Chapter 3.5: The Weight of Every Step
The gravel crunched beneath Seraphine's shoes as she walked away from the garden, but to her, it didn't sound like stone. It sounded like the snapping of the dry sunflowers from that field years ago.
With every step she took toward the manor, a new memory flared up, burning against the icy trauma of the dungeon.
She saw a younger version of herself standing outside the back gates of the Holy Temple. She remembered the thrill of sneaking Eveline out—pulling the future Saintess by the hand, their laughter muffled by silk veils. They had run into the open fields, two girls who didn't care about titles or prophecies, only about the way the wind felt.
If Eveline was the bait, Seraphina thought, her heart twisting, then why can I still feel the warmth of her hand in mine? Why do I remember her exhausting every drop of her holy power when my father first fell ill, and on the day we found Father's lifeless body why was she weeping until her eyes bled because she couldn't bring him back?
The memory shifted to the day they met Alaric. They had been cornered by men with dark eyes and jagged knives in the lower city. Seraphina remembered the terror—and then she remembered the boy who had leapt from a rooftop with nothing but a wooden practice sword and a vow to keep them safe.
If Alaric was the decoy, she whispered to herself, why do I remember him searching for my father's body in the Northern ravine? He hadn't slept for four days; he hadn't eaten. He had dragged himself back on broken knees just to tell me he wouldn't stop until I had a place to mourn.
She then thought of Killian. She remembered the night of the Midsummer Gala. She had been overwhelmed by her duties as the young Duchess, struggling to balance the ledgers of a dying estate. She had retreated to the balcony to cry in private. She hadn't seen him, but a heavy black cloak had been draped over her shoulders from behind. The scent of sandalwood and cold steel had lingered on it for weeks.
He said he loved me, she thought, her breath hitching. He said he became a knight for me.
She reached the manor doors and pressed her forehead against the cool wood. Her love for them hadn't vanished; it had just been buried under layers of ash and blood. That was the true torture of the regression. She couldn't hate them fully, and she couldn't love them safely.
What if they really were victims? The thought was a terrifying spark of hope. What if the same shadow that broke my neck held their hands while they did it?
She gripped the door handle, her knuckles white. She was a woman split in two: one half wanted to turn around and scream for them to hold her, and the other half wanted to bolt the doors and never see them again.
"Prove it," she whispered into the empty hallway. "If you loved me then... save him now. Give me a reason to believe in the sunflower field again."