The library was quiet—too quiet for a house that had just screamed.
Seraphina moved between the tall bookshelves like a ghost. No footsteps. No breath. Just the rustle of pages that fluttered on their own, as if caught in an invisible wind.
Books had been rearranging themselves.
She saw it now. Spines that hadn't moved in decades were out of order. Gaps had appeared between volumes, revealing slivers of carved runes behind the walls. It was as if the house itself was guiding her.
Or warning her.
She reached the back wall and found a loose stone behind an atlas of pre-Empire bloodlines.
She pressed it.
The wall gave way.
Behind it, a staircase spiraled downward—steep, narrow, and dustless.
The moment she stepped inside, the air changed.
Warm. Electric.
As if the house remembered her weight, her scent, her soul.
The staircase opened into a small underground chamber. One she didn't recognize.
At the center stood a mirror—not broken, not cracked.
But inverted.
It reflected not her face, but her back. Always slightly behind.
On the frame, a name was etched.
Seraphina V. — Year 0
Her knees nearly gave out.
This was her first body.
Her first death.
The one that birthed the vow.
And behind the mirror, another inscription burned in ember-red:
"She who breaks the vow must kill what made it."
Seraphina reached out.
The mirror shimmered, and then the chamber blurred.
Suddenly, she stood in the past.
Not truly. A memory echo.
She watched herself—her original self—wearing white robes, her eyes bright with belief, not bitterness.
"I will save them," that version of her said. "Even if they burn me."
Then Lucien appeared. Younger. Hands trembling. Kneeling before her.
"You're asking for too much," he whispered.
"I'm giving everything," she replied.
And then—her voice dropped, darker now.
"Unless I'm betrayed."
The vision shattered.
Seraphina fell back, breath ragged.
The mirror was still now, but the words remained etched in her thoughts.
She who breaks the vow must kill what made it.
What made the vow… wasn't Lucien.
It wasn't even the Church.
It was her.
When she climbed back to the surface, she found Lucien waiting at the library door.
He looked at her as if he'd already felt the shift in the air.
"You saw it," he said.
She nodded. "I made the vow to protect the Empire. But it was never about protection. It was about control."
Lucien's expression hardened. "Then break it."
"I can't," she said, voice hoarse. "Not until I kill who I was."
He stepped closer. "You're not that girl anymore."
Seraphina stared at him.
"I think I still am. Part of her. Somewhere inside. And that terrifies me."
Lucien reached for her hand—but this time, she pulled away.
At dusk, the bells of Nightspire rang on their own.
No wind.
No hands.
Just mourning.
The mirrors across the estate clouded over.
And in the chapel, the Crown of Thorns glowed red-hot on the altar.
The house was telling her it was time.
Seraphina stood before the mirror one last time that night.
The reflection showed her original self now. White-robed. Smiling faintly. Calm.
"Are you ready to let me go?" the reflection asked.
"I don't know," Seraphina whispered.
"She burned for them. But you don't have to."
Tears slid down her cheeks. "Then why does it still feel like my fault?"
"Because it is," the reflection said gently. "And because it isn't."
The mirror shimmered.
Then cracked down the center.
This time, Seraphina didn't flinch.
Back in her room, the ruby pendant pulsed warm against her throat.
She knew what came next.
A final trial.
One soul to wear the crown.
One to perish.
And a choice only she could make.
.................
The house had given her the truth.Now it would demand a sacrifice.And Seraphina had to decide… whose flame would burn last.