It came to her in sleep, but it wasn't a dream.
It was something older. Something buried.
Amara stood alone in a hall of mirrors—towering, ancient things rimmed with gold and bone. But none reflected her as she was now.
They showed fragments. Versions. Ghosts.
In one mirror, she was a child laughing under a moon made of flame, barefoot and free, hair glinting like starlight.
In another, she wore scorched armor and great wings of obsidian, standing alone atop a battlefield, her eyes burning like eclipses.
And at the center of the hall, a throne.
Not carved of stone or gold, but formed from floating, fractured mirrors—razor-edged and humming with power. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
Her heartbeat. She was on it.
Not Amara—the wary, guarded girl she thought herself to be.
But Seraphyne.
The Queen.
Silver hair coiled with golden spellthread. Horns crowned with obsidian. Her gaze was ancient, unfathomable, and unspeakably tired.
Before her knelt a figure in a cloak of indigo.
One hand pressed to his chest.
The other held a blade.
"Vael," Seraphyne said, voice low and steady.
The name cracked the mirror beneath them.
"You once swore to guard me."
"I did," Vael said. "And now I must guard the world from you."
She did not rise. Did not rage.
She only whispered, "So you'll betray me, too?"
"Not betrayal," he answered. "Mercy."
The blade shimmered, radiant and cruel. The throne trembled. The mirrors began to hum louder, vibrating with power and regret.
Seraphyne closed her eyes.
"Then let it be done."
A beat of silence.
Then, a blinding flash.
The mirrors shattered.
The world reformed—sharper, darker.
The throne was gone. The hall obliterated. In its place stretched a battlefield of black sand and dying sky. The air was thick with magic and ash.
Amara—Seraphyne—knelt in the center, bloodied and broken. Her crown lay shattered beside her.
All around her, demons and beasts—hers—lay in ruin. The war was over.
And the victors circled her.
Seven cloaked figures, the last High Mages of the Shadowborn, chanting words not meant for the living.
"Bind her.
Bury her name.
Break her crown."
Vael stood at the center, still holding the blade, his head bowed, his voice cracked with sorrow.
"You were my first," Seraphyne said, her voice soft and hollow. "My truest."
"And still I must end you," he replied.
Then came the spell.
The runes carved into her—not around her, not above—but into her skin, her soul.
Her name, her identity, her memory—stripped.
Seraphyne was torn from the world.
The girl who remained collapsed into shadow.
Amara jolted awake.
Her breath caught in her throat. Sweat clung to her skin. The dorm was quiet, lit only by slivers of moonlight through the glass.
Across the room, Luke stirred at his desk, head resting on an open book, his face calm in sleep.
He hadn't seen.
But she remembered.
A whisper escaped her lips before she could stop it:
"Vael… liar."
Her voice trembled.
They had taken everything. Her name. Her title. Her past.
But not all of her was gone.
She was still here.
And deep beneath the surface, Seraphyne stirred again.
Not fully awake.
Not yet.
But watching.
Waiting.