Dawn cracked across the manor with brittle light, but Elira felt no warmth.
The garden Lucien called "the graveyard without names" stretched beyond the east wing—overgrown, silent, and far too symmetrical for mere landscaping. Beneath its hedges and ruined statues were bones. And not just bones.
Remains without remembrance.
When she was still called Seraphina, she had dismissed it as legend. But now…
She could hear the silence. It hummed beneath her boots.
Like the soil itself remembered the screams that never got to echo.
Lucien walked beside her, a satchel slung over his shoulder, filled with small wooden markers, empty parchment, and ink bottles.
"No one's entered this part of the grounds since the Black Rain," he said quietly.
"The plague?" Elira asked.
"No." He met her gaze. "The rebellion. When the forgotten heirs rose from the vault."
Her breath caught. "You mean the crypt beneath the manor?"
Lucien nodded. "Those whose blood was pure… but names were erased from the inheritance ledgers. They were buried here. In shame. And then… forgotten."
Elira stopped at a circular patch of stone, slightly raised from the earth.
"Why here?"
"This is the spine of the house."
She knelt, placing her palm on the surface. "Then let's begin."
They spent the morning pulling away ivy and moss, uncovering markers long buried, etching names into new wood for the unnamed.
But as Elira wrote the third name—Coren Althar, child of no record—her hands began to tremble.
A strange fog gathered at the edge of the hedges.
And then—
She heard a whisper.
"Thank you."
She turned sharply.
Nothing there.
Lucien stepped closer. "Did you hear it?"
"Yes," she whispered. "They're… watching."
"No," Lucien said softly. "They're waking."
By midday, a circle of seventeen markers had been placed.
Elira stepped back, her hands stained with soil and ink. Her shoulders ached, but her heart felt lighter.
"I want to do all of them," she said, voice firm. "Even if it takes me a hundred nights."
Lucien placed a hand on her back. "Then I'll be beside you every one of them."
A soft breeze passed through the trees.
The air no longer choked.
The garden began to feel… less dead.
That night, Elira dreamed of the crypt again.
But this time, the mirror in the coffin was not screaming.
It was quiet.
And on its surface, instead of memories, were etched words:
"Names feed the soul.And the named shall remember you in return."
She awoke before dawn, the wind outside her windows singing an old lullaby in a language she didn't recognize—but somehow understood.
Lucien stirred beside her.
"Another dream?"
Elira nodded slowly.
"I think the manor's starting to forgive me."
The next morning, a servant brought an urgent message:
"Milady, the House Archivist requests your presence.He says it's about your 'true inheritance.'"
The archivist was not a man, but a construct.
His form shimmered between spirit and silver, eyes like sun-glinted ink. His chamber was made entirely of glass and bound paper.
He spoke without opening his mouth.
"You rewrote your name. You buried the forgotten. And now the house has opened its final wing."
"What wing?" Elira asked.
"The Hall of Threads."
Lucien frowned. "That's a myth."
"It was," the archivist replied. "Until she became Elira Nyxborne."
He extended a hand. A key formed from ribboned metal floated between his fingers.
"The Hall keeps the fates of all heirs tied to this bloodline.If you wish to sever the curse completely…You must unravel the thread that binds yours."
They descended into the base of the western tower—long thought hollow—until they reached a door made of stained fabric woven with runes.
Elira pressed the key to the lock.
The door unspooled, thread by thread, until it vanished.
Inside was darkness.
And a thousand glowing cords, suspended in midair.
Each one pulsed with a faint heartbeat.
Each one led to a name.
And in the center—
A throne, unoccupied, made of bone and silver root.
Elira's name floated above it.
Not "Seraphina."
Not "Lady."
Just:
Elira NyxborneStatus: IncompleteThread: Severance pending
Lucien stood still beside her, as if the weight of the room pressed into his chest.
"This is where it ends," she murmured.
"Or where it begins again," he replied.
The hall was still.
Waiting.
And Elira, for the first time in this twisted, buried legacy, was ready to choose.
..............................
She gave the dead their names.Now she must claim the thread of fate tied to her own soul.But will severing it grant her freedom…Or unravel everything she's become?