Sylvera's eyes fluttered open to the soft flicker of candlelight dancing across high walls, the gentle warmth of it brushing her skin like a lullaby. For a brief, disorienting moment, her heart clenched—she thought she was back in the castle, in that dreadful place where the walls breathed and the shadows watched.
But then she noticed the sunlight, real sunlight, streaming through sheer gossamer curtains that moved gently in the breeze. It painted the room in hues of gold and cream, a soft palette that felt too pure, too serene to belong to Lorian's twisted domain. She blinked slowly, her mind still thick with fog, and pushed herself upright too quickly.
The world tilted—her head spun, a sharp pain lancing behind her eyes—and she had to brace herself on the bed to keep from falling back. *Where am I?* The bed beneath her was soft and inviting, layered in silks finer than any she'd ever touched, the fabrics cool against her skin. The scent in the air was strange but pleasant—lavender and something older, older than the room itself, like aged parchment and sunlight-warmed wood.
No damp stone. No blood. No rot. Just clean air and distant birdsong. She glanced around, taking in the tall bookshelves, the carved wooden furniture, the crackling hearth tucked into one corner. It didn't feel like a prison—but it didn't feel like freedom either. Her eyes settled on the door across the room. It was thick and wooden, with iron fittings.
She pushed herself from the bed, legs trembling beneath her, and crossed the floor with cautious steps. She tried the handle. It didn't budge. Locked. The realization sank in like ice. She wasn't in the castle anymore is what she thought—but she wasn't free either. Was this a new cage? wrapped in sunlight and silk, and she had no idea who had placed her in it… or why.
At the far corner of the room stood an ornate bookshelf, tall and looming, its polished wood carved with delicate vines and symbols Sylvera didn't recognize. The shelves bowed slightly under the weight of ancient tomes, their leather spines cracked with age, some etched with gold, others stained with something darker.
Drawn by a mix of curiosity and dread, Sylvera stepped toward it, her bare feet silent on the warm wooden floor. She reached out, fingertips grazing the spines, reading the titles one by one. *"The Art of Soul-Weaving"*—her fingers paused there, a chill creeping up her arm. She moved on. *"Blood Rites of the Forgotten"*—her stomach tightened.
These weren't the types of books one left lying around for light reading. Each title whispered danger, power, and something far worse. *"On the Preservation of Flesh"*—that one made her flinch, images she didn't want to imagine flashing behind her eyes.
These weren't simply magical texts; they were forbidden, the kind of knowledge whispered about in fearful tones, even among witches. Dark, ancient magic. The kind used not to heal, but to control, to twist, to bind. She should have turned away, should have backed out of the room and demanded answers—but something tugged at her, a strange instinct.
Her gaze dropped lower, scanning the edge where the shelf met the wall. That's when she noticed it: a gap. Thin, almost imperceptible, like a crack where something had been forced but not fully returned. Frowning, she stepped closer, squinting in the candlelight.
Her hand hovered near the wood, and as her palm brushed against it, she felt it—a pulse. Gentle, faint, but unmistakable. Magic.
Old and hidden. The wood was warm beneath her skin, humming softly, not unlike a heartbeat muffled through layers of earth. Hidden. Concealed. Watching. Without thinking, Sylvera pressed harder. There was a soft click, then a low groan of ancient hinges.
The bookshelf shifted, not backward or forward, but inward, swinging silently into the wall like a door. Dust floated into the air, glittering faintly in the light. The air that seeped out from the hidden passage was colder, drier, and carried the scent of stone and secrets long buried. Heart pounding, she stared into the darkness revealed behind the shelf.
The corridor was narrow, barely wide enough for one person, its walls made of rough stone veined with flickering traces of old enchantments. The silence beyond the hidden door felt heavier, pressing against her skin, as if something inside had been waiting, still and patient.
She hesitated at the threshold, her mind spinning. Why was this here? Who had hidden it? Lorian? Or someone else entirely? Was this a way out… or another trap? But even as fear curled in her chest, her curiosity burned hotter.
Whoever had locked her in this room hadn't hidden this well enough. And if it was meant to be found, it was only a matter of when. She glanced back at the room—the sunlight still filtering through the curtains, the warm bed, the illusion of safety—and then back into the dark, narrow passage.
She stepped forward, one foot past the threshold, her fingers trailing along the cool stone wall as the bookshelf-door swung shut behind her without a sound. Whatever lay ahead, it had been hidden for a reason. And Sylvera was going to find out why.
The passage opened into a chamber so vast it stole the breath from Sylvera's lungs. A circular library stretched out before her, its shelves spiraling high toward a domed ceiling that shimmered like the night sky. Constellations moved across it—slowly and deliberately—stars glowing faintly, as though alive.
The air was cooler here, quieter, as if the room itself held its breath. There were no windows, no breeze, no sound except the low hum of enchantment. Books lined the walls in endless rows, some glowing faintly with residual magic, others bound in materials she dared not name. Yet it wasn't the grandeur of the library or the impossible ceiling that froze her in place—it was what stood in the very center of the room.
An obsidian table, massive and gleaming like still water, dominated the heart of the library. Atop it lay a glass coffin, perfectly clear and etched with runes that pulsed with silver light. Inside the coffin rested a woman dressed in white. Her hair spilled over the velvet lining like a waterfall of snow, and her hands were folded delicately over her chest. Her skin was pale, almost luminescent, and for a moment Sylvera thought she was simply sleeping.
But it was the woman's face that made her heart stop.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
Sylvera took an unsteady step forward, her throat tightening as she looked down into the coffin. The woman's features mirrored her own—subtly, but undeniably. The curve of the cheekbones, the shape of the mouth, the tilt of the chin. It was like looking at a ghost. A version of herself preserved in death.
Chills danced up her spine.
She tore her gaze away and turned to the walls, hoping for answers—but found only more questions. Dozens of portraits lined the curved stone, framed in dark wood and silver. Each depicted the same woman in different eras—sometimes dressed in ancient finery, sometimes in plain robes, other times in armor or cloaks of velvet and fur. Hairstyles changed. Ages varied. But the face never did. The same face as the one in the coffin. The same face as Sylvera's.
Her breath came shallow now, panic lapping at the edges of her mind. What was this place? What was she?
Then—footsteps.
Soft but certain, echoing off the high stone.
Sylvera turned, heart hammering, just as Lorian emerged from the shadows between two tall bookshelves. His coat was gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his arms were stained with something dark—inky black and rust-red, smeared up to his forearms like he'd been elbow-deep in something unspeakable.
He didn't look surprised.
If anything, he looked… calm. Satisfied. The corners of his mouth curled slightly, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Only something ancient. Knowing.
"Ah," he said softly, voice like silk wrapping around steel. "You found my wife."
"Your… wife?" she whispered, staring at him. "What is this? Who *is* she?"
Lorian's gaze drifted to the coffin, his expression momentarily distant, as though recalling a memory from long ago. "She was the first...
The words slithered through the air like poison, thick and slow, sinking deep into Sylvera's skin. She stumbled backward, her breath catching, spine colliding with the cold edge of the obsidian table. The impact rattled her bones, but it was the presence beside her that chilled her more—the glass coffin gleaming softly in the dim candlelight.
Her voice came out broken, strangled by disbelief and rising panic. "Your what?" she asked, the words barely leaving her lips. Lorian didn't flinch.
He didn't blink. He simply stood there, unmoving, his shadow long in the candlelight. The blood on his hands had dried into his skin, dark and flaking, crusted under his nails. His once regal appearance—polished, calm, untouchable—was gone.
His sleeves were torn, the white of his shirt stained and wrinkled, his usually perfect hair a mess of disarray falling across glowing violet eyes. Something savage stirred beneath the surface of his calm face.
"My first and only love," he said softly, almost reverently. His voice carried an edge of madness, too even, too quiet. "The reason for all of this." His arm lifted slowly as he gestured to the room—the shelves packed with forbidden knowledge, the grim portraits staring with unblinking eyes, the journals and books and symbols etched into the stone. Everywhere, her face. Painted, preserved, cataloged.
Different versions of her—different times, different styles, the same soul. The weight of it sank into her like a stone. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, trying to force strength into her voice, but it cracked again. "What did you do?" Lorian's eyes never left her. "She died,"
No..no wait.
Lorian's expression darkened, his eyes losing their eerie glow for a flickering second, revealing something deeper—older.
"She was killed," he said at last, voice hoarse, brittle. "Not by war or magic, but by the world. By time. By people who didn't understand her, who feared what they couldn't control." He stared past Sylvera, as if seeing through her.
"And I waited. I waited for the world to bring her back to me. But it didn't. It just… moved on." He turned away slightly, one hand tightening into a fist at his side. "Sometimes, when I see a woman who looks like her—like you—I feel sick. Disgusted. As if nature itself is mocking me with cheap reflections. Hollow copies. A joke written in flesh."
He looked at her again, his gaze unblinking, unreadable. "And other times, I see her in everyone. In every smile, every whisper of wind through the trees. I follow those traces like a madman, hoping she's real again. Whole again."
He stepped closer, slowly, as if the weight of his own confession exhausted him. "You... you're the clearest echo I've ever found. The closest. But I don't know what that means yet." His eyes roamed her face—not with affection, but scrutiny, like he was trying to decipher a code in the curve of her jaw, the set of her eyes.
"So what are you?" he whispered, almost to himself. "Another cruel trick? A perfect mockery? Or…" He stopped. The words withered in his mouth
. For a long heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, without finishing the thought, Lorian turned from her. No rage. No farewell. Just silence. His boots echoed faintly across the stone floor as he walked away, leaving Sylvera alone in the candlelit chamber—her reflection lying still in glass beside her.