The moonlight turned the Eldryn estate into a cathedral of shadows. Spires cut into the sky like daggers, and the outer walls shimmered with silent wards—old magic, hungry magic, the kind that remembered blood.
Seraphina stood in the woods bordering the estate, dressed in the muted gray leathers of her former life. The sigil ring on her finger glowed faintly—her false identity sewn together from memory and regret. She hadn't worn the Eldryn colors in years, but now, beneath the veil of her mother's summons, she stepped back into the skin of a daughter long buried.
Behind her, the forest was silent.
Good. He hadn't followed her.
Or so she told herself.
She walked.
The guards at the outer gate didn't recognize her, of course. But the forged crest she wore and the name she whispered—Lady Saphira Duskbane, traveling envoy of House Dreval—earned her passage without hesitation.
Still, her palms were damp beneath her gloves.
The moment she stepped into the main corridor, she felt it.
The house remembered her.
The tiled floor whispered her footsteps back to her. The walls leaned inward like watchers. And high above, the stained-glass window depicting House Eldryn's founding battle shone in blood-red hues that hadn't faded with time.
Every breath she took tasted like ashes.
"Welcome home," a voice said behind her.
She spun—and froze.
Lady Vesira stood at the top of the grand stair, dressed in sleek midnight robes, her silver hair pinned with garnets. Time hadn't touched her. If anything, she seemed sharper—refined by cruelty, honed by power.
"Mother," Seraphina said, the word catching in her throat.
"You wear false names now," Vesira murmured. "Fitting, for a daughter who chose lies over legacy."
"I came for the boy," Seraphina said flatly. "Release him, and I walk away."
Vesira descended the stair, every step measured and slow.
"Oh, Sera. You walk into my house, wearing the stink of rebellion and still think you're here to negotiate?"
Seraphina's jaw tightened.
"Don't pretend this isn't a performance. You wanted me to see him suffer. You wanted to tempt me back."
Vesira stopped just before her. Close enough that Seraphina could smell the lilac perfume she used to admire as a child.
"No," Vesira said softly. "I wanted you to remember what you could be. And how little those rebels understand your worth."
She reached out—and Seraphina flinched.
But Vesira only tucked a lock of hair behind her daughter's ear.
"Do they know who you are?" she whispered. "Do they know what you were born for?"
Seraphina swallowed hard. "They know enough."
"No, darling. They know the fiction you wrote to survive. But I know the truth."
She gestured, and the doors to the war room opened with a hiss of magic.
Inside, Kieran was chained to a chair in the center of the room. Bloodied, but alive. A rune circle burned beneath him—containing his magic, his movement, even his thoughts.
Seraphina's chest tightened.
"Kieran," she breathed, stepping forward.
"Not yet," Vesira said, holding up a hand.
Seraphina turned slowly. "You said you wanted Auren's head. You didn't say anything about this."
"I wanted to test you. To see if you were still worthy."
Seraphina's voice shook. "You stabbed a child."
"I spared his life," Vesira countered. "For you. Because despite your foolishness, you are still mine. Still the key to what comes next."
"I'm nothing of yours."
"Really?" Vesira's smile curved. "Then why are you still trembling in my presence, little blade?"
Seraphina didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because Vesira had always known how to twist her. She was the woman who'd trained her to kill by the age of twelve, who'd starved her to teach restraint, who'd whispered strategy like lullabies and praised her only when blood was on her hands.
And now—she stood before her as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
"I came here to save him," Seraphina said, drawing her dagger. "I'm not leaving without him."
"And if I force you to choose?"
"I already have."
A sudden blast of heat and light surged through the chamber—and Auren stepped from the shadows.
Clad in black armor that shimmered with sunfire runes, he moved like a storm incarnate, golden eyes glowing.
"I thought I told you not to follow me," Seraphina hissed.
"You did." He raised a brow. "And yet, here I am."
Vesira's eyes widened.
"So this is Arion Vael. The boy I watched burn. And now risen like some righteous little phoenix."
"You made a mistake leaving me alive," Auren said coldly.
"Oh, I never make mistakes," Vesira replied. "Only investments."
She raised her hand—and the room exploded into motion.
Blades flew from hidden compartments. Walls shifted. Illusion wards cracked apart, revealing half a dozen armed guards closing in. But Auren was already moving, his magic slicing through barriers with sunlit fury.
Seraphina darted for Kieran, slicing through the binding runes with precision. "Can you walk?" she asked.
"Barely."
She helped him up as Auren held off the guards, his every strike a lesson in violent grace. The man was beautiful when he fought—deadly and focused, a commander to his bones.
And even now, she felt it—that pull.
She loved him.
Damn it all.
But this wasn't over.
Not yet.
"You think this ends with you?" Vesira sneered, stepping between them. "You think killing me ends the game?"
Auren raised his blade. "We'll see."
But Vesira didn't flinch. She only smiled.
Then flicked her fingers.
And the floor beneath them glowed.
Seraphina's eyes widened.
A trap rune.
She turned, pushing Kieran out of range—just as the floor vanished beneath her.
Auren shouted her name.
But it was too late.
She fell.
Through magic. Through memory.
And landed hard on cold stone.
Alone.