The day passed like a slow-moving shadow.
Princess Ava walked the marble halls of Midston's castle with a calm that betrayed the storm inside her. Servants bowed. Courtiers smiled politely. Prince Kyle passed her in the corridor near the library, casting her a suspicious glance—but he said nothing. He hadn't spoken to her since last night, when he'd found her in the garden at midnight.
Ava was grateful for the silence.
She wasn't ready to lie to him again.
Instead, she clung to composure, nodding at the maids and replying absently to the cook's inquiry about dinner. Her body was here, in the echoing halls and perfumed chambers of royalty. But her mind was elsewhere—lost in dreams that might not be dreams, in visions that lingered longer than they should.
She couldn't stop thinking of the mirror. The blade of light. The shard of shadow.
Of Damien.
The memory of his touch still burned faintly on her skin, as if her very blood remembered the moment even her mind tried to forget.
"Your Highness?" a soft voice called behind her.
Ava turned sharply. Eyla, a quiet maid with dark eyes and quicker instincts than most, stood holding a folded blanket and a pitcher of warmed wine.
"You've been walking in circles," Eyla said gently. "Are you well?"
Ava's lips parted, but no words came. She searched the girl's face—half tempted to confess something, anything. But what could she say? That the moonlight whispered? That shadows showed her the future?
She settled on a lie close to the truth. "Just restless."
Eyla gave a knowing smile. "You should get some more rest princess." She said, though it seemed she wanted to say more.
Ava's hand touched the girl's shoulder. "I will. Thank you."
Eyla hesitated, then curtsied and slipped down the hall.
---
That evening, at dinner, the candlelight flickered too bright. The roasted pheasant on her plate turned to ash in her mouth. King Darius was absent, no doubt buried in war councils or brooding in his private study. Queen Mirana, as always, remained distant—her words polite but clipped, her gaze lingering too long on Ava, as if she could sense something had changed.
Ava excused herself early. Her brother said nothing, but she felt his eyes follow her out.
She returned to her chambers and waited.
---
The moon was high when she rose again, slipping from her bed without lighting a lamp. The silver glow from her window was enough. She dressed swiftly—a simple dark cloak, a tunic tucked into riding pants, and her boots. The dagger from beneath her pillow remained at her side, though she hoped she wouldn't need it.
Midnight approached with a strange quiet. No whispers of wind. No owl cries. Even the castle's stones seemed to hold their breath as Ava slipped from her chambers and down the narrow servant passage beside her wardrobe. She avoided the main stair, choosing the winding hall behind the kitchens instead.
The guards were fewer than last night, but she moved with greater caution now. Every step felt heavier, every breath louder. She reached the rear door to the gardens and paused, listening.
Silence.
She pushed the door open.
The garden welcomed her like a secret lover—cool, dark, and cloaked in moonlight. Dew glistened on the roses. The fountain's gentle music still played. Shadows stretched long across the cobbled path.
Ava stepped toward the central clearing, heart pounding.
He was already there.
Damien stood with his back to her, staring into the waters of the fountain as if searching for answers in its depths. His cloak was darker than the night around him, the edge of a curved blade visible at his hip. When she approached, he turned—slow, deliberate, with eyes that caught the moon like mirrors of emerald fire.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said softly.
"I wasn't sure either," Ava replied, stopping a few paces away.
Damien studied her face. "You've been dreaming, haven't you?"
Ava's breath hitched. "Yes. Visions… places I've never seen. A crown. Fire. A sword made of light. And… you."
He nodded, unsurprised. "It's beginning, then."
"What is?"
"The awakening," he said simply. "Your blood remembers what your mind does not."
Ava stepped closer, voice low. "You said Cauldron was coming. That he was betrayed by my ancestors. Why now? Why me?"
Damien's gaze turned toward the stars. "Because prophecy doesn't move by human clocks. It stirs when the right soul stands at the right threshold. That soul is you."
Ava shook her head. "I don't know magic. I've never cast a spell. I'm not even sure I believe in—"
The word died in her throat as Damien raised his hand.
Between his fingers, a pale blue flame appeared—dancing, silent, beautiful. It hovered in the air like a living thing, casting no heat, but illuminating everything around it.
Magic.
Real.
"I didn't believe either," Damien said, "until Cauldron destroyed everything I loved."
Ava's heart ached at the pain in his voice. "You said you've been tracking him. For years?"
Damien nodded. "Longer than you can imagine."
He stepped toward her, the flame still flickering between them.
"There's more," Ava said. "In the vision… I saw myself wearing a crown that wasn't mine. And someone behind me. A figure with a skeletal hand."
Damien grew still. "The Revenant."
"The what?"
"The shadow Cauldron serves," Damien said grimly. "Or perhaps… the one he believes serves him. That figure you saw—that's the fate that waits if you fall."
Ava swallowed hard.
"I don't want that future," she whispered.
"Then we must change it," Damien said. "But to do so, you must understand the truth of your lineage."
He reached into his cloak and pulled something from a hidden pocket—a folded piece of old parchment sealed with black wax.
Ava took it, her fingers trembling.
"This," Damien said, "was written by Queen Lysara. Your great-grandmother. A sorceress so powerful, the royal family buried her memory after she died. Buried her magic too."
Ava opened the letter carefully. The handwriting was elegant, looping, unmistakably regal.
To the heir born under the blood moon: the magic in you is not new, only sleeping. When the stars scream and the garden burns, seek the cloak of shadow and the blade of dawn. Only both will break the curse.
She stared at the page, eyes wide. "The blade of dawn… and the cloak of shadow. That's what I saw."
Damien met her gaze. "You've already begun to see what others cannot. That means the time is near."
He stepped forward, closer than before, until Ava could see the pain behind his strength.
"I'll help you," he said, voice rough. "But you must choose this. Willingly."
Ava's breath caught.
The air between them shimmered again, and her hand moved to his without thinking.
The spark returned—soft, silver this time. It spread through her chest like warm lightning. Ava gasped, and Damien didn't let go.
"You feel it now," he whispered.
"Yes," she breathed.
Then, behind them, a branch cracked.
Damien moved instantly—pulling her behind him, one hand on the hilt of his blade. Ava ducked low, her heart hammering.
A faint rustle in the hedges. A flutter of wings. An owl soared overhead, its shadow passing over them like a warning.
They waited in silence.
Finally, Damien relaxed.
"We're being watched," he said. "Not just by the castle. By darker eyes."
Ava looked up at him. "Then what do we do?"
"We prepare," he said grimly. "Tomorrow, I'll show you the path to the old crypt. Queen Lysara's true tomb lies hidden there. We'll need her grimoire if we're to stand a chance."
Ava nodded slowly.
Tomorrow.
A part of her trembled at the idea. But a deeper part—stronger—burned with something fierce and old and rising.
Magic.
Destiny.
"I'll be there," she whispered.
Damien's eyes softened. "Then we begin."
He vanished into the shadows, and Ava was left standing in the garden alone—her fingers still tingling, her blood humming with power she had only just begun to understand.