The Northern Castle stood atop a jagged, forsaken peak, forever veiled in storm and snow.
Some whispered that sunlight had never graced its towers.
Others murmured that the day its ice melts would mark the end of the witch who dwelled within.
No one knew the truth. For no soul who dared trespass ever returned.
They called it The Dead Land.
The moon hung, spectral and still, above the castle's weatherworn spires, draping its silver light over snow-laden stones and moss-covered battlements. Not a single window glowed with fire. The fortress slumbered in utter darkness, disturbed only by the shrieking wind dragging skeletal branches across frostbitten walls.
Then—light.
A flash flared from the castle's highest window. In an instant, flames burst alive within the tower, licking its walls with an eerie glow.
The mistress had returned.
Selena emerged from the last embers of flame, which vanished the moment she arrived, only to collapse onto the freezing stone floor. One hand trembling against the ground, the other clutching her chest where the mark still burned. Her breath came in ragged gasps, white against the night air.
Her vision swirled.
The prince's face—identical to Henry's—had unearthed every buried memory, every piece of a heart she had long ago entombed. Her body and spirit, dulled by time, had forgotten how to ache. Now that it surged back with full force, it suffocated her.
Immortal. Powerful. A witch bound to eternity.
Yet she still had a heart.
And it now pulsed, ragged and raw, beneath the searing brand that tied her to the royal bloodline.
For centuries, Selena had guarded that bloodline with the ruins of her own soul. She had seen faces that bore fleeting echoes of Henry, had gazed into eyes that seemed to know her from lives long past.
But none—not one—had ever scorched her soul like he once did.
And now, someone else, wearing his face—so precise it felt like illusion—stood where he once breathed. She feared she had conjured him from longing alone. That grief had become her artist, and memory her cruel muse.
Selena inhaled slowly, as though her body had forgotten the rhythm of breathing.
Time passed. Her breath finally steadied. She rose, unsteady, and stepped toward the tall mirror mounted on the wall.
What she saw there was not a woman, but a ghost. Pale as snow, hollow as time, her reflection shimmered like a spirit trapped between centuries.
A single droplet traced the hollow of her cheek. Under moonlight, it glittered, then shattered against the stone below.
Selena reached to touch it. The sensation was foreign, yet intimately known.
A tear?
A voice answered her unspoken thought—deep, sharp, and so low it echoed like thunder in the bones.
"You're crying?"
Selena froze, the sound brushing against her like a hand dredging her from oblivion.
From within the mirror, a pair of burning crimson eyes flared to life. A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in flame, his body coiled in smoke and menace. He approached slowly, gaze half-mocking, half-threatening.
"My poor Selena," he murmured, "Why do you weep?"
A searing finger traced the damp trail on her cheek. It sizzled, vanishing into steam before it could linger.
Selena blinked away the last of her storm, collecting the fragments of her weakness and pressing them deep beneath a cloak of cold resolve. Her voice, when it came, was cold iron wrapped in dusk. She slapped his hand away, turning sharply from the flickering form before her.
"It's none of your concern, Asmoday."
The name cut through the gloom like a blade.
But he didn't flinch. Instead, he chuckled—raising the very hand she'd struck to his lips, savoring the ghost of her warmth.
"Centuries we've spent together, and yet you still think you can hide things from me?"
His voice was graveled silk, thick with something ancient, filled with the shrieking of tormented souls buried deep in the bowels of the abyss. In a flicker of red, he appeared before her, barring her path.
She did not slow. Selena walked through his flame-wrapped form as if he were nothing but smoke. And she continued down the endless corridor without so much as a glance back.
His smile faded. His eyes narrowed.
Trailing behind her like a ghost bound to grief, he pressed again.
"Did you see him again? Your 'Henry'? At the ceremony?"
His voice was almost gentle. Almost. But she heard the edge beneath it—mocking, knowing.
He had seen her like this before. Too many times. Each time sparked by a face that was almost Henry—but never truly him. Always the same. Always incomplete.
"Tell me, Selena. You know I'm the only one who ever listens to you."
"We're not that close."
Her reply was frigid. Detached. She wore her indifference like armor—flawless, impenetrable. She would not let Asmoday learn of the new heir, or the storm he'd stirred inside her.
He drew closer, lowering his voice into a venomous murmur.
"He's abandoned you for centuries, and you still believe he'll crawl back from the grave?"
His words slithered against her skin. He leaned in, hissed near her ear.
"Only I have stayed. Only I have witnessed your pain."
The sound of his name twisted something deep in her. Selena's eyes glinted. With a flick of her hand, fire snapped forth, pinning Asmoday to the wall in a blaze of fury.
Her voice trembled not with fear, but restraint.
"Don't act like you know me. We're different, demon."
Asmoday only smirked. Flames crackled. He melted the spell with ease. He returned to her side, lifting her chin gently with fingers like coals.
"And yet, you seemed to forget who gave you that power. Who made you immortal."
This time, she didn't move. As if some invisible weight bore down upon her, silencing her resistance. Her eyes dulled to ash.
"So what?"
Two words—quiet, but enough to still even the flame in his eyes.
So what?
The phrase lingered in the air, cutting deeper than any incantation. For a heartbeat, something faltered behind Asmoday's gaze. Something old. Something buried.
So what?
Their pact had been forged in blood and flame—equal exchange, no chains. He could not revoke it. He could not bend her to him.
His hand slipped from her face. It fell, useless, to his side. His voice, when it came, was a hoarse and unearthly laugh, echoing like chains dragged across stone.
"My wretched Selena… How pitiful you are. Your soul is bound to a demon. Forever. Nothing can change that."
He began to retreat, step by slow step, a bitter smile playing on his lips.
"Keep suffering. Let your soul rot in longing. And when it's withered to dust—then I'll come for you. And take you back with me… to Hell."
He vanished into the shadows, his laughter echoing down the stone corridors, merging with the castle's silence like mold into damp walls.
Selena stood alone, the hallway stretching endlessly ahead.
Darkness slithered toward her again—rising to swallow her whole.
Was it here to warm her?
Or to drown her?
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the weight.
Rot.
Perhaps it wouldn't be long now.
Her body. Her soul. Both unraveling in the quiet decay of longing.
Perhaps…
She could no longer wait.
And perhaps, she no longer wished to.
And when Selena opened her eyes again, a faint, self-mocking smile ghosted across her lips—vanishing as quickly as falling snow.
She turned and walked forward.
The darkness along the hallway stretched to meet her, embracing her in silence.
***