Seraphina stared at the torn parchment in her hands, her pulse drumming in her ears. The room seemed smaller now, heavy with dust and silence, yet vibrating with invisible truths.
"You're telling me," she said slowly, "that the war I fought—the rebellion I led—was orchestrated from the beginning?"
The Archivist, still cloaked in his tattered robes, moved behind a nearby shelf and returned with a small, cracked mirror framed in runic silver. "Not all of it," he said, voice brittle as parchment. "But the prophecy you followed—the one you thought would free you—it was rewritten. Not by scribes, but by those who ruled before the fall."
Seraphina looked at the mirror. It reflected her face, but the background behind her shimmered like fog. Within it, she saw flickers of moments that felt like memory—but weren't. A version of herself she didn't recognize. Leading armies. Burning cities. Falling to her knees before the Dominion's throne.
"This is shadow-glass," she murmured. "From the era of the Flame Kings."
The Archivist nodded. "It shows possibilities. Roads not taken. Or perhaps... roads erased."
The room darkened slightly as clouds cloaked the morning light outside. Thunder rumbled faintly over the distant mountains.
"You were never meant to end the war," he said softly. "You were meant to become a symbol. A rallying cry. And then... a martyr."
Seraphina's fists clenched. "But I survived."
"And that, dear girl," he whispered, "is where the true story begins."
She exited the Archives hours later, eyes shadowed with revelation. The Triumvirate hadn't summoned her just to investigate the disappearances. They wanted to keep her within reach—to control what she learned.
A trap wrapped in velvet.
On her way back toward the inner district, a soft voice called from the alley to her right.
"Seraphina."
She halted. No one was supposed to know her route. Slowly, she turned, one hand near the dagger at her hip.
From the darkness stepped Liora, her old ally during the rebellion—a dhampir who vanished shortly after the Dominion's fall.
Seraphina's eyes narrowed. "You're supposed to be dead."
Liora smiled faintly, her skin paler than before, her irises flecked with silver. "A convenient lie. Sometimes the best way to survive is to become a ghost."
Seraphina stepped forward cautiously. "You knew about the prophecy, didn't you?"
"I suspected. The way they shaped every battle, how the enemy always seemed just a little too coordinated. You were always just one step ahead... or behind. Never in control."
"Why didn't you warn me?"
"I tried. But the Shadows got to me first."
Seraphina blinked. "You're with the Shadows?"
Liora shook her head. "No. I escaped. But not before I learned something else."
She handed Seraphina a folded piece of parchment—ancient, ink faded, but the symbol at its crest was unmistakable: a sun eclipsed by wings.
"The House of Solquinn," Seraphina muttered. "They were exterminated during the Purge."
"They were never truly gone," Liora said. "They were the last of the Elder line. And their blood... was the true vessel for the prophecy."
Seraphina's blood ran cold.
"But my bloodline—"
"Is borrowed," Liora said. "Forged in secrecy. You were made to fulfill a version of the prophecy they could control. But the real bloodline is still out there. And someone wants to keep it hidden."
Back in her quarters at the Tower Hall, Seraphina spread the scroll and documents across the table, lighting candles to illuminate the fading words. Pieces of the puzzle snapped into place, one by one:
-The vial's power wasn't just an accident—it was designed for a vessel tied to both Dominion and Elder bloodlines.
-The Crimson Council had intended to elevate Seraphina only so they could sacrifice her—completing the prophecy on their terms.
-But something went wrong. She lived.
And now, someone else—likely higher than even the Triumvirate—was working to correct that "mistake."
A knock at her door startled her.
"Enter."
A servant stepped in, bowing low. "Milady, Lord Malrec requests your presence."
She frowned. "Tell him I'll come shortly."
"He said... now."
The door shut behind the messenger.
The chamber was colder this time. Malrec sat alone, the other Triumvirs absent. He gestured for her to sit.
She didn't.
"I assume this isn't about diplomacy," she said.
Malrec steepled his fingers. "You went to the Archives."
"I did."
"You were told not to."
"I don't take orders from shadows wearing crowns."
His eyes sharpened. "Then perhaps you should consider what happens to those who forget their place."
Seraphina leaned in. "And perhaps you should consider what happens to those who lie to me."
Malrec stood slowly. "This peace we've built is fragile. You are a symbol, yes—but symbols are dangerous when they stop behaving."
She drew her dagger—not in threat, but in finality. "I am not your puppet."
He didn't flinch. "No. But if you continue digging, you may not live long enough to become something worse."
A pause.
Then: "The Shadow Broker still watches you."
She turned, heart thudding.
Malrec's smile was thin. "You think alliances come without price? The Shadows let you live because you amused them. But they don't serve your cause. They serve prophecy—real prophecy. And if they believe you are no longer the vessel…"
"They'll find another," she whispered.
Malrec nodded.
"You see now, Seraphina," he said, voice low. "The war didn't end. It simply changed faces."
That night, Seraphina stood once more at the tower balcony, staring out over the torchlit city. Her thoughts swirled like storm clouds—half memories, half warnings.
Everything she thought she knew had been manipulated.
Everything she believed in… designed.
And yet, she was still alive.
Still standing.
And that meant one thing:
If she wasn't the original vessel of the prophecy—if her entire story had been engineered by monsters in gilded chairs—then she'd forge a new prophecy herself.
One written not in bloodlines, but in fire and choice.
Her fire.
Her choice.