The east wing always felt colder.
Larissa stepped into the hallway, the ornate runner muffling her steps as she passed oil paintings that had hung there for generations. But tonight, one stood out—the portrait. Tatiana.
Same raven hair.
Same high cheekbones.
Same ice-blue eyes.
Only now… the painting had changed.
Larissa froze.
The woman in the painting was smiling.
That smile hadn't been there before.
Her breath hitched, goosebumps crawling across her arms. She inched closer, eyes narrowing.
Had it been repainted?
No. This was something else—something impossible.
She turned on her heel, heart racing, and hurried back toward the main wing. Lukyan had to see this. He had to—
The light flickered above her head.
Then died.
The corridor plunged into darkness.
A soft creak behind her.
Larissa spun, back pressed to the wall.
Nothing.
Except the faintest scent of roses.
And then—whispers.
Childlike. Feminine.
"Mama…"
"Leave…"
"Stay…"
She bolted, nearly slipping on the marble as she turned into the grand stairway, but someone caught her—a strong grip around her wrist.
"Larissa," Lukyan's voice snapped her back to reality. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, shaking. "She's watching me. That painting changed."
His eyes darkened. "What did you see?"
"She smiled."
He inhaled sharply. "Then it's starting."
She stared at him. "What's starting?"
But before he could answer, the lights came back on with a loud hum. Larissa blinked against the sudden brightness.
The hallway was empty. Quiet. Almost peaceful.
But she knew better now.
Peace didn't belong in this house.
Not anymore.
Later That Night…
They sat in the library, the fire casting warm shadows across the walls. Lukyan had poured her a drink, but Larissa hadn't touched it. She kept her hands folded in her lap, jaw tight.
"Tell me everything," she said. "No more secrets."
Lukyan hesitated. Then he pulled a leather-bound journal from the bookshelf.
"Tatiana was obsessed with bloodlines," he said, flipping through yellowed pages. "She believed our family carried a gift. Or a curse. She traced ancestry back hundreds of years—through witches, seers, and rulers no one dares talk about."
He slid the journal to her. Larissa's eyes widened.
The last page was covered in looping, frantic handwriting.
She's the one. She has her face. Her soul. The blood will call her back.
Larissa's hands trembled. "She meant me."
He nodded once. "I think she believed… you were her."
"Reincarnated?"
He leaned forward. "Or chosen."
Midnight
Larissa couldn't sleep.
Not with the journal's words etched into her brain.
She wandered into the nursery, drawn by the soft hum of a lullaby.
Alina was sitting up in bed.
"Sweetheart?" Larissa walked over.
Alina looked up. "Mama, she was in the mirror again."
Larissa's skin went cold. "Who?"
"The other mama. The one with the long dress. She says you're not safe."
Larissa hugged her close, heart pounding.
"What else did she say?"
Alina whispered against her neck, "She said you have to remember."