The sun bled through rain clouds as dawn broke over the Crimson Court.Mist clung to the courtyard stones, and the air smelled faintly of wet ash. Servants shuffled out like ghosts, half-asleep and muttering prayers to ward off another day's labor.
Among them walked Seraphine Vale—or the girl the world thought was Mira. The linen of her apron was still damp, her hands rough from scrubbing, yet her steps carried the careful precision of someone who had once walked in marble halls.
Every corridor whispered memory.
She had built enchantments into these walls once, carved sigils behind the mosaics to keep the palace warm in winter and the torches from ever dimming. They still worked, faintly. She could feel it—an old rhythm, pulsing beneath her palm when she brushed the stone.
"Careful with that tray," Maera barked from behind her. "His Majesty doesn't like noise in the mornings."
"Yes, Head Servant," Seraphine murmured, bowing her head.
In truth, the king's dislike of noise was hardly surprising. Rumor had spread through the lower servants like spilled wine—how the ruler of Eryndor barely slept, how he wandered the palace at night muttering of dreams and fire.
They said he'd forbidden mirrors in his chamber after smashing one in a rage.They said he feared ghosts.
And perhaps, somewhere deep in the marrow of him, he feared her.
The royal council chamber was a cathedral of light and shadow. Sunlight poured through crimson glass, painting the marble floor in streaks of blood and gold. Seraphine entered quietly with the other attendants, setting goblets and scrolls upon the long table before withdrawing to the wall.
At its head sat King Aldric Thorne.
He looked as she remembered—though memory made him younger, gentler. His face now was older, carved by sleeplessness, but there remained something noble in the curve of his jaw and the haunted tilt of his eyes.
He turned one of the silver rings on his hand absently as the High Priest spoke.
"The border provinces require additional tithes, Your Majesty," said Coren, his voice slow and oiled. "Our coffers dwindle, and the omens—"
"Enough omens," Aldric interrupted, fingers tightening around the ring. "We've had enough prophecy to fill a lifetime."
A murmur rippled through the court. The priests glanced at one another, affronted.
Seraphine's gaze lingered on his hand. The scar upon his palm caught the light—a pale crescent, nearly invisible unless one knew where to look. Her pulse stuttered. Her own wrist ached in response beneath the sleeve.
As she adjusted a goblet, a spark leapt from her fingertip to the rim—tiny, silver-blue. No one noticed, but the air thickened around her like breath held too long.
The council continued, but Aldric's eyes drifted toward the corner where she stood. For a fleeting heartbeat, his expression softened. Confusion crossed his face, a shadow of recognition that made her heart twist.
Then a flicker of flame bloomed in the nearest sconce. The fire burned blue.
Gasps scattered through the chamber.
Aldric rose sharply. "Who touched that candle?"
Silence. The servants froze.
Seraphine's pulse pounded. She bowed low, forcing her breath steady. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. The draft must have—"
But Aldric was staring at the blue fire, not her. The reflection of it danced in his eyes, and something old and half-forgotten crossed his expression—sorrow, longing, fear.
Aldric turned abruptly to Coren. "Seal the room. I want every mirror covered before sunset."
The priests hurried to obey. Seraphine fled the moment Maera's nod released her.
Part 2
The servants' corridors wound like veins through the palace. Seraphine walked them blindly, her hands trembling until she reached the quiet of the laundry hearth.
Only then did she let out a breath.
"You nearly lit the throne room," drawled a familiar voice.
Eldric Wane materialized from the furnace smoke, looking smug and insubstantial. His form shimmered like heat mirage. "You can't help yourself, can you? A century passes, and still you show off."
"I didn't mean to." Seraphine sank onto a stool, gripping her knees. "The fire just—answered."
"Fire always answers you." His smile faded. "And so will he."
She shook her head. "He doesn't remember. He looked at me and saw nothing."
Eldric's gaze softened, pitying and cruel all at once. "He saw something. Enough to tremble."
A servant burst through the door then, startling her. "Mira! The King requests additional incense for his chambers. The priest says the halls smell of storms."
"Of course," Seraphine said quickly, hiding her hands in her apron. She followed the girl through the maze of halls, every step echoing louder than it should.
When she entered the royal chambers, Aldric stood by the window, watching rain streak down the glass. He didn't turn at her approach.
"You may leave it by the hearth," he said.
She obeyed, setting down the silver burner. The scent of frankincense coiled through the room, soft and strange.
The silence between them thickened.
Then, quietly, he asked, "Your name. It's Mira, isn't it?"
Her throat tightened. "Yes, Your Majesty."
A pause. "Where are you from?"
"South province, my lord." Her voice barely carried. "I served in the temple kitchens before this post."
He nodded once, but his tone was distant, distracted. "You have an unusual accent."
"It must have faded poorly, sire."
When she turned to go, his hand brushed hers—an accident, perhaps. But the contact seared through her like sunlight on snow.
For an instant, she was back at the pyre—his face above hers, the world aflame.
Aldric hissed in pain, clutching his palm. The scar glowed faintly through the skin.
Seraphine snatched her hand back. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. The coal tongs were hot—"
But he wasn't listening. He stared at his palm as though it held the answer to a question he'd been too afraid to ask.
"You may go," he said finally, voice rough.
She fled, heart hammering.
Later that night, thunder rolled over the sea. The palace slept fitfully. In the servant's wing, Seraphine sat at her narrow window, the incense still clinging to her skin. Every nerve felt awake, alive, wrong.
She tried to pray. No words came. Only the flicker of flame behind her eyelids and the sound of his voice—Your name… Mira, isn't it?He'd said it too gently, as if testing a memory that didn't belong to him.
Outside, lightning flashed.
The lamp on her table sputtered—and went out.
Then came the scent: smoke. Real, immediate.
She turned. The edges of her curtain glowed red. Fire raced up the fabric, bright and hungry.
Seraphine gasped, thrusting out her hands. "No—"
Silver light exploded from her palms, wrapping the flames like water poured over oil. The fire hissed once, then vanished, leaving only the faint trace of ash on the air.
Her room was untouched. But her magic—her secret—had left its mark. The stone around her hands shimmered with faint sigils, the language of witches.
"Mira!" Maera's voice shouted from the corridor. "Was that smoke? By the saints, what—"
Seraphine snapped her fingers. The symbols vanished. She opened the door, heart steady again. "Apologies, Head Servant. My candle fell. It's out now."
Maera squinted past her, frowning, then grunted. "Careless girl. Get some sleep. We've another feast tomorrow."
"Yes, Ma'am."
When Maera's footsteps faded, Seraphine closed the door and pressed her back to it. The faint glow beneath her skin refused to fade. Her reflection in the window looked back at her with eyes no servant had ever owned—violet burning behind the brown.
Eldric appeared in the reflection, arms crossed. "You're unraveling faster than I thought."
"I saved myself," she said.
"You exposed yourself," he countered. "Sooner or later, he'll see you for what you are."
"Then let him," she whispered. "Maybe that's the only way to make him remember."
Outside, thunder cracked so loud it shook the walls. For a moment, she swore she heard laughter in it—hers, or the fire's.
Up in his tower, Aldric stared at his hand again. The scar had turned red, alive.And in the reflection of the darkened window, a voice whispered faintly: You burned with me once.
He turned, heart pounding. The room was empty.
Only the faint scent of incense remained—smoke and lilac and something achingly