The temple bells tolled at dawn. Their sound carried through the mist like a funeral procession, slow and hollow, echoing along the marbled halls of the Black Palace.
Lucien hadn't slept.
He sat before his hearth, the fire low and trembling, every flicker reflecting in his eyes. The scent of burnt wax hung heavy in the room. In the corners, shadows seemed too patient, as if they waited for him to speak first.
When the summons came — "The High Priest will see Your Majesty now" — Lucien rose without a word.
The Hall of Prayer was colder than the rest of the palace. The air there never warmed, not even in summer. White candles lined the long stair to the altar, and every one burned in reverse — thin curls of smoke flowing downward instead of rising.
At the far end stood High Priest Coren, a gaunt man with pale hands and eyes like candle soot. He bowed low.
"Your Majesty," Coren said, voice smooth as old silk. "You said your dreams return?"
Lucien nodded. "Every night. Fire. Screaming. Her eyes."
Coren lifted a trembling hand to the nearest candle. "The prophets wrote of such dreams. The Pyre Curse, they called it. The soul marked by flame cannot sleep without reliving it."
Lucien stared at the candle's downward smoke. "You think it's prophecy."
"I think it's memory."
Lucien's hands tightened behind his back. "She burned a century ago. The witch of the Silver Veil is gone."
The priest's lips curved faintly. "And yet you see her face."
Lucien didn't answer. The silence filled the room like water in a grave.
Coren took a step closer, lowering his voice. "There is something else the scriptures say. When the emperor dreams of fire, the witch walks again."
The words lodged deep in Lucien's chest. "Impossible," he said softly.
"Perhaps." Coren's eyes gleamed. "Or perhaps it's the empire's punishment. A wound unhealed."
While the emperor sought answers in holy places, Aradia was kneeling in the shadows of the same hall.
The antechamber's marble floor was cold beneath her knees as she scrubbed the steps, a bucket of ash-water by her side. Her hands moved with the rhythm of habit, but her ears were fixed on the chamber beyond.
She could hear them through the half-open doors — their voices muffled but clear enough:
"The Pyre Curse."
"The witch of the veil."
"When the emperor dreams, she wakes."
Every word pressed against her skin like heat.
Aradia's pulse quickened. She could almost feel the curse stirring, restless, as if pleased to hear its own name again. The air trembled faintly.
One of the candles beside her guttered out. The wax hissed, and blue smoke curled from the wick.
Caspian's voice whispered from the closed grimoire near her mop bucket.
"You're losing control."
She clenched her jaw. Not now.
"They're speaking your epitaph, Aradia. Doesn't it make you nostalgic?"
Her hands tightened around the rag. The water in the bucket rippled. "Be silent," she hissed.
But the grimoire chuckled softly, pages rustling like breath.
In the hall, she heard the priest's tone drop lower: "If the witch's spirit lingers, we must purge her remnants. There are still coven bloodlines in the lower wards."
Aradia froze.
They would burn them again.
Her vision blurred. The edges of her thoughts caught fire. The candles along the corridor flared — not gold but blue.
She gasped, snatching her hands back. "No—"
It was too late. The heat surged out of her like breath she couldn't hold in.
The corridor filled with cold flame.
It was beautiful and silent — the kind of fire that burned only memory, not flesh. The reflected light danced across the doors of the prayer hall.
Inside, Lucien turned at the sudden shimmer. "What was that?"
Coren looked up sharply. "Something stirs in your walls, Majesty. The curse watches."
Lucien moved toward the sound. Aradia stumbled back into shadow, clutching her chest, forcing the flames back into her veins. The blue light faded, but the scent of burned air lingered.
The door creaked open.
Lucien stepped out, eyes scanning the corridor. For a heartbeat, they passed directly over her.
Aradia held her breath.
Their gazes almost met — not quite, but close enough that she felt the tether between them hum in recognition. He frowned, as if he could feel her there without seeing her.
Then Coren's voice echoed behind him: "Majesty, the hall is sealed. There's nothing here."
Lucien hesitated, then turned back. The door closed.
Only then did Aradia exhale. The water in her bucket had gone black, tiny sparks rippling over its surface. She stared into it — and saw not her own reflection, but the faint outline of Lucien's face, looking lost in smoke.
"The Pyre Curse," she whispered. "You really don't know what you've woken, do you?"
By midday, the palace had swallowed its unease under silence. But whispers always survived.
Servants spoke of candles that burned blue, mirrors that fogged without breath, and footsteps that echoed where no one walked.
Head Servant Maera barked orders with twice her usual venom. "No gossip," she snapped. "The emperor's business is not for our tongues." Yet even she crossed herself before every mirror she passed.
Aradia kept her head down. The faint scorch marks near the prayer hall were already spreading rumor, and the scent of smoke clung to her skin no matter how much she scrubbed.
By dusk she returned to her narrow quarters, hands raw, mind restless. The room's single mirror — veiled like all the rest — pulsed faintly beneath its cloth.
Caspian's voice stirred again.
"You can't keep this up, little witch. The bond is waking faster. He feels you now."
She sat on the edge of her bed, exhausted. "I know."
"Then you should run. Before the priests realize you're not a ghost but a mistake."
"I won't run," she said quietly. "Not again."
Caspian sighed like turning pages.
"Then at least control the fire. You're leaving traces."
Aradia's gaze fell to her palms — faint silver lines glowing under the skin. "I can't," she whispered. "It's remembering for me."
She rose and crossed to the mirror, pulling the veil aside. Her reflection stared back — pale, haunted, half-lit by candlelight.
But something shifted behind her image.
A figure stood in the glass — Lucien — though he was far away, in his own chamber. He was alone, leaning over his desk, his hand pressed to his chest. He whispered something she couldn't hear.
Then, softly, the mirror itself answered:
"Aradia."
The sound made her knees go weak. The glass rippled, the surface turning to liquid light. She reached toward it, trembling.
Her fingertips brushed the surface — and warmth bloomed between them. The tether flared to life, bridging the gulf of a century.
Across the palace, Lucien stiffened, his quill falling from his hand. The fire in his hearth burned blue.
"Who's there?" he whispered into the air.
Aradia's voice came through faint and distant, barely a breath. "The one you burned."
Lucien turned toward his mirror. His reflection did not follow. Instead, a woman's face looked back — hers, for the briefest instant before the glass shattered.
He stumbled backward, staring at the shards. "No," he whispered. "It's impossible."
In her room, Aradia fell to her knees, the mirror veiled once more.
The curse had spoken.
Caspian's voice trembled for the first time.
"You've crossed the boundary. He knows now."
Aradia pressed a hand to her heart, where the sigil burned hotter than ever. "Then let him remember."
The palace moaned around her, the walls creaking like an old wound reopened. Far above, the temple bells tolled again — slow, deliberate, mourning something not yet dead.
And in every mirror, a faint blue flame flickered once and went out.
By midday, the palace had swallowed its unease under silence. But whispers always survived.
Servants spoke of candles that burned blue, mirrors that fogged without breath, and footsteps that echoed where no one walked.
Head Servant Maera barked orders with twice her usual venom. "No gossip," she snapped. "The emperor's business is not for our tongues." Yet even she crossed herself before every mirror she passed.
Aradia kept her head down. The faint scorch marks near the prayer hall were already spreading rumor, and the scent of smoke clung to her skin no matter how much she scrubbed.
By dusk she returned to her narrow quarters, hands raw, mind restless. The room's single mirror — veiled like all the rest — pulsed faintly beneath its cloth.
Caspian's voice stirred again.
"You can't keep this up, little witch. The bond is waking faster. He feels you now."
She sat on the edge of her bed, exhausted. "I know."
"Then you should run. Before the priests realize you're not a ghost but a mistake."
"I won't run," she said quietly. "Not again."
Caspian sighed like turning pages.
"Then at least control the fire. You're leaving traces."
Aradia's gaze fell to her palms — faint silver lines glowing under the skin. "I can't," she whispered. "It's remembering for me."
She rose and crossed to the mirror, pulling the veil aside. Her reflection stared back — pale, haunted, half-lit by candlelight.
But something shifted behind her image.
A figure stood in the glass — Lucien — though he was far away, in his own chamber. He was alone, leaning over his desk, his hand pressed to his chest. He whispered something she couldn't hear.
Then, softly, the mirror itself answered:
"Aradia."
The sound made her knees go weak. The glass rippled, the surface turning to liquid light. She reached toward it, trembling.
Her fingertips brushed the surface — and warmth bloomed between them. The tether flared to life, bridging the gulf of a century.
Across the palace, Lucien stiffened, his quill falling from his hand. The fire in his hearth burned blue.
"Who's there?" he whispered into the air.
Aradia's voice came through faint and distant, barely a breath. "The one you burned."
Lucien turned toward his mirror. His reflection did not follow. Instead, a woman's face looked back — hers, for the briefest instant before the glass shattered.
He stumbled backward, staring at the shards. "No," he whispered. "It's impossible."
In her room, Aradia fell to her knees, the mirror veiled once more.
The curse had spoken.
Caspian's voice trembled for the first time.
"You've crossed the boundary. He knows now."
Aradia pressed a hand to her heart, where the sigil burned hotter than ever. "Then let him remember."
The palace moaned around her, the walls creaking like an old wound reopened. Far above, the temple bells tolled again — slow, deliberate, mourning something not yet dead.
And in every mirror, a faint blue flame flickered once and went out.