The night after she ran was merciless.
Aelira didn't stop moving, not when her lungs burned, not when her cloak snagged on brambles or her boots slipped in cold mud. The deeper she ran into the forest, the more the world twisted—trees arching like watchers, moonlight fractured into strange angles. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to get away.
From Kaeln.
From the truth.
From the name that clung to her bones like a curse.
Saelwyn.
She collapsed at the base of an ancient ash tree, its trunk split with age and memory. The clearing around it pulsed with an energy that felt… familiar. The earth here hummed beneath her fingers, as if it remembered her. As if it was waiting.
Aelira curled in on herself, gripping the fabric of her sleeve over the sigil still etched into her skin. It hadn't faded. If anything, it burned brighter, a whisper of flame just beneath the surface.
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry.
Not yet.
She wasn't ready to fall apart. Not when everything was only just beginning to make a terrible, twisted kind of sense.
She'd been dreaming of fire since childhood. Whispers in the dark. Waking to the scent of smoke. Her affinity for magic—wild, untaught, but undeniable. She'd never belonged anywhere, not really.
Because part of her wasn't from this life.
She was walking in the remnants of a previous one.
And Kaeln—Kaeln had known.
He had looked her in the eyes every day, every moment, with the weight of her death on his soul. And said nothing.
"I trusted you," she whispered into the silence. Her voice cracked.
The ash tree didn't answer. But the wind did. A gentle sigh, lifting her hair from her face like fingers she couldn't see.
She pressed her forehead to the bark. The rough surface hummed. Her magic stirred in response, reaching out—not violently, but with recognition.
Aelira's breath hitched.
And then the world fell away.
---
She stood in a clearing ringed by shadowed figures—robed, silent, watching. The air was thick with incense and dread.
The ash tree stood at the center.
But it wasn't just a tree. It was a threshold.
And Saelwyn was there—she was there—stepping out from behind the bark like a ghost born of fire and moonlight.
The vision wasn't like the others.
This time, Aelira didn't watch it unfold.
She was in it.
Face-to-face with the version of herself that had burned.
Saelwyn's eyes were the same deep violet, but colder. Her hair shimmered silver in the moonlight, braided with ash leaves and blood-red thread. She wore ceremonial robes scorched at the hem. And around her neck was the same sigil now carved into Aelira's skin.
"You finally came," Saelwyn said. Her voice echoed with power and pain.
Aelira staggered back. "This isn't real."
"It's memory," Saelwyn said. "And memory is as real as breath in this place."
Aelira's hands shook. "You're me."
"I was you," Saelwyn corrected gently. "And you are me becoming."
Aelira wanted to scream. "Then why do I feel like I'm dying every time I remember you?"
"Because remembering means breaking," Saelwyn said, stepping closer. "And you haven't broken yet."
Aelira backed away. "I'm not ready."
"No," Saelwyn agreed. "But soon, you won't have a choice."
The shadows around the clearing flickered. The witches in the vision turned their heads—one by one—and suddenly, Aelira felt it.
Vyra.
Her presence was thick and rotting, pressing in from the edges of the dream like poison fog. The shadows were her eyes. Her reach.
Saelwyn's expression darkened. "She's found you."
Aelira froze. "Who? Vyra? She's dead."
"Death is only a door," Saelwyn said grimly. "And she never truly passed through."
Before Aelira could reply, the clearing erupted in firelight.
And the vision burned.
---
She woke with a gasp, clutching the ash tree like it could anchor her soul in her body.
She was shaking.
The mark on her skin was glowing again—hot and fierce now, pulsing with the rhythm of her heart.
Vyra was watching.
Somehow, somewhere, Vyra knew she was waking up.
Branches cracked nearby.
Aelira twisted sharply—too sharply—and nearly fell. But a hand caught her.
Elandor.
His blue eyes were wide with worry, his fingers firm but gentle. "Aelira. I've been searching for you."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
His gaze dropped to the mark on her arm. He didn't flinch.
"I remember that," he said softly.
She stared at him, throat tight. "You knew her. Didn't you?"
"I was there," he said, voice full of guilt. "I watched them kill you."
The world tilted.
"I didn't know what Vyra was planning. I thought you were just being punished—just—" he stopped himself, shame written in every line of his face. "I was a coward."
Aelira's head spun. Kaeln, now Elandor—how many more people from that life were walking beside her now, wearing different names?
"Why didn't you say anything?" she whispered.
"Because Kaeln swore he'd protect you if I kept my distance. He thought if too many of us got close, it would wake the wrong memories."
Her stomach dropped. "What wrong memories?"
But before he could answer, the wind changed again.
A sickly-sweet scent filled the air—honeysuckle and smoke.
Elandor grabbed her hand. "We have to go."
"Is it her?" Aelira whispered.
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Aelira didn't hesitate.
She ran with Elandor through the dense underbrush, breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding in time with the mark on her arm. The air around them was thickening—like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Behind them, the ash tree crackled. Faint whispers curled through the branches, too soft to understand, but laced with dread. Something had awakened.
And it wasn't just her memories.
"The Veil's thinning," Elandor said as they ran. "Vyra's magic is leaking through it."
"How?" Aelira gasped. "She's—she's dead."
"Only her body. Not her curse."
They burst into a clearing where moonlight spilled like water. The moment they crossed its edge, the oppressive pressure eased slightly. Elandor dropped to one knee, chest heaving, his palms glowing faintly as he traced protection runes into the ground with trembling fingers.
"Circle of breath. Circle of truth," he murmured.
Light rose around them, faint but steady.
"What was that back there?" Aelira asked, wrapping her arms around herself.
"She was watching you," he said. "You stood in the memory long enough that her magic found you. She's anchored to what remains of the past—ritual sites, blood-bonded places, the ash tree most of all."
Aelira shivered.
"She said something to me," she whispered. "In the vision. Saelwyn—me—she said Vyra never truly passed through death."
Elandor met her eyes grimly. "Because Vyra was never just a witch. She was a vessel. A gate. There's more to this than you've remembered."
She hugged herself tighter, heart sinking. "Kaeln said he was protecting me. But he's only been hiding me. From the truth. From you. From myself."
"He was trying to delay what's coming. We both were," Elandor admitted. "But it's no longer safe to keep you in the dark."
Aelira looked up. "So tell me. All of it."
Elandor hesitated, then nodded. "Come back to the cottage. Not the outer one. The true one. The one hidden beneath the veil."
Before she could ask what he meant, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a pendant shaped like an eye carved from obsidian. He pressed it to her palm.
"Wear this. It will shield your thoughts from her."
She slipped the pendant around her neck, the stone chilling her skin. Almost instantly, the burn of the sigil dulled.
Together, they set off through a path she didn't recognize—narrow, twisted, overgrown. It seemed to bend around them as they walked.
And then, without warning, the air shifted.
The trees parted.
And standing before her was a cottage.
It looked ordinary—stone walls, a thatched roof, a wooden door hanging slightly askew—but it pulsed with layered enchantments. Her magic responded instantly, thrumming beneath her skin.
"This place was built by Saelwyn," Elandor said. "Hidden from the covens. From Vyra. Even Kaeln doesn't know it still stands."
They stepped inside.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Aelira felt like she'd walked into a memory.
Her fingers trailed the worn wood of the table. A pot hung over the hearth. Books lined the shelves—spellbooks, alchemy journals, ancient grimoires wrapped in cloth.
She turned slowly.
And froze.
A mirror hung above the hearth.
In the glass, her reflection stared back—but her hair was longer, braided with silver, and her eyes…
They glowed.
"You were powerful," Elandor said quietly, watching her. "But you were also kind. The coven feared you because you wanted to break the old laws. Free the bound witches. End the blood oaths."
"Is that why Vyra killed me?"
"She didn't just want to kill you," Elandor said. "She wanted to consume you. Absorb your magic. She believed that with your blood, she could open the final Veil and become a conduit for something older. Something darker."
Aelira's throat went dry. "Something darker than Vyra?"
"She was never working alone," he said. "There are things that wait beyond the Veil. Vyra was just their mouthpiece."
Aelira sat heavily on the edge of the hearth. "And Kaeln?"
"He loved you," Elandor said, pain flickering across his face. "But he was desperate to save you. He thought if he bound you to him—blood and soul—you might survive the fire. But you wouldn't submit. You never did."
She looked at her hands. "So I died."
"Not entirely," Elandor said. "Your soul fractured. You were reborn… but not whole. The sigil—the mark—was the last piece. The anchor. Now that it's awakened, you're remembering faster."
"And if I remember everything?" she asked.
"Then Vyra will come for you in full."
A shiver ran down her spine.
A loud knock broke the moment.
Aelira jumped, her heart in her throat.
Elandor went rigid. "Stay here."
He crossed to the door, hand hovering near his dagger.
He opened it cautiously.
Standing on the threshold was Nessa.
Her eyes were wide, face flushed, cloak soaked in rain that hadn't touched them.
"I—I need to see Aelira," she said.
Her voice sounded wrong.
Too sweet.
Too soft.
Elandor stepped partially in front of Aelira. "You shouldn't be able to find this place."
Nessa blinked. "I followed the blood," she whispered.
Aelira stepped forward, breath catching. "What do you mean?"
Nessa smiled, and it wasn't kind. "I mean I smelled it. The mark on you, it sings. So loud."
The air in the cottage chilled.
Elandor drew his blade. "That's not Nessa."
The girl laughed. "You're slow. Always were."
She stepped forward—and for a brief second, her eyes turned black as pitch.
"Vyra," Aelira whispered.
Nessa's mouth curled cruelly. "You're not ready yet, Saelwyn. But you will be. And when you are…"
She leaned forward, lips at the edge of the doorway.
"I'll wear your skin like I should have the first time."
Then she vanished—no flash, no smoke. Just gone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Elandor exhaled shakily. "She's not fully here yet. But she's close."
Aelira didn't speak.
She walked back to the mirror.
Stared into the eyes of the woman she once was.
And this time, she didn't look away.