Sylvera left the room without looking at anything else. She went straight to the bed and sat down on the edge. Her fingers dug into the silk sheets. The room felt too warm. The air felt heavy. Breathing felt hard, like she was swallowing smoke.
His wife.
His dead wife.
His dead wife who looked like her.
Sylvera pressed her palms to her temples, trying to stop her thoughts from spinning.
Three possibilities.
Lorian was lying. Another cruel trick.
He believed it. A madman still chasing a ghost.
Or it was true… and she was somehow tied to it.
None of those answers helped.
If he was lying, then he was worse than she ever thought. Not just manipulative, but the kind of man who could build huge lies and make them feel real.
If he believed it, then it meant he wasn't just cruel. He was obsessed. Everything he did had meaning. It wasn't random. It was planned. It was part of something.
And if it was true… then what was Sylvera?
A copy?
A body made to hold someone else?
A shadow of a woman who came before?
Her fingers trembled against the sheets. The portraits rushed back into her mind. All those faces. All those versions. All of them looked like her, but not exactly. Painted in different styles. From different times. Times she never lived.
All of them young.
All of them smiling.
And none of them alive inside the eyes.
Like statues.
Like offerings.
Like warnings.
Sylvera shivered.
And the coffin.
The glass coffin with the woman inside, sleeping so perfectly.
Why keep her there?
Why not bury her?
Why not burn her?
Why not let her rest?
Because Lorian couldn't let her go.
Because he believed she could return.
That thought made Sylvera feel sick.
Maybe this was the cruelest part.
He never chose Sylvera.
He chose a memory.
And he shaped Sylvera into it. Slowly. Without her knowing. Without her permission.
Her life… her choices… her past…
Maybe even her love…
It could all be part of his plan.
A lie built around a dead woman.
Tears filled her eyes. She didn't even understand why at first. It wasn't normal sadness.
It was fear.
A deep fear that she didn't know who she was anymore.
Because what if she had never been anyone at all?
What if she existed only to replace someone else?
What if her magic wasn't hers?
What if her voice wasn't hers?
What if her love wasn't hers?
A soft knock came at the door.
Sylvera didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because the scariest question wasn't whether Lorian lied.
It was what would happen if she started believing him.
Her eyes moved to the locked door. Then to the hidden bookshelf entrance.
The answers were in there.
In those dark books.
In that coffin.
But did she want to know the truth?
A memory came back.
Lorian's face when he spoke about Lyria.
Not the proud king.
Not the cold monster.
Something else.
Something raw.
There was real pain in his voice. Real grief in his eyes.
He looked like someone who lost everything… and refused to accept it.
"I've spent every moment since trying to bring her back."
The words repeated in Sylvera's mind.
Was that true?
Or was it just another trap?
She stood up slowly. Her bare feet touched the cold stone. The silence felt heavy.
That library held answers.
Dangerous answers.
Maybe answers that would break her.
But staying here, doing nothing, was also a prison.
She couldn't live like this anymore.
So she moved to the hidden passage. She pressed her fingers against the wood again. The magic hummed under her skin like a heartbeat.
The shelf creaked and opened, revealing the spiral stairs.
Sylvera stopped at the entrance. Her heart pounded hard.
If the truth waited below, it could change everything.
But maybe it could also free her.
She took a breath.
Then stepped into the dark.
Her feet carried her forward. Her fingers brushed the wood again and she felt that faint magic pulse.
The shelf opened fully.
Darkness waited beyond.
So did answers.
Sylvera hesitated for one long breath.
Then she stepped in.
If the truth was there, she would face it.
No more running.
No more silence.
Whatever she was… she had the right to know.
As if the castle had been waiting, it spoke.
"He loved her too much," the stones sighed. "That was the first sin."
Sylvera froze.
The voice came from everywhere at once, old and cracked, like the castle itself was talking.
Her heart pounded. Her throat went tight.
"What happened to her?" she whispered.
A pause.
Then the answer came, low and cold.
"Ask the coffin."
The silence after that was thick and heavy.
Sylvera held the wall as she stared down the stairs.
The steps seemed to hum with power, like the castle was watching her.
It knew her now.
It remembered her.
She walked down slowly, breath shallow.
The huge circular library opened up again. The ceiling stars turned slowly above her. The obsidian table stood in the center.
And the coffin was still there.
Unchanged.
Undisturbed.
Sylvera stepped closer, careful. The woman inside was pale and still, wrapped in white. Her hair lay around her head. Her face was so close to Sylvera's it made her stomach twist.
But it wasn't just the face.
It was the stillness.
It didn't feel like sleep.
It felt like waiting.
Waiting for what?
Sylvera lifted her hand. It hovered above the glass. Her fingers tingled with magic.
"Who are you really?" she whispered.
No answer came.
Not from the coffin.
Not from the walls.
But something inside Sylvera moved. A strange ache. A pull, like something forgotten trying to return.
She didn't know if it belonged to her…
Or to Lyria.
And that scared her more than anything.
She stood up, confused and shaking. Her eyes landed on a book in the corner.
It stood out right away.
It didn't look dusty like the others.
It looked awake.
Its cover seemed to pulse faintly. The air around it shimmered with heat.
The title was written in a language she didn't know.
But she understood it anyway.
Her skin prickled.
She didn't even need to open it to feel what it was.
This wasn't a normal spellbook.
It felt full of memory.
Hunger.
Power.
And something worse.
Recognition.
"Open me," it seemed to whisper, not in words, but in a feeling deep in her bones.
Know the truth.
Her fingers trembled above the cover. Her breath was short. Her heart hammered.
Just one touch.
One moment.
She had to know.
"Don't."
The word snapped through the room.
Harsh.
Desperate.
Familiar.
Sylvera spun.
Lorian stood in the doorway.
Not calm.
Not polished.
Not in control.
He looked broken and wild. Shirt untucked. Coat missing. Hair falling messily around his face.
His violet eyes burned with emotion she couldn't read.
Magic crackled at his fingertips, shaking, unstable.
"That book will show you nothing but pain," he said. His voice wasn't royal anymore. It was raw and scared. "Put it down. Walk away."
Sylvera didn't move. Her hand stayed stretched out.
"Why?" she asked, sharp. "Because it'll finally tell me what you've done? Who she really was? Who I really am?"
The shadows thickened around them. The stars in the ceiling seemed to slow.
"You're not ready," Lorian said quietly. "It will tear you apart. You think truth will free you, but it's worse than anything I ever did to you."
Sylvera looked at the book again. The cover pulsed, reacting to her.
She could feel it pulling at her.
"Maybe I deserve to be torn apart," she whispered. "Maybe that's the only way to be free of you."
Lorian's jaw tightened.
"You think I don't want to forget?" he said, voice rising. "You think I enjoy this? Every time I try to stop… every time I try to let you go… something in you drags me back. I see her. I see Lyria. But you're not her… and yet you are. I can't explain it. I've tried."
Sylvera turned back to the book.
"Well, I'm done being part of your confusion."
She placed her palm on the cover.
The book opened.
Lorian grabbed her hand.
His grip closed hard around her wrist and he yanked her backward, pulling her away from the book. His touch burned, not from heat, but from magic running through him. His voice was rough, breaking.
"You don't understand what you're touching," he growled. "That book isn't just spells. It's alive. It remembers. And it feeds."
Sylvera tried to speak.
But the moment the book slipped from her hands, everything changed.
The book screamed.
Not out loud.
Inside her mind.
A horrible sound that tore through her thoughts.
The pages flapped wildly, like something trapped and in pain, before slamming shut with brutal force. Cold wind blasted through the room.
And then—like someone ripped a curtain away—
the illusion shattered.