Her name was The Crowmother.
She arrived with no escort. No announcement. No heartbeat.
Just a storm of black feathers and a staff carved from a spine.
She walked through the palace gates like gravity bent for her—and still, I was not impressed.
She demanded an audience.
I granted one.
She entered the throne hall, dragging a scent of rot and incense. Nobles trembled. The King refused to meet her gaze. Even the Crown Prince stepped aside.
But I didn't.
"You carry a curse," she said.
"You carry poor manners," I replied.
She lifted her staff. "I see your threads. You are not Seraphina Vale. You are a hollowed vessel filled with"
"With what?" I cut in, stepping forward. "Say it."
She hesitated.
"I am the mistake the gods never dared admit," I said. "The rewritten page. The flame that ate its name. And you—"
I lifted my hand.
The Crowmother gasped. The ink on her arms bled upward, coiling like serpents. Her own spells turned on her.
"will not write me off like some cheap omen."
The room exploded with silence.
Then her staff cracked.
She dropped to one knee.
"I see now," she whispered. "You're not cursed. You are the curse."
I bent down, met her eyes.
"No," I said softly. "I'm the cure."