Elira lit the last candle and stepped back, the scent of melting tallow sharp in the air. The path before her had been cleared—old vines slashed away, stone stairs swept clean, and the rusted iron gate pried open.
She was standing at the entrance to the Hall of Judgment—a place not even the manor dared whisper about.
The sword in the statue's chest outside had been a warning.
But warnings were only useful to those who intended to turn back.
And Elira had passed that threshold long ago.
The descent was steep.
She held her skirt in one hand, the other brushing the stone walls. Her candle flickered wildly, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts of her former selves.
Halfway down, the air changed.
No longer cold. No longer still.
It breathed.
And it remembered.
The final step ended in silence.
Elira emerged into a vast underground chamber. The ceiling stretched so high it vanished into black. Along the walls, ancient tapestries hung, faded with time but still pulsing faintly with enchanted thread.
At the center was a pedestal.
And on it, a mirror.
But not just any mirror.
This one had no reflection.
She approached slowly. Her footsteps echoed—yet, oddly, not in rhythm. It was like another pair of steps walked just behind hers, always half a beat off.
She reached the pedestal and stared into the mirror.
Nothing.
Not her face. Not the chamber.
Only a slow swirl of black.
Then a whisper.
"Come to finish what you abandoned."
The voice was female.
Ancient.
And furious.
Elira clenched her fists. "Who are you?"
The swirl parted. For a heartbeat, she saw a face.
Her own.
But older. Wiser. And burning with something terrible.
"I am who you would have become… if you hadn't chosen love."
Elira stumbled back, heart hammering.
"You walked away from your power to save a boy. Over and over. Do you remember what it cost?"
The mirror flashed.
Visions struck her like lightning:
— A village razed by fire.
— A throne crumbling beneath her feet.
— Lucien bleeding beneath her hand, whispering her name with his last breath.
She screamed.
And the chamber went still.
On the far side of the room, a figure stepped from the shadows.
A woman in a torn black gown.
Eyes blindfolded.
And yet, they saw everything.
"You carry the curse not of death—but of memory. Each life you flee it, it grows stronger. Until this one."
Elira couldn't move. Her limbs were stone.
"Because this time," the figure said, "you dared love without forgetting. And that means you're finally ready to pay the price."
The figure raised a hand.
From behind the pedestal, a wall split open—revealing a second door.
But it wasn't stone.
It was bone.
Etched with names.
All her names.
Lioren. Seraphina. Elira.
Each crossed out.
Except the last.
And beneath it: one space still blank.
The woman whispered:
"This door leads to the binding chamber. Enter it… and become whole. Or turn back—and begin again."
Elira stared.
No one was forcing her.
No curse demanded it.
Only choice.
She took a breath.
And stepped forward.
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🔥 Next: The Binding Chamber awaits—and with it, the final trial of her bloodline. But not all echoes wish to be healed… some wish to consume.
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