The air around Nightspire had changed.
Not the quiet before a storm—but the breath between lightning and fire.
Seraphina stood in the corridor beneath the northern wing, where the old chapel had been sealed shut for decades. The door pulsed faintly under her fingertips, as though it knew she was there.
Inside lay the final relic she needed—the Vowroot Chalice.
The vessel that once held the blood of the original rite.
Her blood.
Lucien had told her it was lost.
But Nightspire had whispered otherwise.
She pressed her palm against the stone.
The door melted away like mist.
Inside, moonlight poured through a stained-glass ceiling, painting the dust in pale color. The altar was cracked, and bones of long-dead crows littered the edges of the room.
But in the center, where old vows once ignited rebellions and bound fates—stood the chalice.
Black.
Empty.
But humming with magic.
Seraphina stepped forward, heart pounding.
She touched it—
—and a scream echoed through the chamber.
Not hers.
Mira's.
Seraphina turned just as the vision shattered. She was no longer in the chapel.
She was in the east corridor.
Mira was on the floor, one hand stretched out, eyes wide with terror.
A figure loomed above her.
Clad in gray and gold robes.
The Archbishop.
And beside him—Calis.
"You said she had time," Calis hissed. "You promised—"
"She's regaining too much too quickly," the Archbishop snapped. "We can't risk the vow completing itself. The Duke has stalled long enough."
He raised a dagger etched with holy runes.
Seraphina stepped into the hallway, her voice like ice.
"Drop it."
They froze.
Calis turned, guilt flickering in her eyes—but not regret.
"You don't understand," she said. "He's here to sever the bond. If you complete the vow, the Empire loses its control."
"Then it was never a vow," Seraphina snapped. "It was a chain."
The Archbishop sneered. "You're just a vessel—one of many. The curse doesn't love you. It only remembers you."
Seraphina advanced, her footsteps echoing like war drums.
"Then let it remember this."
She lifted her hand.
The ruby at her throat flared to life.
Flames burst from the stone, spiraling around her wrist like a serpent of light. The corridor groaned with heat. The windows cracked. The very air began to hum.
The Archbishop raised the dagger again—
And the fire lunged.
He screamed as the flames swallowed him, licking up his sleeves, his collar, his voice. Calis tried to pull him back—but Seraphina turned the fire again.
Calis fell to the floor, sobbing, her sleeves scorched.
Seraphina stood over her, flames dying from her hand.
"Why?" she asked. "Why betray me now?"
Calis coughed, eyes red. "Because I wanted to matter. I wanted to be chosen—even once."
Seraphina looked down at her.
"You were chosen," she whispered. "But not by them."
Later, Mira sat curled in a chair, shaking but alive. Lucien bound her wounds silently, while Seraphina watched the last of the fire fade from the walls.
"You should've killed him," Mira said softly.
"I did," Seraphina replied. "But only a part of him. The rest will return."
Lucien stood. "The Empire won't take this lightly."
"I know," Seraphina said.
She turned to the window.
The moon was gone.
And in its place, a burning red star had risen.
Back in her room, she laid the Vowroot Chalice on her bedside table.
It was empty.
But tomorrow, it wouldn't be.
Tomorrow, the final trial would begin.
One soul would drink.
And the house would decide.
....................................
The chalice was empty.But blood remembers.And Nightspire was thirsty for its final heir.