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Chapter 13 - Beneath the Roots

The manor breathed with old magic that night.

It pulsed in the floorboards. Hummed in the walls. Whispered in the seams of Seraphina's skin as she moved through the halls barefoot, drawn by something she couldn't explain.

Something ancient. Something calling her name in silence.

She didn't wake Riven. She didn't wait for Lucien to return. She simply followed the pull beneath her ribs, down, down, deeper into the manor's bones.

To the place no one spoke of.

The roots.

The door had never been visible before.

It formed at the base of the oldest staircase, framed in twisted stone and ash black vines. A single glyph glowed at its center. Not in gold. Not in red. But in white blue light that shimmered like a reflection in water.

Seraphina didn't hesitate.

She touched it.

The stone dissolved around her fingers.

Lucien stumbled through the veil between realms, breath ragged, vision blurred.

The journey had not been kind.

Shadow beasts had torn at his cloak. The path had folded on itself three times, each loop trying to erase him. He had been forced to burn three sigils into his chest just to keep his memory intact.

But he had reached the old altar.

And before him, half buried in root and frost

The Ashroot Mirror.

He dropped to his knees.

Reached for it.

The ground pulsed beneath his hand.

And something spoke from below.

Not aloud.

Inside his mind.

"You seek to sever what was not yours to touch."

Lucien's fingers closed around the mirror.

And the world screamed.

Riven woke with a gasp.

He sat upright in bed, heart pounding, the name on his lips not his own.

"Liora."

He hadn't spoken that name in years.

Had never told Seraphina he knew it.

Had never told Lucien that Liora had died because of a prophecy none of them understood.

But now the name was back.

Alive.

Echoing in his chest like thunder before the rain.

He stood, threw on a cloak, and followed the thread of magic in the air.

Something was happening.

Something wrong.

Seraphina stepped into the chamber.

Roots covered the ceiling like veins. The floor was wet stone, slick with ancient moss. In the center of the room stood a pool of still water, black as ink, untouched by time.

She approached.

The pool rippled.

And a voice rose.

Not Ilyra's.

Not hers.

But familiar.

"You were born from the blood of flame and ash. You were never meant to be a vessel. You were meant to be the flame."

She knelt beside the water.

Her reflection stared back.

And then, it shifted.

The image in the water became a crown of thorns. Then a circle of fire. Then a woman in white, her face a blur of light.

"Seraphina."

The voice filled the chamber.

"Do you remember your name before this one?"

Seraphina's breath caught.

Before?

"I, "

The water flashed.

And the chamber went dark.

Lucien clutched the Ashroot Mirror to his chest as the roots around him closed in.

He could barely breathe.

The artifact burned in his arms, but he didn't let go.

He whispered Seraphina's name over and over again like a spell.

Like a lifeline.

And in his mind, something cracked.

He saw her.

Not as she was, but as she had once been.

Eyes of gold. Skin lit with fire. A name written in a language lost to time.

Not Seraphina.

Something older.

"You knew," the voice said.

Lucien screamed.

And the world went white.

Riven reached the staircase just as the door vanished into the wall.

He stood before it, breathing hard.

The glyph was gone.

The pull was gone.

But Seraphina was still below.

He pressed his palm to the stone.

"I'm coming," he said softly. "Just hold on."

He turned to run.

Not to the archives.

Not to the gate

To the northern grove.

There, beneath the roots of the last flame tree, was the only other entrance to the Hollow.

A path he had promised never to take again.

But promises were made to be broken.

Especially when it came to her.

Seraphina opened her eyes.

The water was gone.

The chamber had changed.

Now she stood in a circle of fire, unburned, her skin glowing faintly with runes she had never learned.

Her hands were steady.

Her heart was quiet.

And inside her, Ilyra said nothing.

Not gone.

Not erased.

But watching.

Learning.

Waiting.

Seraphina looked down at her palm.

A symbol glowed there.

A crown, broken in half.

She knew it without knowing why.

It was hers.

It had always been hers.

Even before this life.

Even before Lucien

Even before the name Seraphina.

Lucien opened his eyes.

The mirror lay shattered in his lap.

The trees around him were dead.

But his hands were whole.

And on his wrist, a mark had appeared.

A binding rune.

Not to Seraphina.

To something else.

He stood slowly.

And heard a voice behind him.

"You touched what was never meant for you."

He turned.

But no one was there.

Only shadows.

Riven tore through the undergrowth, hands bleeding, heart wild.

He reached the flame tree.

He whispered the old words.

The ground opened.

And he descended.

Seraphina stepped from the chamber, barefoot, calm.

The manor groaned around her.

And from above, a cry rang out.

A sound like loss.

Like a heart breaking.

She didn't stop.

Didn't look back.

She simply walked.

And as she passed the cracked mirror in her room.

It shattered completely.

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