Lucien's fingers lingered on hers—warm, rough, steady. For once, his touch didn't feel like stone. It felt human.
Real.
And dangerously sincere.
Seraphina didn't pull away.
"I don't hate you," she whispered. "Not yet."
He gave a bitter smile. "Then I suppose I have time."
Time.
It was a cruel word in this place. Time bent, looped, rewound, and left her bleeding through centuries of unfinished promises.
She stepped back gently, breaking the connection.
The fireflowers hissed behind her.
Later that morning, Seraphina found Mira lighting incense in the chapel.
"Has anyone else used this room?" Seraphina asked.
The maid froze. "No, my lady."
"I mean before me."
Mira hesitated. "There was one… Lady Aurenna. A cousin of the Nightbanes. She lived here during the last war."
"What happened to her?"
"They said she tried to wear the Crown of Thorns."
Seraphina turned sharply. "What is that?"
Mira paled. "A relic. Forged during the Blood Vow Rebellion. It's said to make the bearer immune to fire… but bound forever to Nightspire."
"Did it work?"
"No," Mira whispered. "She burned. Slowly. Screaming."
Back in her room, Seraphina searched Evelyne's journal again.
She found a sketch of the crown—iron twisted into roses, set with garnets shaped like teardrops. Underneath was a warning:
"Only the soul that gave the first vow may wear the crown and live."
Her.
It was her.
But why had she not worn it before?
What stopped her?
Lucien entered without knocking.
He carried a sealed letter in his hand, the parchment thick and marked with a crimson wax seal bearing the Nightbane sigil.
"This just arrived from the Capital," he said. "It's from the Imperial Church."
Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "What do they want?"
"They've heard rumors," he said. "Of fires. Of awakenings. Of the curse stirring."
"They think I'm dangerous."
"They think you're a threat to the Empire."
Seraphina tore the letter open.
Inside were just six words:
"The girl is not the heir."
Her blood ran cold.
"What does it mean?"
Lucien's eyes were hard. "They've chosen someone else. To claim the crown. To finish your vow."
"Who?"
That night, the answer arrived.
With thunder and hooves.
A carriage bearing black banners and a single occupant.
Lady Calis D'Rosven.
Highborn. Imperial-blooded.
And the only other girl in the Empire rumored to have survived a Nightspire prophecy.
She stepped out of the carriage cloaked in gray, her eyes silver as knives.
Seraphina watched from the balcony.
"She's like me," she murmured.
"No," Lucien said. "She wants to replace you."
At dinner, the tension could have choked the fire itself.
Calis sat across from Seraphina with regal grace, her voice a melody laced with venom.
"I've read the records," she said sweetly. "You've failed three times, haven't you?"
Lucien stiffened. Seraphina kept her tone flat.
"And yet I'm still here."
"For now," Calis replied. "But the vow needs to be finished. And if you can't… someone else must."
Seraphina's fingers gripped her wine glass.
Lucien broke the silence. "The Crown of Thorns only accepts the original soul."
Calis smiled. "Or one who's willing to take its pain."
She looked straight at Seraphina.
"And I was born ready to burn."
After dinner, Lucien pulled Seraphina aside in the corridor.
"She can't be allowed to wear it," he said. "It'll kill her. And it will reset the cycle—again."
Seraphina shook her head. "She's not just a pawn. She believes in this. Someone groomed her to finish my vow."
Lucien's jaw tensed. "The Church."
Seraphina looked up at him.
"Then let her try," she said.
Lucien stared at her. "You're going to let her take your place?"
"No," Seraphina whispered. "I'm going to show the curse who I am before she does."
That night, Seraphina returned to the crypt.
The vine had grown.
It now twisted around the broken stone, pulsing with power.
And nestled in the middle of it—
Was the Crown of Thorns.
Coiled like a serpent. Waiting.
Her hand hovered above it.
The metal shimmered gold, then black, then red.
Not demanding.
Not threatening.
Simply… waiting.
She turned her palm over and slowly reached down.
Her fingertips brushed the iron.
Pain lanced through her skull, bright and merciless.
And then—
A voice.
"One of fire. One of falsehood.One will live. One must fall."
Seraphina collapsed to her knees, gasping, blood dripping from her nose.
But she smiled through the pain.
The curse had shown its cards.
There could only be one.
................
Two women. One crown.And the house had finally chosen to test them both.