muttered.
Lucien didn't glance up from the wardstone he was embedding in the floor. "You can leave. The wards won't stop you."
"Then let her come with me."
Seraphina paused mid sip of her tea.
Lucien finally looked up. "She's not going anywhere."
"You don't get to make that call."
"I do when someone carves a death mark into her wall."
The silence crackled.
"I'm not a prize," Seraphina said quietly.
Both men froze.
"I'm not a child. Or a possession, I'm not something to fight over or protect like some glass trinket."
Lucien straightened slowly. "No one said you were."
"Then stop speaking like I'm not in the room."
Riven looked away. "He's just trying to protect you."
"So are you. And I'm asking you both to trust me instead."
Lucien's jaw clenched, but he nodded.
Riven hesitated longer, but in the end, he gave a sharp nod and turned away, though the tension didn't leave his body.
That night, the dreams began again. But this time, she wasn't watching from afar.
She was inside them. She stood on blackened grass, barefoot, wearing robes too heavy for her frame. Smoke curled through the trees, and the moon hung low and red above. In her hand was a blade. Ancient. Silver. Familiar. She lifted it slowly, but her reflection in the metal was wrong.
Not Seraphina.
Not Belladore.
Ilyra.
She was dreaming as her.
She turned and saw the compound again. Saw the fire. Saw Belladore, herself, running through flame to reach her.
And then, just before the vision collapsed,
She saw a figure watching from the tree line.
A woman with no face. And a voice like ash.
"You should have died."
Seraphina jolted upright.
Lucien was beside her in seconds, summoned by the magic spike again.
He touched her shoulder, careful and quiet. "Another dream?"
She nodded, gasping for breath. "No, memory."
He paused. "Ilyra?"
Her hands trembled. "I saw from her eyes. I felt what she felt. I was inside her. Lucien…" She looked at him, eyes wide. "She's not gone. Not fully."
He didn't question her. Just pulled her close.
Wrapped his arms around her, slow and steady, grounding.
But as her cheek pressed against his chest, she felt the change in his heart.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But recognition.
"You know something," she said.
Lucien didn't answer.
By morning, Riven knew.
He found her on the balcony, pacing.
"You're not safe here," he said immediately.
She didn't respond.
"Whatever's haunting you, it's not just a memory. That mark on the wall? It wasn't meant to hurt you. It was meant to wake something up."
She swallowed. "What?"
He took a step closer. "Your magic is shifting. Changing. Like it's being rewritten."
"That's not possible."
"It is if someone anchored a piece of themselves in you before they died."
"Ilyra…"
"Exactly."
Later that evening, Seraphina cornered Lucien in the spellroom.
"You knew."
He looked at her slowly. "Not for certain."
"But you suspected."
"He nodded. "The night you died, Ilyra tried something… forbidden. I stopped her before she finished it. Or I thought I did."
"What did she do?"
"She tried to bind your soul to hers. Said if she died, she wanted part of her to go with you. I told her it was reckless. Dangerous. She didn't care."
Seraphina's hands clenched. "And now?"
"Now," he said softly, "we're finding out whether she succeeded."
The next dream was worse.
It wasn't Ilyra's death this time, It was her resurrection.
She saw a room bathed in violet light, stones etched with runes. Ilyra stood in the center, half-corporeal, wrapped in shadows. Her voice echoed, hollow and broken.
"You forgot me."
"You left me."
"You let him lie."
Seraphina tried to speak, but Ilyra stepped forward.
One step. Two.
And then,
"Your life is borrowed, Seraphina. Mine is owed."
She reached out, fingers like ice,And Seraphina screamed.
She woke to magic swirling violently in her room.
Books off shelves. Candles snuffed out. Ward sigils flickering.
Lucien barged in, followed by Riven.
This time, neither argued.
They stood on either side of her as she shook.
"We're not fighting anymore," Lucien said, eyes on Riven.
Riven nodded once. "We protect her. Together."
As they reinforced the estate, Seraphina sat in the center of a salt and gold circle, eyes shut, focusing on her breath.
But beneath her ribs, she felt it, Something moving. a second rhythm.
A second magic.
And in the dark recesses of her mind, a voice whispered,
"Soon"