Morning came pale and cold.
The light that crept through the servant windows was thin, colorless — as if the sun itself feared to enter the Black Palace.
Aradia woke with her chest on fire.
The mark above her heart pulsed violently beneath the bandages, heat spreading through her ribs. She bit her lip to muffle the cry rising in her throat. For a moment, she felt two heartbeats inside her body — one hers, the other not.
When the pain subsided, she rolled onto her side and stared at the cracked ceiling. Her fingers twitched, glowing faintly in the gloom.
Caspian's voice murmured from her grimoire, which lay hidden under her pillow.
"Still alive, I see."
She exhaled shakily. "Barely."
"That pulse isn't yours, you know. You're tied to him now."
Aradia pushed herself up and reached for the book. The leather was charred black, its edges rough as burned wood. When she opened it, the pages breathed — literally, expanding and contracting as if alive.
"Then I'll untie us," she said.
"You could," Caspian replied. "If you had half the power you once did."
The taunt stung.
Aradia's magic — once strong enough to make stars tremble — now lay buried under layers of warding. She could feel it, coiled and resentful, deep in her bones. Her rebirth had caged it inside flesh too weak to hold it.
She stared at her hands. "Then I'll break the cage."
"That'll hurt."
"So did dying."
She drew a small knife from beneath her cot and pricked her finger. One drop of blood welled up — glowing faintly silver before falling onto the page.
The grimoire shuddered.
Caspian's voice grew sharp.
"Careful—"
Too late. The blood spread across the parchment, forming symbols she hadn't written in a century. Ancient, curved runes of her coven. The letters burned, searing their shapes into the page.
A faint hum filled the room. The air rippled like heat over stone.
Aradia pressed her palm flat against the book. "Answer me."
The floor vibrated. A spark leapt from the pages to her hand, racing up her arm in silver veins. Her veins lit up like molten glass.
Then came the voice.
Faint, far, feminine — her own, but not.
"We are ashes. We remember the fire."
She gasped and pulled her hand away. The light vanished instantly. Her breath came ragged, her heart pounding in her ears.
"What—what was that?"
"Your sisters," Caspian said, sounding almost amused. "The coven you burned with. Seems they've been waiting."
"Waiting for me?"
"Or for revenge. Hard to tell with ghosts."
She glared at the book. "Can you still teach me?"
"Teach, yes. Save you from yourself, no."
She ignored the jab and gathered what was left of her focus. The air still quivered around her, tinged faintly with silver light. The curse wanted to breathe again.
She pressed her bleeding finger to the wall mirror beside her bed. "Speculum memoriam," she whispered. "Show me what the world forgot."
The mirror fogged instantly. The glass rippled. Then, faintly, a shape began to form behind the mist — not her reflection, but a figure burning in silver flame.
Her old self.
The witch of the Silver Veil stood within the mirror, smiling serenely as she burned. The fire around her was soundless, beautiful, endless.
"Stop it," Aradia whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "I remember enough."
The image didn't fade. It leaned forward instead, lips forming words that reached her bones:
"We died for love. Don't let love kill us again."
The mirror shattered.
Aradia stumbled back, covering her face as shards scattered across the floor.
Her grimoire snapped shut on its own. Caspian's voice, now hard and urgent, cut through the silence.
"You opened the wrong door, witch. You've woken the Hall."
The bells began to toll.
Far away, in the heart of the palace, their low thunder rolled through the halls like a warning.
Every mirror in the servants' wing trembled.
Aradia's heart skipped once, then twice — matching the distant echo of another heartbeat she didn't own.
"Lucien," she whispered.
She could feel him again. Awake. Afraid. And burning.
The disturbance spread through the palace like a whispering plague.
Candles dimmed, shadows moved where no one stood. Servants claimed to hear voices speaking through the walls, murmuring names they didn't know.
By midday, rumors flew faster than smoke — the curse of the Pyre Witch had returned.
And in her tiny room, Aradia sat cross-legged amid the broken mirror shards, trembling from exhaustion.
Every piece of glass shimmered faintly, whispering in tiny, breathless voices.
"Sister, sister, we saw him dream."
"The prince burns still."
"Do you remember his eyes?"
She clenched her fists. "Enough!"
The voices fell silent, but the shards continued to glow. The silver light seeped through the cracks in the floor, like liquid moonlight crawling toward the corridor.
She grabbed her cloak and hid the grimoire beneath it. "If the palace wants to talk, I'll listen," she muttered.
The corridors were nearly empty when she emerged. The air carried the scent of old incense and dust. Every mirror was still covered, yet faint glows pulsed beneath the cloths, matching her heartbeat.
She followed the light.
It led her toward the east wing, where the Mirror Hall waited — sealed and forbidden.
Caspian's voice followed her, low and sly.
"You're walking into a graveyard, witch."
"I built the grave," she answered.
"Yes, and you buried yourself in it."
She ignored him. The hum grew louder with each step. When she reached the great doors of the hall, she pressed her palm against them. The sigil beneath her bandage flared hot, bright enough to illuminate the carvings in the wood — symbols of her own coven, defaced and burned over by priests decades ago.
She pushed the doors open.
The hall beyond was dark, silent, enormous. Dozens of mirrors lined the walls, all veiled. The veils swayed as if breathing.
The instant she crossed the threshold, the temperature plummeted. Frost formed across the marble floor.
And then, softly, a voice rose from nowhere — her voice, doubled and distorted.
"You shouldn't have come."
She froze. "Who's there?"
The black silk nearest her stirred. Beneath it, faint light shimmered.
Another whisper, closer this time.
"We remember burning."
She pulled the veil aside.
Her reflection was gone. In its place, a ghostly image stood — a woman with silver hair, her eyes wide and empty. Flames licked her gown but did not consume it.
"Do you remember how it felt?" the ghost asked.
Aradia's throat went dry. "Yes."
"Then why do you still live?"
"Because I wasn't done," she said.
The ghost tilted its head. "Neither were we."
All along the walls, the other mirrors stirred. Dozens of shapes pressed against the glass, faces pale and hollow.
"You called to us."
"We answered."
"The curse sleeps no more."
Aradia took a step back. Her pulse thundered.
Caspian's voice rose sharply, like a blade cutting through smoke.
"Get out of there! They'll drain you if you linger!"
But Aradia couldn't move. The ghosts' whispers weren't frightening — they were familiar, full of longing and sorrow.
Her coven. The sisters who'd died screaming beside her on the pyre.
"Why do you haunt this place?" she asked.
"Because you told us to wait."
Her breath caught. "I—what?"
"You said, When I return, we rise together."
The words pierced her like a knife of memory. She had said them. Right before the flames took her.
The mirrors brightened, flooding the hall with cold silver fire.
"Rise with us," the voices said. "Let the empire remember our names."
The air trembled. The fire spread across the veils, devouring them in silence.
Aradia raised her hands, whispering a counterspell, but her power slipped. The energy clawed at her veins, demanding to be used, demanding to burn.
She gave in.
Silver light erupted from her palms, slamming into the nearest mirror. It shattered, shards spiraling through the air like snow.
The light died instantly. Silence crashed down.
When her vision cleared, the hall was still again — the mirrors dark, the ghosts gone.
Only one mirror remained whole.
Her reflection stared back — eyes glowing faint violet, skin pale as frost. She looked both alive and dead.
Caspian's voice came softly, low with amusement and warning.
"Congratulations, my dear witch. You've just announced yourself to every spirit in the palace."
Aradia's reflection smiled faintly — not in mockery, but in grim determination.
"Then let them come."
Far above, in the emperor's bedchamber, Lucien woke gasping for air. The smell of smoke filled his lungs though no fire burned.
He sat upright, heart pounding, eyes wide in the dark. For one wild moment, he swore he saw her — standing at the foot of his bed, silver flame licking her hair.
But when he blinked, she was gone.
The mirror beside him cracked quietly down the middle.