The silence that followed Caelum's vow was heavier than iron.
Not a single soul dared breathe. The Moon Mirror had dimmed, but the mark it left behind was unshakable. Whispers rippled across the courtyard like fire through dry grass.
"She is the Heretic Reborn…"
"He's made a blood claim on her—he'll marry the traitor?"
"What madness is this?"
Elara stared at the prince, her bleeding hand trembling at her side. His eyes bore into hers, as if daring her to speak. But what could she say?
She didn't know who she was anymore.
Guards surrounded them, their spears trembling in confusion.
"Sire," one stammered, "She—she's the reincarnation of the one who—"
"I know exactly who she is," Caelum said coldly. "And that is why she will not be executed."
He rose to his full height, regal and terrible.
"She is mine. Her crimes, mine to avenge. Her power, mine to contain. You will not touch her again unless I permit it."
A proverb floated unbidden through Elara's mind—one her caretaker used to mutter during the long, hungry nights in the orphanage:
"A man who eats with the devil must use a long spoon."
Caelum, she realized, was choosing to dine with her soul. Whatever he wanted, it was not mercy.
They marched her from the Mirror Courtyard to the Moonspire Citadel—through corridors of carved obsidian, beneath chandeliers of silver bones, past paintings of ancient wolf-queens whose eyes seemed to follow her.
The palace was cold. Not in temperature, but in feeling—like no laughter had lived here in centuries.
She was taken not to a dungeon, but to a private chamber guarded by Moonfang warriors. A fire burned in the hearth. Velvet curtains fluttered in the breeze.
The luxury didn't comfort her.
Comfort is often the bait of a well-laid trap.
That night, a maid dressed her in ceremonial blue. The robe shimmered like dusk and clung to her shoulders like a noose.
She was summoned to the Moonstone Hall, where Caelum's advisors had gathered—old men and sharp-eyed women, each more dangerous than the last.
Elara stood beside Caelum before the royal council, her wrists still bound in silver ribbon.
"Your Highness," one councilor began, voice clipped, "This girl carries the soul of Lycaena, destroyer of the first court. You of all people—"
"She is not Lycaena," Caelum interrupted, "but she carries Lycaena's blood-memory. That makes her valuable."
"Valuable?" a noblewoman sneered. "She's a curse wrapped in a girl's skin!"
"Exactly," Caelum said. "And curses… can be controlled."
Elara's lips parted. She turned to him, finally finding her voice.
"You don't want to marry me," she whispered.
He didn't even look at her. "No."
"Then why bind me before the gods?"
Caelum's expression never changed. "Because the curse tied to your soul feeds on chaos. It will grow if you are loathed. But if you are claimed—it can be chained."
"And when it's chained?"
"Then I can destroy it." He paused. "Or let it destroy you."
A shiver danced down her spine.
This wasn't a romance. It was a war. And she was both the battlefield and the weapon.
Later, as she was escorted back to her room, the mute scholar appeared from the shadows. The same one from the Mirror Court—the one with the hollow gaze and a book of endless pages.
He pressed a small piece of parchment into her palm.
Tonight. Midnight. Mirror Archive. Come alone.
She looked up—but he was already gone.
At midnight, she slipped past the guards. The palace had its own rhythm, like a beast that never truly slept.
The Mirror Archive was beneath the west wing, hidden behind a library shelf. She found it with ease—the pull of something familiar guiding her feet. The archive was filled with shards—broken pieces of ancient soul mirrors, each humming with whispers of the past.
The scholar waited inside.
He didn't speak.
Instead, he placed a full-length shard before her.
She looked into it.
And screamed.
In its surface, she didn't see herself.
She saw Lycaena.
Same face. Same body. But eyes like twin eclipses. Mouth slick with blood. Behind her stood temples burning. Wolves howling. A crown on her head—and a dagger in her hand.
She heard a voice—her voice—speak from the glass.
"You killed me once, child. But death is not enough to undo what we did."
The mirror cracked.
The scholar looked at her, something pitying in his gaze.
"The river does not forget the crocodile that swims in it."
He handed her a second object—a ring made of moonstone and thorn.
"Wear it," he mouthed.
She hesitated… and slid it onto her finger.
Pain exploded through her chest.
Images flashed—memories not hers. A baby wailing in a bloodied cradle. A silver crown cast into fire. Her hands—Lycaena's hands—binding the Moon Goddess in chains.
And then…
A whispered vow:
"If I rise again, I will unmake every kingdom that forgets what it cost to crown a beast."