THERON'S POV
Something is wrong.
I can see it three seconds before it happens: Lyra—the girl I just rescued—will stop running, turn to me with eyes that aren't quite right, and smile.
Three seconds later, she does exactly that.
"You know," she says in a voice too old for her body, "I almost believed you were smart enough to figure it out sooner."
The girl's face ripples like water, and suddenly I'm not looking at a sixteen-year-old anymore. I'm looking at one of Serath's agents—a woman in her thirties wearing an enchanted disguise.
My blood runs cold.
"Where's the real Lyra?" I demand.
"Somewhere you'll never find her." The fake Lyra's smile is vicious. "Lady Serath sends her regards. Oh, and she wanted me to tell you: your precious Calista just drank the modified curse. In about two hours, she'll kill the Queen in front of the entire court. And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
She vanishes—actually vanishes, in a puff of smoke that smells like sulfur.
I stand frozen in the garden, my mind racing.
Serath.
My own sister has been orchestrating this entire nightmare.
And Calista—
I use my time-sight, pushing it as far as it can go. Normally I only see three seconds ahead, but when I'm desperate, I can sometimes stretch it to thirty seconds.
I see: myself, running back toward the palace. Climbing. A balcony. Calista's face, shocked to see me.
Present-me doesn't hesitate. I run.
Calista's tower balcony is protected by seven different magical wards. They're designed to stop anyone from entering—even birds, even rain.
I bypass all of them in four minutes.
Not because I'm better at magic than the Queen's ward-crafters. But because I helped Calista design these specific wards three years ago. We built in a backdoor, a secret phrase that would let me through in case of emergency.
The phrase is: "Starlight and stubbornness."
It was her mother's nickname for her.
The wards shimmer and part, and I climb over the balcony railing.
Through the glass doors, I see Calista sitting on her bed, clutching her stomach, face pale and sweating.
I don't knock. I use my override code and the doors swing open.
She leaps up, grabbing a letter opener from her desk. "How did you—the wards—"
"We need to talk." I pull a small glass vial from my coat—a silence ward that will give us privacy for one hour. I crush it, and a shimmer of magic seals the room. "And we need to talk NOW."
"Where's Lyra?" Her voice is panicked. "You were supposed to take her to safety—"
"That wasn't Lyra. It was one of my sister's agents in disguise. Serath has the real Lyra." I step closer, watching her face carefully. "And you drank something in the garden. What was it?"
She flinches. "How do you know—"
"Because I can see the future, remember? I saw you collapse. I saw the pain. What did Serath give you?"
Calista's hand goes to her stomach again. "A curse. Modified. She said—she said if I drink it, I'll kill the Queen during our wedding. If I don't, she kills Lyra."
"So you drank poison to save your sister."
"What else was I supposed to do?" Tears stream down her face. "She had Lyra right there, Theron. Bound and gagged and terrified. I couldn't—I couldn't let her die—"
"I know." I close the distance between us, taking her hands. "And that's exactly what Serath counted on. She knows you. Knows you'd sacrifice yourself for the people you love. She's been playing us both from the start."
"Your own sister," Calista whispers. "Why would she do this?"
"Power. The throne. The same reason the Queen murdered her sister." I pull out the bag with the three memory anchors. "But she made one mistake. She thinks you're still the broken, confused weapon the Queen created. She doesn't know you've been recovering pieces of yourself. And she definitely doesn't know about these."
Calista stares at the glowing vials. "Three anchors. Will they be enough?"
"I don't know. But they're all we have." I open the first vial—the gold one. "This contains your love of magic. Your passion for research. The part of you that was brilliant and curious and refused to accept 'impossible' as an answer."
"What do I do with it?"
"Drink it. Let it integrate with who you are now. The anchors aren't just memories—they're pieces of your soul, preserved before the curse could touch them."
She takes the vial with shaking hands. "What if it doesn't work? What if I'm too broken?"
"You're not broken. You're wounded. There's a difference." I touch her face gently. "And wounded things can heal if they're given the right tools."
She uncorks the vial and drinks.
The effect is immediate. Her eyes glow gold, and she gasps, stumbling. I catch her, holding her steady as the memory anchor integrates.
"I remember," she breathes. "The Academy. The research. I was studying memory protection because—because my mother warned me. She said the Queen was dangerous. She told me to build safeguards."
"Keep going," I urge. "What else?"
"Project Memoria. I invented it. I tested it on myself." Her eyes focus on me, and for the first time in three years, she looks like her. "And you were there. You helped me. We stayed up for three days straight, running calculations, arguing about magical theory—"
"You threw a book at my head when I suggested using blood-magic."
"Because blood-magic requires consent, and consent can be manufactured!" She's crying and laughing at the same time. "Oh gods, I remember you. I remember us."
I hand her the second vial—the silver one. "Your friendship. Your loyalty. The part of you that loved your sister, your mother, your people. The part that made you want to expose the Queen's crimes even though you knew it was dangerous."
She drinks it without hesitation.
This time, the integration is more painful. She screams, and I hold her as her body convulses. Memories are violently rewriting themselves, three years of false history colliding with the truth.
When it passes, she looks up at me with clear eyes.
"Theron," she says, and it's my name in her voice, the real voice, the one I haven't heard in three years. "We were going to court. Officially. After my mother's funeral."
"We were," I confirm, my throat tight.
"I was going to say yes. To everything. To you." She touches my face. "I loved you. I still—somewhere inside—I still do, don't I?"
"I hope so," I whisper. "Because I never stopped loving you."
She kisses me, and it's different from the desperate kiss in the garden. This one is full of recognition. Memory. Knowing.
When we break apart, I hand her the third vial—the deep blue one.
"Your truth," I say. "Your real name. Your real identity. This is the memory of who you are when everything else is stripped away: Princess Elara Ashenmere. True heir to the throne. Daughter of the murdered queen. The girl who was going to change the kingdom."
She stares at the vial for a long moment.
"If I drink this, I stop being Calista completely, don't I?"
"No. You become both. The princess you were and the survivor you've become. They're both you." I squeeze her hand. "But Elara? The curse Serath gave you—it's designed to activate during the wedding vows. Once you speak them, you'll lose control and attack the nearest authority figure. Which means—"
"Which means the Queen. I'll kill her in front of everyone." Elara closes her eyes. "And Serath becomes the hero who 'tried to stop' the cursed princess. She takes the throne."
"Unless we break the curse first."
"How? Vaskir is dead—"
"Vaskir is alive. Sera's attack was an illusion. My sister has been controlling him for months." I pull out my final piece of evidence: a folded document. "This is the curse contract. I stole it from Serath's office while you were in the garden. Blood-magic requires consent, remember? Which means somewhere, somehow, you agreed to be cursed."
Elara takes the document, reading quickly. Her face goes white.
"No," she breathes. "I didn't—I wouldn't—"
"What does it say?"
"It says I consented to a 'protective binding' to keep me safe after my mother's death. It's dated three years ago, signed by me, witnessed by—" Her voice breaks. "—witnessed by Serath and Vaskir. They tricked me. I thought I was protecting myself from the Queen's magic. Instead, I gave them permission to curse me."
"Can you revoke consent?"
"Not without the original caster. Which is Vaskir. And he's—"
A slow clap echoes from the balcony.
We both spin.
Vaskir stands there, very much alive, his black eyes gleaming. Behind him: Serath, smiling her poisonous smile.
"Excellent detective work," Serath says, stepping into the room. The silence ward shatters at her touch—she's more powerful than I thought. "You found the contract. You recovered the memory anchors. You figured out the plan. Unfortunately, none of that matters."
"We'll expose you," I say, positioning myself between them and Elara.
"To whom? The Queen?" Serath laughs. "She'll be dead in two hours. The guards? They follow whoever holds power. The nobles? They'll believe whatever story I tell them." She gestures to Vaskir. "Complete the curse. Make sure it's irreversible."
Vaskir raises his hands, black magic crackling.
Elara steps forward, holding up the contract. "I revoke consent. Officially. Completely. You can't curse someone who doesn't agree."
"Too late," Vaskir says. "The original curse has already integrated with your soul. Revoking consent now is like trying to unbreak a mirror. The damage is permanent."
"Then I'll live with it," Elara says fiercely. "But I won't be your weapon."
"You don't have a choice." Serath pulls out a fourth vial—this one black as midnight. "This is the override. If you drink it, the curse activates immediately. If you don't, I kill your sister. Right now. I have her in the room next door, and one word from me—"
"You're bluffing," I say.
"Am I?" Serath walks to the wall and knocks three times.
A door I didn't know existed swings open.
And Lyra—the real Lyra, I can tell by the family resemblance—is dragged in by two guards. She's bound, gagged, and her eyes are wild with terror when she sees Elara.
"Last chance," Serath says, holding out the black vial. "Drink this. Kill the Queen. Or watch your sister die."
Elara looks at me. At Lyra. At the vial.
"There has to be another way," she whispers.
"There isn't." I use my time-sight, looking ahead—
And I see it. Thirty seconds in the future. The moment that changes everything.
"Elara," I say urgently. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Then when I say 'now,' throw the blue vial—your truth—at Vaskir's face. As hard as you can."
"That won't—"
"Trust me."
Serath is getting impatient. "Ten seconds, Princess. Then I start cutting off your sister's fingers."
Elara tenses, ready to throw.
I count down in my head: three, two, one—
"NOW!"
Elara hurls the blue vial.
Vaskir raises his hand to block it—
But I've already moved. Using my three-second advantage, I was running before Elara threw. I slam into Vaskir from the side, and the vial shatters against his face instead of his shield.
Blue light explodes.
Memory magic—pure, undiluted truth—pours into Vaskir's eyes, nose, mouth. He screams, clawing at his face, as Elara's truth integrates with his mind.
And here's what I knew, what I gambled on: memory anchors don't just hold memories. They hold identity. And when you force someone else's identity into a blood-mage who's built his entire power on stealing and manipulating memories—
His power collapses.
Every curse he's ever cast, every memory he's ever stolen, every spell he's maintained—they all unravel at once.
Including Elara's curse.
I feel it happen: a massive release of magical energy that knocks everyone off their feet.
When the light fades, Vaskir is on the floor, unconscious and powerless.
Serath is backing toward the balcony, her face twisted with rage. "You—you ruined everything—"
"Guards!" I shout. "Arrest Lady Serath for treason, conspiracy, and attempted murder of the royal heir!"
Guards pour in—real ones this time, loyal to the crown, not to Serath.
She fights, but she's outnumbered. They drag her away, screaming threats.
I turn to Elara, who's collapsed on the floor, gasping.
"Is it gone?" she asks. "The curse?"
"Check," I say, helping her up.
She closes her eyes, searching her own mind. Then she smiles—truly smiles, for the first time in three years.
"It's gone. I can feel it. I'm free."
Behind her, Lyra has been released from her bonds. She runs to her sister, and they embrace, both crying.
I watch them, my heart full of relief and exhaustion and—
"Theron," Elara says, turning to me. "The wedding. It's in one hour. What do we do?"
"We have three options," I say. "One: cancel it and face the Queen's wrath. Two: go through with it as planned, but you're no longer cursed to kill anyone. Three—"
"Three?" she prompts.
I smile. "Three: we actually get married. For real this time. No curses, no conspiracies. Just you and me and a choice we make freely."
She stares at me. "Are you proposing? Again? After everything?"
"I am."
"That's insane."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true!" But she's smiling. "Ask me again in a month. When we're not running for our lives."
"Deal."
Lyra clears her throat. "Um, sorry to interrupt, but there's still one problem."
We both look at her.
"The Queen," she says. "She still thinks Elara is cursed. She's expecting a murder at the wedding. When it doesn't happen—"
"She'll know something went wrong," I finish. "And she'll strike first."
Elara's expression hardens. "Then let her. I'm done running. I'm done being her weapon. If she wants to face the real Princess Elara Ashenmere—" She straightens, and for the first time, I see the queen she's meant to be. "—then let her try."
Behind us, through the broken balcony doors, bells begin to toll.
One hour until the wedding.
One hour until everything changes.
"Let's go finish this," Elara says.
And hand in hand, we walk toward our wedding—and our war.