The palace never truly slept.
By night it whispered, and by dawn it watched.
When Aradia opened her eyes that morning, the air itself shimmered faintly — thin, brittle, and translucent, as though she were seeing through a sheet of glass. Every surface gleamed too bright. Every shadow seemed to move an instant too late.
She sat up, heartbeat echoing in her ribs like another person's rhythm.
Her reflection in the water basin blinked half a second out of sync.
"The veil's thinning," murmured Caspian from the grimoire resting beside her.
"It started last night," she said softly. "The curse is spreading through the palace."
"It's spreading through you."
She rose and crossed to the cracked mirror opposite her bed. Beneath the thin layer of frost, faint shapes moved — ghosts pacing, reflections folding over each other like waves.
For a long moment she simply watched them.
They were beautiful in their terror: faces pale, hair silver-white, eyes full of fire and regret. The ghosts of her coven — women who had once laughed beside her, sung spells under the moon, burned in the same pyre that had devoured her.
"Why do you linger?" she whispered. "What do you want from me?"
The glass fogged with breath not her own. Words etched themselves into the frost:
You.
The mirror cracked.
Caspian's voice turned sharp.
"She's coming."
Before Aradia could ask who, the candles guttered out. The cold deepened, air thickening like mist.
And then she appeared.
At first, just a shape — a woman made of light and shadow, walking through the frost as if it were water. Her gown shimmered like silver ash, her hair fell in molten streams, and her eyes glowed violet.
Aradia froze. She knew that face.
Her own.
Her past self.
The Witch of the Silver Veil stepped from the mirror, barefoot, untouched by the chill. The air bent around her like heat over flame.
"So," said the ghost softly. "This is what became of me."
Aradia's throat tightened. "You're—"
"You. Once. Before you burned. Before you begged to live again."
"I didn't beg."
The ghost smiled. "You did. You just don't remember."
Aradia took a slow step backward. Her own heartbeat felt strange — heavy, uneven, as though the ghost's presence had taken part of it. "Why show yourself now?"
"Because the veil between lives is breaking," the ghost said simply. "Every heartbeat you share with him tears another hole through time."
Lucien.
Of course it came back to him.
Aradia clenched her fists. "Then I'll stop it."
The ghost tilted her head, her tone turning almost pitying. "You can't. The curse no longer answers to you. You made it too well."
"I made it to punish him."
"Yes," the ghost murmured, stepping closer. "But curses don't stay loyal to intention. They feed on memory. And memory—" her hand lifted, fingers grazing Aradia's cheek "—is hungrier than love."
Aradia shivered under the touch. It felt cold and burning all at once.
"Then tell me what it wants."
"It wants what you wanted," said the ghost, eyes gleaming with sorrow. "To be remembered."
The mirrors all around them began to flicker, showing flashes of the pyre — flames, screams, the prince's horrified face as he ordered the execution to end too late.
The ghost turned toward them, her voice now layered with dozens of echoes — her coven's voices mingled with her own.
"The curse will not stop until he remembers every moment. Every scream. Every kiss. Every death."
Aradia's breath hitched. "And when he does?"
The ghost smiled faintly, a terrible, beautiful thing.
"Then the world burns again."
The fire in the mirrors brightened, silver-white and soundless. The ghost's gown rippled as though in wind, though the air was perfectly still.
Aradia stepped closer, defiance rising through her fear. "You said I made the curse. Then I can unmake it."
"You can't," said the ghost. "You're not whole. Half of you lives in him."
The words struck her like ice. "Half?"
The ghost nodded. "When the pyre claimed us, our soul broke — love and hate, life and death. One half rose as him, the other crawled back as you. That's why your hearts beat together."
Aradia's mind reeled. "No… he isn't me."
But part of her knew it was true. She remembered the prince's face, the way he'd hesitated before giving the order, the tear he'd shed when the fire rose. That hesitation — that mercy — was the fragment of her that had been lost.
She stumbled backward, shaking. "If he's half of me, then destroying him—"
"—destroys you," finished the ghost gently.
The silence after was unbearable.
Caspian's voice crackled from the grimoire slung at her belt, dry and sardonic.
"Charming. Two halves of one idiotic soul, bound by fire. How poetic."
"Be silent," Aradia hissed.
The ghost smiled at the interruption. "Ah, you still carry him. The warlock who betrayed our circle."
Aradia turned to her. "You knew?"
"I was you. Of course I knew. You bound him to your grimoire to punish him, and he's been whispering in your ear ever since."
Caspian's tone softened mockingly.
"And you're welcome."
The ghost ignored him. She reached out again, fingers brushing Aradia's arm. "You think you returned for revenge. But you came back because the curse called you. It wants completion — and it will use either of you to get it."
The mirrors around them trembled. Each surface now reflected not Aradia and her ghost, but scenes from the past — her trial before the High Inquisitor, the chains, the pyre, the crown prince's tear-streaked face as he whispered, Forgive me.
Aradia covered her ears, shaking her head. "Stop!"
But the ghost's voice followed, calm and unrelenting.
"He is remembering. The curse is working. And when his memory is whole, the flames return."
The largest mirror cracked. Silver fire burst through it, bathing the hall in blinding light.
The ghost's eyes glowed like coals. "You tied your life to his, Aradia. Every dream he has pulls you closer. Every breath he takes feeds the curse."
"Then I'll break it," Aradia shouted, the force of her voice shaking the glass.
The ghost smiled one last time, fading like smoke.
"Break it, and only one of you will live."
Then she was gone.
The mirrors went still. Only one remained unbroken — the one directly before her.
In it, she saw herself, pale and trembling. But behind her reflection stood Lucien, his expression tormented, hand pressed over his heart.
She reached out. "Lucien…"
Her hand touched the mirror.
Instantly, the bond ignited.
Heat roared through her veins, fire blooming in her chest. The mark over her heart flared silver-white. Her pulse stuttered — and she felt his heartbeat slam into hers like thunder.
Far above, in his chamber, Lucien fell to his knees, gasping.
He saw her — her face, her tears, her fire — in his mirror. His hand rose to meet hers, though they were worlds apart.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The air between them shimmered.
Aradia's voice was barely a breath. "The one you burned."
The connection snapped. The mirror shattered.
She fell to the floor, smoke curling from her fingertips.
Caspian's laughter slithered through the air, low and cold.
"Well done, my witch. You've just awakened the curse's heart."
Aradia pressed a trembling hand over her chest. Her heartbeat still matched his. "What happens now?"
"Now?" Caspian purred. "Now the emperor dreams of fire — and next time, he won't wake alone."
In the emperor's chambers, Lucien gasped awake, drenched in sweat.
The mirror across from his bed lay cracked and smoking. Silver fire still flickered faintly along its surface before fading into darkness.
He whispered the name that had burned his dreams for nights now — the name he didn't know how he remembered.
"Aradia."
And though she was far below, in the servants' quarters, she whispered the same name back into the night.
Their voices met in the silence between breaths — and the palace, listening, smiled.