Dawn spilled into Everfell through the tall arched windows like diluted gold, sliding across stone and silence. The east wing had always been too quiet, but this morning the hush carried a pulse. The air itself seemed to listen.
Seraphina crossed the corridor barefoot. Each step pressed a faint print of warmth into the marble before fading again. When she exhaled, the breath came out as a shimmer, as if the mansion remembered fire.
Below her room, maids were whispering."She spoke to shadows again last night.""They say her eyes glowed blue.""Don't let her touch you—curse might spread."
Seraphina smiled to herself. Fear had always been easier to wear than pity.
She reached the mirror at the end of the hallway. Its frame was carved from black oak and vines of silver that caught the morning light. Her reflection stared back—calm, composed. Then the image rippled. The mirrored Seraphina tilted her head a heartbeat before she did.
A small tremor rolled through her chest."Not again."
The reflection's lips moved without sound. Something like smoke unfurled inside the glass, twisting into letters she could almost read before it vanished.
She stepped closer. "What are you trying to show me?"
The mirror went still. Only her own eyes stared back—bright, uncertain, a little too alive.
The door hinges groaned.Lady Miren entered, wrapped in gray shawls, the weight of years folded neatly into her posture. "You should not wander before the priests arrive," she said. "They're not kind to things they don't understand."
"Neither are nobles," Seraphina replied.
Miren gave her a long look. "Your father agreed to their cleansing ritual. Best not give them reason to look harder."
"So they'll bless my walls and call it mercy?" Seraphina touched the window frame; frost bloomed where her fingers lingered. "Everfell does not need their blessings. It needs truth."
The older woman's gaze softened, almost motherly. "Truth rarely keeps one alive, my lady."
When Miren left, her footsteps echoed like the ticking of a clock winding down. Seraphina listened until they faded, then turned back to her desk.
A quill lay across a half-open journal. Ink had dried mid-stroke during the night, but the blot shimmered faintly blue. She brushed a fingertip through it; the liquid rose from the page in thin threads, hovering between air and thought. Words formed—looped, ancient, familiar.
The Saint's language.
Her language.
She whispered the first phrase aloud. The ink pulsed once and shaped itself into new symbols—runes she didn't know. The letters glowed, then branded themselves onto the wood. The scent of burnt cedar filled the room.
Seraphina jerked back. The mark on the desk was the same sigil she had seen on Veylor's vial: three intersecting lines forming a flame. It throbbed faintly, alive.
The knock that followed almost made her drop the quill.
A young priest stood in the doorway, robes white, face earnest in that irritatingly pure way. Two guards waited behind him.
"Lady Dorne," he said, bowing. "I'm here to begin the sanctification of your chambers."
"Sanctification?" She folded her hands. "Do you fear ghosts or gossip?"
He smiled politely. "The Duke requested we ensure no unholy residue lingers from… previous disturbances."
His eyes skimmed the room—walls, mirror, desk—and lingered a fraction too long on the faint smoke curling above the branded sigil.
Seraphina stepped between him and the desk. "You'll find Everfell obedient to the Crown's faith, Father."
The priest hesitated. "Of course, my lady. Still, may I recite a short benediction?"
She inclined her head. "By all means."
He murmured the prayer, low and rhythmic. The air grew heavy. Each word brushed against her skin like cold feathers, and the mark beneath her glove burned in reply.
When the prayer ended, he looked faintly uneasy. "It is done."
"Then may peace follow you," she said, voice smooth.
He bowed again and retreated, the guards with him. The moment the door closed, Seraphina exhaled. Blue light flickered once under her glove and died.
She crossed to the mirror again. For a long moment she only watched her reflection breathe. Then, almost absent-mindedly, she spoke: "You warned me once that faith could burn as bright as hate. Which one was I?"
The reflection did not answer, but somewhere deep inside the glass, faint blue veins of light spread outward—like cracks forming in ice.
-
That night, Everfell held its breath.
Miren's warning proved true: torches lined the courtyard; the priests walked in slow procession, chanting over bowls of salt and smoke. From her window Seraphina watched them trace sigils across doorways, the same pattern she had seen scorched into her desk.
When the final chant ended, one priest glanced up at her window as if he knew she was watching. His eyes glowed faintly blue for just a second—too quick to be real.
Seraphina stepped back into the shadows, heart racing. "Veylor," she whispered. "What have you done?"
The wind answered through the halls, carrying a sound she almost recognized—soft, distant, like a bell tolling underwater.