She couldn't unsee it.
Lucien standing in the mirror. Surrounded by flame. Blood on his hands. And turning away.
Was it memory?
Illusion?
Or the house itself testing her loyalty?
Seraphina sat on the edge of her bed, the ruby pendant still warm against her chest. She clutched it like an anchor, as though it could protect her from her own mind.
But the question pulsed louder than ever:
Did Lucien let me die?
When he entered her chambers later that evening, she didn't speak. She just stared at him—his sharp profile, the eyes that never seemed to rest, the silence that filled the spaces between his words.
He paused at the threshold.
"You saw something," he said.
"You were there," she replied.
Lucien said nothing.
"The night of the vow," she continued, rising. "The mirror showed me… you. Bleeding. Watching me burn. But you didn't run to me. You didn't try to stop it."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "The house shows fragments. Sometimes truth. Sometimes twisted memory."
"Then tell me what's real."
He looked at her, and for the first time since her return, his eyes looked hollow. Human.
"I was afraid," he said. "Afraid that if I touched you while you were breaking the vow, I would ruin it. You were more fire than flesh, and I—"
"You didn't want to get burned," she whispered.
He nodded once. "And I lost you for it."
She turned away, tears threatening to fall but refusing to give them permission.
"You should've let me burn alone," she said, "instead of making me believe I was worth saving."
Lucien's voice cracked. "You still are."
"Then prove it," she said sharply. "Don't just stand in the ashes this time. Fight for me."
That night, thunder rolled above Nightspire.
Not natural thunder—but the sound of stone shifting, cracking, deep beneath the manor's roots.
The mirrors trembled.
The flames in every corridor flickered blue.
Even the crows abandoned the spires.
In the northern tower, Mira ran to Seraphina's study, breathless. "The walls—there's something behind them."
Seraphina followed her.
The servants had found it by accident: a false panel behind the portrait of the First Duke.
She stepped through the narrow opening into a hidden staircase. Cold. Ancient.
Etched into the stone was a series of names.
All women.
All marked by the same crest.
The Velloraine sigil.
At the bottom, she found a sealed chamber—one she had never known existed.
Inside were journals.
Dozens of them.
Each written by a different version of her.
One caught her eye: Year 107 After the First Vow.
She opened it.
"He watches me sleep. He says he loves me. But I've seen the way the fire recoils from him. I've seen the way the mirror won't speak in his presence. I want to trust him. But the house keeps whispering the same name—Calis."
Seraphina froze.
The year didn't align.
This was before Calis was even born.
Or… before she returned.
She read another.
"I burned tonight. But not in fire. In betrayal. He kissed my forehead and handed me over to them. I smiled as they dragged me away. I will return. I always do."
Tears spilled over this time.
The stories weren't rumors.
They were truths.
And each one had left her behind.
Lucien found her in the hidden chamber hours later.
"You shouldn't be here," he said softly.
She held up the journal. "How many of me were there?"
He didn't answer.
"Five? Ten? A hundred?"
"I only loved one."
She laughed bitterly. "Which one?"
Lucien's expression twisted in pain. "You."
But Seraphina wasn't sure anymore if she even knew who that was.
Later that night, the mirror in her room cracked.
Not from magic.
But from the inside.
And this time, it didn't speak.
It screamed
..............
She had chased the truth.But what if the truth was already dead?And what came back… was something else?