The door wasn't locked. That scared me more than any chain could.
Stone scraped against stone, revealing a narrow spiral of steps curling downward like a spine. Cold air spilled out thick with metal, mildew, and something older than dust.
The mark on my wrist flared. Not just light this time heat.
Then I heard it.
Not a sound exactly. A hum. A pulse. And then,
The world tilted.
Suddenly I wasn't in the palace anymore.
I stood barefoot on black tiles veined with silver. Lanterns floated above me no strings, no flames. Just suspended orbs of green-blue light. Everything shimmered like wet ink.
And in the center of the room… a girl. My age. My face. But not me.
Her hair was longer. Her robe bore the old imperial seal one that hasn't existed in decades. She stood before a circle etched into the floor, her hands stained with ink.
Not writing. Not drawing.
Binding.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"Blood is the price of memory. Ink is the vessel. Choose your pact."
The girl hesitated. Looked up. Looked at me.
But this was a memory. It couldn't see me.
And yet she whispered:
"Don't come back here."
Then she plunged her hand into the ink and screamed.
I gasped awake, collapsing on the stone stairwell. My forehead was wet. My wrist glowing with a faint symbol I'd never seen before. Like something had been unlocked.
I looked down the dark stairway.
Now I didn't just want answers.
I wanted to know what version of me I was before I was rewritten.