The moon was not full that night, but it was watching.
The silver light cut across the marble floor of the Temple of Tenebris like a blade. Seraphina stood barefoot in the center of the sanctum, her fingers stained with dried ink and something darker—something that glowed faintly violet under moonlight. Her heart was a thud in her throat, not out of fear but recognition.
The markings on her arms—ancient, curling symbols that had first appeared when she passed the Trials—were growing. Slowly. Purposefully. Like they were waking up.
"They're not just marks, are they?" she whispered, not to anyone, but the shadows.
"No," said a voice behind her. "They're a map."
She didn't turn immediately. She knew the voice. Lucien.
Lucien, the traitor.
Lucien, the first boy she ever loved.
Lucien, the one who held her heart like a candle and let the wind take it.
He stepped forward, not silently, but without shame. As if the past between them was a dream, a soft and ignorable thing.
She finally turned, but her face was steel.
"You shouldn't be here."
He had the audacity to smile. "And yet, here I am. You summoned the markings. That calls me, whether you like it or not."
"You're not tethered to me."
"No," he said, stepping into the pale light, "but the power you hold… is tethered to the same bloodline."
Her breath caught. "You're lying."
Lucien's gaze darkened, the smile fading into something quieter, sadder. "I wish I were."
She backed away instinctively, her foot brushing the edge of the moonlit circle. The shadows around them pulsed like a heartbeat.
"What do you want?"
Lucien's reply was slow. Measured. Like a secret pulled from between ribs.
"I want to help you, Seraphina. Before they come for you."
"The Elders?"
"No." He paused. "The Veiled Court. The ones who sleep beneath the roots of the world."
She stared. Her mouth dried. The Veiled Court was a myth, whispered in nightmare songs and old forest lullabies.
"You're losing your mind."
"No," he said gently. "I'm remembering mine. And soon you will, too."
Later, back in the Keep, Seraphina sat in her chamber with her knees pulled to her chest. The candle beside her had burned low, the wax dripping in rivulets like tears. She stared at the flames and saw Lucien's face in it, flickering and fading.
He's lying. He's always lying.
But doubt was a crack, and cracks had a way of growing.
From the open window, she could hear the wind shifting. It didn't sound natural. There were words in it. Or perhaps the memory of them.
She needed answers. And there was only one creature in the realm who would give her truth without disguise: the Oracle Beast of the Forgotten Vale.
But to reach it, she would have to cross the Morrowmist.
The Morrowmist wasn't a place. It was a veil.
A mist that clung to the mountains like regret. It was thick, heavy, and humming with old magic. No birds crossed it. No sunlight entered it. It was a place of memory—and madness.
Seraphina rode alone.
Her steed, a sleek silver drakon named Kael, snorted nervously as they approached the edge. The mists curled like fingers around his hooves.
"If I don't make it back," she whispered to Kael, stroking his mane, "burn this whole forest to ash."
Kael hissed softly, his wings twitching.
And then they stepped in.
Inside the Morrowmist, everything was… slower. Not in time, but in emotion. It was like wading through grief you never remembered having. Colors bled. Sound twisted.
And the voices.
They whispered.
At first, Seraphina ignored them. Then she started hearing names. Her mother. Her sister. Her own, in a child's voice.
"Seraphina… Sera... why did you leave us…?"
She stopped walking. Her breath caught in her chest.
"You're not real."
But the whispers laughed. Not cruelly—worse. Tenderly. Like a memory that knew your weaknesses.
She moved faster. Her markings were burning now, glowing with that eerie violet fire. It lit her way forward, deeper into the mist, toward the Vale.
Time lost all shape.
And then, without warning—she stepped into a clearing, and the world broke open.
The Forgotten Vale.
The mist vanished at the tree line, revealing a sky so clear it looked painted. The trees were ancient, tall as castles, with roots that hummed beneath her feet. At the center of it all, lying on a bed of glowing crystal, was the Oracle Beast.
It was not a creature so much as a living dream—a massive winged serpent with feathers instead of scales, eyes like twin moons, and a voice like thunder and wind colliding.
"You have come," it said.
Seraphina bowed, though her bones screamed.
"I seek the truth."
"Truth is not kind."
"Neither am I."
The Oracle laughed, the sound echoing like wind chimes dropped in a canyon.
"You bear the Mark of Murael—the Forgotten Flame. You carry a power older than the courts, older than the stars. You are the fire that was split in two."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed. "Split?"
"Lucien is your mirror. Your opposite. Your twin flame. You are two sides of the same soul. And only one of you will survive the rising."
The words hit her like a blade through the gut.
"No. That can't be true."
"It is not a matter of truth," said the Oracle. "It is a matter of fate."
Her knees weakened. But she stood.
"I won't kill him."
The Oracle's eyes burned brighter. "Then he will kill you. And with you, the world."
When she returned from the Vale, her body was aching, her mind fractured. But her heart?
Cold.
Resolved.
She stood at the edge of the Temple once again, the wind ripping through her cloak, the moon now fully watching.
And Lucien stood waiting.
"You went to the Vale," he said softly.
"Yes," she answered. "And I know what you are."
His expression didn't flinch. "Then you know we don't have much time."
"I know," she said. "But I also know this—if you so much as breathe wrong, I will destroy you."
Lucien smiled, but there was sorrow behind it.
"That's fair."
Back in her chamber, she removed her cloak, revealing the newest marking—a serpent coiled in fire, etched across her back like a prophecy.
She traced it in the mirror and whispered to herself:
"Let the gods weep. I will not."
Outside, the clouds split, and from the northern sky, a new star began to burn.
A signal.
A warning.
A beginning.