The palace dreams.
At night, its corridors whisper with the sound of memory — footsteps that do not belong to the living, doors that sigh open without wind. The Black Palace has always been haunted.
Aradia wakes to the sound of bells tolling somewhere beyond the walls. Not the bells of mourning, but those of reverence — the dawn prayer for the Emperor's health.
A health he does not deserve.
She rises from her cot, her hands tracing the faint scar along her wrist — the one that should not exist in this new body. A ghost of the chains that once bound her. Even in rebirth, the fire left its mark.
A basin of water sits near the window. She leans over it and sees her reflection again — this time by sunlight. Her new face is ordinary, forgettable, but her eyes… those are still her own: violet, bright as embers under snow.
"Alive," she whispers, testing the word. It feels too soft on her tongue.
From outside, the morning light filters through the window — pale and cold, the kind of light that hides secrets instead of revealing them.
Her chamber door creaks open.
An older woman enters — the Head Servant, judging by her crisp uniform and colder eyes.
"You're late for your duties," she snaps. "Get to the east wing and clean the mirror hall before the nobles arrive."
Aradia lowers her gaze obediently. "Yes, Head Mistress."
The woman leaves without another word. The door clicks shut, and silence folds in again.
Aradia exhales slowly, her mind racing.
The Mirror Hall.
She remembers it.
Once, the Mirror Hall had been a sanctum of the coven — the place where witches communed with spirits through glass and flame. She had stood there with her sisters, hand in hand, calling the moon's reflection into the world.
Now it belonged to him.
A cold laugh escapes her lips. "How fitting," she murmurs. "He lives surrounded by ghosts he made himself."
The palace corridors stretch endlessly as she walks — marble and shadow, gold and grief. Servants hurry past her, their faces pale and eyes hollow. The smell of candle smoke clings to every corner, mixed with the metallic tang of incense.
The Black Palace has grown darker since the night she burned.
She can feel it — her magic hums under her skin, restless, as if the stones themselves remember her name.
At the doors to the Mirror Hall, she pauses. Two guards stand watch, their armor blackened and etched with runes of protection. But protection from what?
One of them nods curtly. "You. Maid. Inside. Clean quickly and don't touch anything."
Aradia bows her head, clutching her cleaning cloths, and slips through the door.
The room beyond steals her breath.
A hundred mirrors line the walls — tall, gilded, ancient. Each one veiled with thin black silk. The air hums faintly, vibrating like the space between a heartbeat.
Aradia steps forward. The dust dances around her ankles.
As she lifts the cloth to polish the first mirror, a whisper ripples through the air.
Aradia…
The sound freezes her. Her name — spoken in a voice low, familiar, and broken.
She turns. No one. Only the mirrors, trembling faintly under their veils.
Her pulse quickens. She reaches out, pulling one veil aside. Beneath the silk, her reflection stares back — but the eyes are not hers.
They are his.
The Emperor's.
The reflection speaks again, his voice hollow, pained.
"Aradia. Forgive me."
Her hand jerks back, the glass shattering into a hundred silver shards. The sound echoes through the hall, sharp and endless.
Breathing hard, she presses a hand to her chest. The air burns cold against her skin.
He remembers her name.
Even after a hundred years.
Outside, the bells toll again — louder this time, as though the palace itself has stirred.
And somewhere in the Emperor's chambers, a man wakes with a cry, his hands clutching his chest, his dream dissolving in fire and ash.
"That name again…" he whispers. "Why do I hear that name?"
The emperor woke with fire in his lungs.
For one breath, he didn't know where he was — only that the scent of smoke clung to him, sharp and choking. He lurched upright, the silk sheets twisting around his bare chest as sweat poured down his temples.
The dream again.
The pyre.
The witch.
He dragged a hand through his hair and forced himself to breathe. The morning light bled through the curtains, cold and unforgiving. His attendants were already outside the door, waiting, but none dared to enter until summoned.
Kael closed his eyes. He could still hear it — her voice, clear through the crackle of fire.
"When I return, your soul will remember every flame."
He had never heard that voice before.
And yet, somehow, it felt like a memory carved into his bones.
A knock broke the silence.
"Your Majesty?"
"Enter."
The chamberlain, an older man with a spine straight as his sword, stepped inside, bowing low. "The priests have gathered for the dawn offering. Shall I prepare your attire?"
Kael nodded absently, his mind still trapped between dream and waking. "Has the Mirror Hall been cleansed?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The servants reported… some disturbance. A mirror shattered without cause. The Head Servant punished them accordingly."
"Without cause?"
The chamberlain hesitated. "They claim they heard a voice, my lord. But you know how servants whisper."
Kael's gaze hardened. "Send for the steward. I want the hall sealed until I see it myself."
"As you command."
The man bowed and withdrew.
Kael sat back, his fingers tightening around the pendant on his neck — a small silver talisman shaped like a crescent moon. The empire's sigil. But in the dream, it had burned black.
He stared at it for a long time before finally rising from the bed.
By midmorning, the Black Palace stirred to life. Courtiers glided through the halls in their silks, guards clanked in rhythm with the distant bells, and servants whispered rumors about the emperor's sleepless nights.
Aradia moved among them like a shadow. Her maid's uniform blended into the sea of black and gray, her eyes lowered, her movements small. But beneath the calm, her pulse throbbed with dark amusement.
He had awakened.
She could feel it — the echo of his nightmare pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat.
Her curse had survived the years.
As she passed the grand stairway, two noblewomen whispered near the balustrade.
"They say His Majesty calls another woman's name in his sleep," one giggled behind her fan.
"Who?"
"A witch's name. Some say it's an omen."
Aradia's lips curved. An omen indeed.
She reached the servants' courtyard and knelt by the fountain, dipping her hands into the water. The surface rippled, and her reflection blinked back — violet eyes bright beneath the sun.
The reflection smiled faintly.
"He dreams of you."
The voice came not from the air but from within her — her magic, long sealed, whispering again.
"I know," she murmured. "And soon he'll see me, too."
She stood, drying her hands on her apron, and turned toward the palace's upper wing — the Emperor's wing. She wasn't allowed there, not as a servant, but that had never stopped her before.
Kael stood in the Mirror Hall when she arrived, his back to the door.
The shattered glass had already been swept aside, though the faint scent of smoke lingered. He wore a dark tunic embroidered in gold, his silver crown gleaming faintly beneath the skylight.
Even now, he looked like a man carved from marble — beautiful, cold, unreachable.
Aradia's breath caught. Not from awe. From fury.
A century apart, and still his presence burned.
He turned at the sound of the door opening.
"Who enters?"
Aradia bowed low, keeping her voice even. "A servant, Your Majesty. Sent to deliver fresh incense."
"Come closer."
Her feet obeyed, though every step sent shivers through her. He was so near now — the same soul, reborn in this gilded cage. The face was older, harder, but the eyes were the same: silver-gray, like moonlight before a storm.
She stopped a few feet away and offered the small incense tray. He took it absently, his gaze never leaving her face.
"What is your name?"
She hesitated for only a heartbeat. "Mira, Your Majesty."
He studied her, his expression unreadable. "Have we met before?"
Her heart skipped. "No, sire."
"You look…" He frowned, as though searching for something lost. "…familiar."
The word hung between them like smoke.
Aradia lowered her gaze quickly. "I would not forget a face like yours, Your Majesty."
Kael exhaled softly, turning away. "Strange dreams haunt me," he muttered. "And now, strangers look like ghosts."
He moved past her, the scent of steel and myrrh clinging to his cloak. For a moment, she could feel his warmth as he brushed by — the same warmth that had once kissed her lips before betraying her to the flames.
She waited until his footsteps faded, then allowed herself a small, dangerous smile.
"Not a ghost, my emperor," she whispered. "A promise."
Above her, one of the mirrors trembled — faint cracks spreading across its surface like veins of fire.
The palace shivered, as though it, too, remembered her name.