The castle felt colder with Lucien gone.
Eira paced her chambers restlessly, her thoughts unraveling like threads she couldn't grasp. The moonlight filtering through the tall arched window painted silver lines across the black stone floor, and the ever-present hum of magic in the air pressed on her skin like static.
"He didn't even tell me how long he'd be gone," she muttered aloud.
Mira, ever patient, stood near the fireplace. "He never does. When the king rides to war, he doesn't make promises he might not be able to keep."
"That's comforting," Eira said, flopping onto a divan draped in midnight blue silk. "Doesn't exactly scream 'eternal husband material.'"
Mira offered a small smile. "He's not like other men."
"Yeah. Because he's a vampire. An ancient, powerful vampire with glowing eyes, tragic backstory energy, and a kingdom full of enemies who either want to kill me or use me."
The smile faded. "You're not wrong."
Eira stared at the fire, watching the blue flames dance unnaturally. "This prophecy… this past life thing… what if it's not real? What if I'm just some random girl who got pulled into your world by mistake?"
Mira stepped closer. "The Crest on your hand wouldn't have formed if it wasn't real. The Binding magic only responds to soul-deep recognition. It's… ancient. Sacred."
Eira glanced at the crescent moon symbol etched on her skin. It pulsed softly, like it had a heartbeat of its own.
"What happens if I try to run?" she asked.
"You can't," Mira said gently. "Not while the Crest binds you here. And besides, where would you go? The human lands beyond the border are already hunting for you. And here… at least you have allies."
"Do I?" Eira whispered.
A knock interrupted them.
Mira moved to open the door, revealing a servant draped in shadowed silks. He bowed low. "Lady Eira. Lady Seraphine requests your presence in the Hall of Echoes."
Eira stiffened. "What for?"
"She did not say."
Mira frowned. "You don't have to go."
"Yes, I do," Eira muttered. "We both know it."
The Hall of Echoes lived up to its name.
It was a circular chamber deep within the castle, carved from obsidian and etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the dark. The ceiling stretched so high it vanished into shadow, and every sound Eira made—her footsteps, her breath—echoed softly back at her.
Seraphine waited at the center, cloaked in crimson and shadow. No guards. No audience. Just her and Eira.
"You came," Seraphine said, voice smooth as velvet. "I wasn't sure you'd have the courage."
"Curiosity got the better of me," Eira replied. "What do you want?"
Seraphine circled her slowly, like a predator. "I want to understand you. The girl who fell from the stars and stole our king's heart. The one who wears Elira's face… but doesn't remember her soul."
Eira stood still, refusing to flinch. "I'm not Elira. I'm not anyone but me."
"That's a problem," Seraphine said, stopping in front of her. "Because the girl you are now? She's weak. Mortal. Confused. Not fit to rule."
"Then why summon me?"
"Because I want to give you a gift." Seraphine smiled—and it was sharp as broken glass. "A taste of memory. A glimpse of who you once were."
Eira's brow furrowed. "How?"
Seraphine reached into her robes and withdrew a crystal vial filled with silvery mist. "Moonshade. A rare elixir brewed from the memory-pools beneath the castle. Drink it, and you may recall fragments of your past."
Eira hesitated. "What's the catch?"
"No catch." Seraphine held it out. "Only truth."
That was the thing Eira wanted more than anything—truth. Answers. Meaning.
She took the vial and, before she could talk herself out of it, drank.
The world fell away.
She stood in a different world.
The sky above was violet, not black. The castle was smaller, newer, with towers of moonstone and glass. And in the center of a sacred grove, she—Elira—stood barefoot on glowing grass, surrounded by robed figures chanting ancient words.
At her side stood Lucien. Younger, but no less imposing. His red eyes were gentler then, less burdened. And he held her hand as if it anchored him to the world.
"Elira," he whispered in the vision. "Are you certain?"
She smiled. "I was made for this. For you."
They leaned forward—foreheads touching—and as the chanting reached its peak, the runes flared around them in a circle of silver flame. The Binding.
It had been her choice.
The vision shattered like glass.
Eira gasped, falling to her knees in the Hall of Echoes. The vial slipped from her hand and cracked on the stone floor.
Seraphine stood over her. "Do you see now?"
Eira trembled. "I chose him. I really… loved him."
"And he loved you," Seraphine said coldly. "But that doesn't mean you are still her."
Eira looked up. "Why do you hate me?"
Seraphine's eyes burned. "Because I was once his second. His right hand. I bled for him. Killed for him. And yet… he never looked at me the way he looked at you."
"You were in love with him."
"I am in love with him," she hissed. "And you are a ghost wearing a dead woman's skin."
Eira stood slowly. Her knees shook, but her spine stayed straight. "Then I guess I'll have to become someone else. Not Elira. Not just Eira. But something in between."
Seraphine's smile faded.
Without another word, Eira turned and walked away.
Back in her chambers, she sat by the window, watching storm clouds form over the distant mountains. Thunder rumbled in the distance. War stirred. Prophecies whispered. And her past, once hidden, now pressed against her like a tide waiting to rise.
Mira brought her tea laced with calming herbs. "Are you alright?"
"No," Eira said honestly. "But I will be."
She didn't know how, or when, or even what she was meant to do. But she knew one thing for sure:
She wasn't going to let anyone else decide who she was.
Not Seraphine.
Not fate.
Not even Lucien.