The scream from the mirror didn't stop.
It howled like a woman being torn from time, her voice full of rage and memory. Glass rippled like water, glowing red from within—pulsing like a beating heart.
Seraphina pressed her palms to her ears, but it didn't matter. The sound wasn't in the room.
It was in her.
She fell to her knees.
The floor beneath her burned with an old symbol: the mark of her vow, long buried beneath polished stone and velvet rugs.
And then—silence.
Shattering silence.
The mirror cracked clean through the center. Not jagged—precise. Like a blade had cut it.
A single drop of blood slid down its surface.
Not hers.
Not Lucien's.
The mirror's.
Lucien burst in seconds later, sword drawn, breath ragged.
He saw her on the floor. The cracked glass. The symbol reawakened beneath her.
And he froze.
"It's begun," he whispered.
"What has?"
He knelt. "The Reversal."
They sat in silence, backs against the wall, her head still throbbing.
"The Reversal," Lucien finally explained, "is when the curse turns inward. When it begins to eat itself. If it goes too far, the house collapses—and every soul tied to it burns… permanently."
"And I'm at the center," Seraphina said flatly.
"You always were."
"But why now?"
Lucien met her gaze. "Because you're remembering too much too fast. You've touched too many fragments. The mirror is a gate—but it's also a wall. You're breaking through it."
"To what?"
His answer came like a knife wrapped in silk.
"To the part of yourself you locked away."
Later that night, Seraphina returned to the chapel.
The altar was glowing again. The Crown of Thorns lay coiled like a serpent in sleep.
She approached it, her footsteps echoing across the stone.
A new figure stood beside the altar.
Not a ghost. Not a memory.
Calis.
Dressed in white again, her face drawn but steady.
"I felt it," she said. "The scream. It reached me."
Seraphina didn't flinch. "Then you know what's coming."
Calis nodded. "The curse is choosing. One final time."
They stood in silence before the altar.
"I don't hate you," Calis said suddenly. "I envy you."
Seraphina's brows lifted.
"You have choice," Calis continued. "I was born for this role. Raised in fire. But you? You made the vow willingly. You bled for something you believed in."
"I bled because I was betrayed."
"That too," Calis said. "But belief… is a more dangerous fuel."
Seraphina returned to her chambers just before dawn.
The mirror had sealed itself again—cracks gone, blood vanished.
But in its place was a message etched in frost:
"You must choose who burns."
Lucien was waiting for her on the balcony.
The wind howled across the spires. Crows circled far above, avoiding the tower.
She joined him in silence.
"If I die," she said, "what happens to Nightspire?"
He didn't look at her.
"It resets. The curse binds itself to the next soul. Probably Calis."
"And if she dies?"
Lucien's voice was colder than the wind. "The cycle breaks."
Seraphina turned to him. "And you?"
He looked at her now. "I was never meant to survive any of this."
She stepped closer.
"You're wrong," she whispered. "You were meant to stand with me. But you keep standing behind."
Lucien's hand reached for hers—but stopped inches away.
This time, it was she who took his hand.
Held it.
Pressed it against her heart.
"I don't know if I love you in this life," she said. "But I know I did. Enough to die for it."
His eyes glistened.
"Then let me be the one who lives for it," he whispered.
In the mirror behind them, a second reflection stirred.
A woman in a burning gown.
A girl holding a broken vow.
And fire, rising again.
.....................
The house would burn again.But this time, Seraphina would choose the flame.