Sylvera woke up slow.
At first she didn't even open her eyes properly. Just a crack. Light hit her lashes.
Candlelight.
It flickered soft against high walls, the kind of glow that makes everything look warmer than it is. For half a second her body went cold anyway. Her heart clenched so hard it hurt.
Castle.
That was the first thought. The only thought. Back in that awful place where the walls felt alive and the shadows felt… too close.
She blinked harder.
Then she saw it.
Sunlight.
Real sunlight.
It was pouring through thin curtains, moving gently in the breeze. It looked almost stupidly peaceful. Gold light. Soft light. Nothing like the castle.
Sylvera frowned. Her mind felt thick, slow. Like she was waking up out of mud.
She pushed herself up too quickly.
Big mistake.
The world tipped sideways. Pain shot behind her eyes and she grabbed the bed fast to stop herself from dropping right back down. Her stomach rolled. Her mouth tasted sour.
"Gods…" she breathed, but it came out weak.
She sat there for a moment, just breathing. Waiting for the room to stop spinning.
When it finally did, she looked around.
The bed was… too soft. Layers of silk. Real silk. Cool on her skin. It felt wrong. Like she didn't belong in it. Like she was wearing someone else's life.
The air smelled of lavender. And something older too, like old paper. Old wood warmed by sun.
No damp stone smell.
No blood smell.
No rot.
Just clean air.
Birdsong in the distance.
Sylvera stared at that for a second. Birds. Like it was normal.
She looked around again.
Bookshelves. Tall ones. Carved furniture. A hearth in the corner that still had a small fire going.
This didn't look like the castle.
But she didn't feel safe either. Not even close.
Her eyes went straight to the door.
Wood. Thick. Iron bits.
She swung her legs off the bed.
Her legs shook.
That made her angry instantly. She hated her body for shaking.
She stood anyway, bare feet hitting warm wood. The floor wasn't cold. That should've made her feel better. It didn't.
She crossed the room and grabbed the door handle.
Twist.
Nothing.
Twist harder.
Nothing.
Locked.
She stared at it for a moment, not blinking.
Then she swallowed. Slow.
So.
Not the castle.
But still a cage.
A prettier one. That was all.
Sunlight and curtains and silk to make it feel less like a prison. That was the trick.
Sylvera turned away from the door and looked around again, sharper now.
That's when she saw the shelf.
One bookshelf in the far corner, taller than the others. Too fancy. Polished wood carved with vines and symbols she didn't recognise. The shelves were packed. Old books. Thick ones. Some of the spines were cracked. Some were stained.
That shelf didn't match the rest of the room.
Or maybe… it matched too well.
Like it had been placed there for a reason.
Her feet moved before she decided to. Quiet steps over warm wood.
She ran her fingers along the spines, reading titles. Her throat tightened with each one.
The Art of Soul-Weaving.
She paused.
Her skin prickled.
Blood Rites of the Forgotten.
Her stomach turned.
On the Preservation of Flesh.
She flinched.
She shouldn't have even been reading them. It felt like looking at something she wasn't meant to see.
These weren't healing books.
These were the kind of books witches warned each other about. The kind of magic that didn't fix anyone. It owned them.
She should've backed away.
Instead she kept reading, because something in her couldn't stop.
Fear. Curiosity. Anger. All mixed together.
Her eyes dropped lower, toward the base of the shelf.
And she saw it.
A thin gap. Almost nothing. Like the shelf had been moved and shoved back wrong.
Sylvera crouched slightly and leaned closer.
Her hand hovered.
She pressed her palm against the wood.
And she felt it.
A pulse.
Soft. Faint.
But real.
Magic.
Her breath caught.
The wood was warm under her hand. Warm like it was alive.
Sylvera frowned harder and pushed.
Click.
A soft sound.
Then a slow groan.
The bookshelf moved.
Not out. Not back.
It swung inward like a door.
Sylvera just stood there, staring. Dust floated up in the air. Cold air slid out of the hidden opening, smelling like stone.
And something else.
Secrets. Old secrets. The kind that stick to walls.
Her heart started punching at her ribs again.
Why is this here?
Who put it here?
Is it a way out?
Or—
Is it another trap?
She glanced back at the room. The curtains moving. The sunlight. The soft bed.
It was almost insulting.
Then she looked at the dark passage again.
Her jaw tightened.
She stepped inside.
One foot. Then another.
Her fingers dragged along the stone wall because she needed something solid.
Behind her, the shelf-door swung shut with no sound.
Sylvera's breath hitched.
That… felt deliberate.
The passage opened up and Sylvera stopped short.
She forgot how to breathe.
A library.
Not a normal one. A huge round one. Shelves spiralled upward, way too high. And the ceiling—her eyes went straight to it—
It shimmered like the night sky. Stars moving slowly, like they were real. Like someone had stolen the sky and pinned it up there.
No windows.
No breeze.
Just cold.
And the low hum of old enchantment.
Sylvera took one slow step forward.
Books everywhere. Endless rows. Some glowing faintly. Some bound in… things she didn't want to think about.
But it wasn't the books that froze her.
It was the middle.
An obsidian table. Massive. Dark and shiny like still water.
And on top—
a glass coffin.
Runes pulsed along it, silver light.
Inside the coffin lay a woman dressed in white.
Hair spilled like snow. Hands folded neatly over her chest. Skin pale and almost glowing.
For a stupid second Sylvera thought she was asleep.
Then she saw the face.
And her blood turned to ice.
It was her.
Not exactly, but close enough to make her knees go weak.
The cheekbones. The mouth. The chin. The shape.
It was like seeing herself dead.
Preserved.
Sylvera swallowed hard. Her throat hurt.
She forced herself to look away.
That's when she saw the portraits.
Dozens of them.
All around the walls.
The same woman again and again. Different clothes. Different ages. Different eras.
Same face.
Same face as the coffin.
Same face as Sylvera.
Her breath came faster, shallow.
Panic started creeping up, fast now. No time to slow it.
What is this place?
What am I?
Then she heard footsteps.
Soft.
Steady.
Sylvera spun around.
Lorian stepped out from between shelves like he'd been waiting.
His coat was gone. Sleeves rolled up. His arms were smeared with something dark. Black and rust-red stains up to his forearms like he'd been handling something… wet.
He didn't look surprised to see her there.
That made Sylvera's stomach twist even more.
He looked calm.
Almost pleased.
"Ah," he said quietly. "You found my wife."
Sylvera stared at him.
Then at the coffin.
Then back at him again.
Her voice came out small, even though she tried to make it strong.
"Your… wife?"
Lorian didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
He just stood there. His shadow stretched long behind him.
The dried stains on his hands made him look less like a king and more like a butcher.
"My first and only love," he said softly.
His voice sounded too quiet. Too steady. It didn't feel romantic. It felt… sick.
"The reason for all of this."
He gestured around them like he was showing off. Books. Symbols. Portraits.
Everywhere, her face.
Sylvera felt her skin crawl.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. Her voice cracked anyway. "What did you do?"
Lorian's eyes stayed on her.
"She died."
He paused.
Something moved behind his expression. A flicker.
"No," he corrected. His voice went rougher. "She was killed."
Sylvera's stomach dropped.
"Not by war. Not by magic," he said. "By the world. By time. By people who feared her."
He stared past Sylvera like he was looking at something else.
"And I waited," he said. "I waited for her to come back."
His hand curled into a fist.
"But the world moved on."
Then his gaze snapped back to her.
"Sometimes when I see women who look like her… like you…" His mouth twisted. "I feel sick. Like nature is mocking me with cheap copies."
His eyes went colder.
"Hollow reflections."
Sylvera couldn't breathe properly.
"And other times," he said, quieter, "I see her everywhere. In every smile. Every whisper of wind."
His voice sounded… broken in a way that didn't make her pity him. It made her terrified.
"I follow those traces," he admitted. "Like a madman."
He stepped closer, slow.
His eyes scanned Sylvera's face, not lovingly. Not tender.
Studying.
Measuring.
"You're the clearest echo I've ever found," he said. "The closest."
Then he whispered, barely even a sound:
"But I don't know what you are yet."
Sylvera stood rigid, jaw clenched.
Lorian's gaze pinned her.
"So what are you?" he murmured.
"A cruel trick?"
"A mockery?"
"Or…"
He stopped.
The sentence died.
For a long beat he just stood there, silent.
Then he turned away.
No anger.
No goodbye.
Just… silence.
His boots echoed across stone as he walked out, leaving Sylvera alone with the glass coffin beside her.
With her own face sleeping dead inside it.