POV: Sera
The golden light fades, but the burning doesn't stop.
I jerk upright in my chair, gasping like I've been underwater. My hands glow for exactly two seconds before the light vanishes completely, leaving me in darkness. The library is silent. Empty. No one saw. But my palms are still warm, and my heart is hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
What was that?
Before I can even breathe, the library doors swing open.
"Sera." Father's voice is ice. "Come with me."
I follow him through hallways I've walked my entire life, but everything feels different now. Smaller. Colder. He stops at a door in the east wing—the old guest room nobody uses anymore. The one with bars on the windows, though no one talks about why.
"You'll stay here until the ceremony," Father says, and locks the door behind me without another word.
I'm alone.
The room is exactly as cold and empty as it sounds. One bed. One window with those bars. A bucket in the corner. Nothing else. This is where they're keeping me for three days—locked away like something dangerous, something shameful.
Something to forget.
I sit on the bare mattress and wait for the panic to come. It doesn't. Instead, I feel... numb. Like part of me already died at that dinner table when everyone I loved decided I wasn't worth saving.
The first day passes slowly.
No one comes. I have water but no food. I sleep fitfully, and the golden sensation under my skin comes and goes like a heartbeat I can't control. When I press my palm against the wall, the stone feels warm. Alive.
It terrifies me. It also feels like the only true thing I have left.
On the second day, Margaret appears with a package wrapped in silk.
"Your Offering dress," she announces, unwrapping it to reveal a white gown—pure white, like snow or bone or a funeral shroud. "Beautiful, isn't it? You should be grateful, dear. This is the finest dress you'll ever wear."
I stare at her. "You mean the last dress."
"Yes, well." Margaret arranges it on the bed with careful hands. "Someone has to be the Offering. It might as well be someone... dispensable. You should actually be grateful. You're finally useful to this family."
She touches my cheek, and I have to force myself not to flinch away. "You're finally good for something."
I say nothing. Speaking would require energy, and I'm saving every bit of myself for whatever comes next.
After she leaves, I touch the white fabric. It's soft. Expensive. Wasted on a girl nobody wants.
I think about setting it on fire. Instead, I fold it carefully and place it on the chair.
That afternoon, Lyanna comes.
"Oh, Sera," she says, and her eyes are wet with tears that look almost real. She closes the door behind her like we're about to share secrets. "I've been so worried. I wish it wasn't you. I really do."
I watch her cry—watched her perfect face crumple with sadness—and I wait for the words that don't come. I'll take your place. I'll tell Father to choose me instead. I'll save you.
They never come.
"I just wanted you to know that I love you," Lyanna whispers, touching my hand. "Even if things have been... complicated."
"Complicated," I repeat. Not a question. A statement of fact. She slept with my fiancé while I was alive. Now she's crying about me like I'm already dead.
"I know you're angry," Lyanna says softly. "But I hope you can forgive me. Before..."
Before I die. That's what she means.
"You can leave now," I tell her.
She does, still crying those beautiful tears.
No letter comes from Blake until evening on the second day. It's delivered by a servant who won't meet my eyes. The envelope is sealed with his family crest—expensive paper, careful handwriting.
Sera,
I know this is difficult. I want you to know that I'll remember you fondly. You were a good friend to me, and I'll never forget the time we spent together.
I'll remember you fondly.
Not: I'm sorry I'm a coward.
Not: I love you and I'll find a way to save you.
Not even: I'm sorry.
Just fondly. Like I'm a book he once read. A painting he saw once in a museum. Something pleasant that happened in his past.
I tear the letter into pieces and watch them fall to the floor.
The third morning arrives before dawn.
I know because guards come, and the sky is still black outside my barred window. There are three of them, all wearing the settlement militia insignia. None of them will look at me directly.
"Come," one says.
They take me to a room with a mirror and a chair and nothing else. An old woman I've never seen before is waiting. She has cruel hands and a crueler smile.
"Offering tradition," she says, not bothering to explain. She simply starts cutting.
My hair—the brown hair I've worn long my entire life, the only pretty thing about me—falls to the floor in thick chunks. I watch myself transform from girl to ghost in the mirror. Without my hair, my face is too sharp. My eyes are too large. I look hollow.
I look like someone already dead.
When she finishes, I'm unrecognizable.
The guards escort me back to my cell. The sun is starting to rise—pale and weak, barely fighting through the darkness. My own reflection in the barred window startles me. I don't look like Sera Ashford anymore.
I look like something else entirely.
That's when it happens.
The golden light doesn't emerge slowly this time. It explodes from my skin like I'm on fire. Every inch of my body glows—not just my hands, but my arms, my chest, my forehead. My new-shaved head shimmers with golden light so bright it makes the room seem like it's burning.
But I'm not in pain. The burning is fuel.
And in that light, I can see. Not just the room around me. I can see through the stone walls. I can perceive my father in his office, calculating profit margins. I can sense Margaret in her bedroom, already planning which of my possessions she'll take. I can feel Lyanna's false tears drying on her perfect cheeks.
I can see their desires—their greed, their cruelty, their relief at my absence.
And I can feel something else. Something massive and ancient and hungry, watching from far beyond the walls of my settlement. Something that's been waiting for me. Something that knows what I am.
The light fades, leaving me shaking on the floor.
My palms are glowing again—but this time, I can read what's written on them. Ancient symbols that weren't there before, appearing in molten gold:
THE EMPATH HAS AWAKENED
And underneath, a single word that makes my blood turn to ice:
CLAIM YOUR THRONE
The guards outside my door start screaming.