That night, the palace did not sleep.
Torches burned along the stone corridors, casting restless shadows. The guards doubled their rounds, swords drawn and eyes sharper than usual. There was a silence hanging over the castle—not peace, but dread.
Queen Seraphina remained awake, sitting near her window in a cold gown she hadn't changed since morning. She stared toward the distant silver tower of the Temple of Oraviel, the only place she thought might have answers.
She had sent a messenger—Sir Halden, her most trusted knight—with a sealed command for the High Priestess.
But by sundown, he hadn't returned.
A younger guard came with his helmet tucked under his arm and dread carved into his face. "Your Majesty," he said, voice uncertain, "we waited by the outer gates for his return. Nothing. The temple has sealed its doors."
Her heart sank.
"Did they deny him entrance?" she asked slowly.
"No, Majesty… He never arrived."
Seraphina's fingers curled into the edge of her chair. Something was wrong. Something far deeper than plague or famine.
She dismissed the guard with a nod and rose to her feet, retreating into her chambers.
That night, she tried to sleep.
She couldn't.
She was too tired not to.
The moment her eyes drifted shut, the darkness found her again.
She stood barefoot in a landscape she didn't recognize—misty, grey, and silent. Her nightdress clung to her like mist. In front of her, a cave mouth gaped open like a wound in the earth. Behind her was only darkness.
This time, she didn't try to run.
She stepped forward.
A soft, golden glow appeared just ahead.
The man.
The same angelic figure from before. His robe glowed like sunlight on snow, and his eyes—golden, deep, almost too kind—met hers. He raised his hand gently.
"Come to me," he said, "and I will give you rest."
His voice was beautiful. Like a song she had forgotten she once knew.
But then, another light flared beside him.
The girl.
The same glowing girl from before—soft, radiant, her face still hidden in brilliance. Her white eyes looked at Seraphina not with kindness, but with something older… something sad. Vines curled gently around her arms, growing and shifting like living things.
Seraphina turned slightly toward the girl.
As she raised her hand, the vines reacted—curling outward, wrapping gently around her wrist.
Not painfully.
But possessively.
They began to climb her arm.
She gasped.
The man's expression didn't change. His hand remained open. His smile—still gentle, but somehow too perfect—stretched just a little too far.
And behind him… shadows stirred.
Something was moving in the light.
Something that did not belong.
Seraphina tried to pull her arm away. The vines held her fast.
"Let me go," she whispered.
But they tightened.
Then—pain.
Blinding, sharp, burning pain shooting up her leg.
She woke screaming.
The room was dark, except for the dim candlelight near the mirror. Her nightgown clung to her with sweat. Her hands trembled.
She threw off her covers and looked down.
Her leg.
The marks.
Red, curling lines—like burn scars or vines—wound around her left leg just like in the dream. They weren't imaginary. They pulsed with heat. They itched. They hurt.
Her breath caught. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
This was no dream.
Whatever had touched her in that dream had followed her here.
And she knew—if something didn't change soon, it would take more than dreams next time.
It would take her.