I arrived at the Armini family crypt long after midnight. The air was heavy with fog, woven from the breath of the dead. The kind of fog that stuck to your skin and whispered secrets in languages only bones remember.
Most witches avoid graveyards after dark. Even fewer have keys to crypts that aren't supposed to exist.
I had both.
The key was a femur.
Polished, runed, and carved with a lock-binding that could only be opened with blood.
Mine, specifically.
Because only a true Armini could descend the spiral of shadows without waking something that shouldn't stir.
I pricked my finger on the fang-shaped pin I always wore and smeared a drop over the bone. It hissed like steam on hot iron, and the slab of marble groaned open.
Inside, everything smelled like old stone and iron-bound memory.
The walls were covered in names—each etched with silver, each containing the imprint of someone too powerful or too stubborn to pass quietly into death.
And at the bottom—deeper than any sane person would build—was her.
Matriarch Sorella Armini.
The first Seer.
The one no one dared speak of.
My ancestor, my curse, my possible salvation.
And tonight, I was going to ask her a question I didn't want the answer to.
The descent was slow. Deliberate. Every step down hummed with residual magic. Cold. Static. Hungry.
I didn't bring light.
The crypt didn't need it.
The torches lining the wall flickered on as I passed them, reacting to my blood like an old dog recognizing its master.
At the base, I found her.
Not a skeleton. Not a ghost. Something in between.
Sorella Armini sat upon a throne of woven bones, her form wrapped in a robe of woven shadow and teeth. Her eyes were closed, but her head turned toward me the moment I crossed the final threshold.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," she said. Her voice sounded like crushed glass and lullabies. "This body's memory has grown stale."
I bowed, because I remembered what happened the one time I didn't. Even the dead have pride.
"I need the rest of the prophecy," I said, voice steady despite the weight pressing on my chest. "The version you spoke. Not the one the Council prettied up for the archives."
Her lips twisted into something too sharp to be a smile. "You're not the first to ask."
"I'm the only one who's earned it."
"You think earning matters here?"
I reached into my coat and pulled out the Mirror Thorn. Still buzzing. Still glowing faintly red.
Her smile faded.
"You've already looked," she said. "You've remembered."
"Fragments."
She leaned forward. "Fragments are dangerous, child. They trick you into thinking you know the shape of a thing. But they leave out the teeth."
"I need to know if Knight is the sixth."
Her silence was answer enough.
My knees went weak. "He was mine. Wasn't he?"
"In one life," she said softly. "In another, he was Diana's. In others still… he was neither."
My stomach turned. "So it's not fixed."
"No," she said, standing slowly. "But that does not make it free. Some paths are stickier than others. Some… loop."
The bone walls pulsed gently with each word she spoke. I felt the thrum of reality twisting around her.
"You've tried before," she added. "Many times."
"I guessed."
"In one, you bound him to you before Diana ever met him. In another, you let her have him—hoping her love would save her. In another, you killed him to prevent the bond."
I closed my eyes.
"I failed," I said.
"In every timeline, yes. Because you keep asking the wrong question."
"What should I ask, then?"
"Not who to save," she said, stepping down from her throne. "But what must die."
My blood ran cold.
She reached forward, placing a skeletal finger on the center of my chest, directly over the scarred magic etched into my soul.
"There is no saving Diana without destroying part of yourself," she whispered. "There is no stopping the prophecy without paying the price."
"I've paid," I snapped. "I broke my soul. I gave up my memory—my love."
Sorella shook her head, eyes suddenly alight. "You gave up choice, Gray. You gave the timeline control and hoped for a different outcome."
"Then what do I do now?"
"Choose again," she whispered.
And with that, she reached into the dark and pulled out a scroll. Old. Wrapped in red string and sealed with the Armini crest.
"Read it. Then decide who you want to be."
I took it with trembling fingers.
She smiled, a terrible, beautiful thing. "But know this—Knight will remember. Eventually. And when he does, he may not forgive you."
Her words echoed, low and final, like a curse disguised as a kindness.
But I didn't leave.
Not yet.
Because something inside me—maybe the last sliver of the girl I used to be—whispered that I needed more. Not a warning. Not a riddle. Not another damn prophecy tangled in metaphor.
Advice.
Real, unadorned, ancient advice from the dead woman who'd seen every version of me fall apart.
So I stepped forward. Slowly. The scroll still warm in my grip. And I looked her in the eyes.
"Then tell me what to do," I said. "Not fate. Not destiny. You."
Sorella Armini tilted her head.
"Ah. The witch finally asks like a woman and not a weapon."
"I'm tired," I admitted, voice low. "Tired of playing out a tragedy like it's theater. Tired of burning down timelines just to buy another breath."
Her eyes flickered with interest. "You always were stubborn."
I swallowed hard. "You've seen the paths. All of them. If I want to stop the world from ending—really stop it—not just delay it a few years—what would you do?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she turned. Her robes swept across the bones beneath her throne, whispering over them like wind over ash. She moved to the far wall—where no writing existed—and placed a single bony finger to the bare stone.
A glowing crack opened.
She spoke as light spilled into the chamber.
"First: Cut deeper. Half-measures never win wars. You want to break fate? Break it. Shatter the pieces. Take the consequences like wine—bitter, intoxicating, but yours."
My throat tightened. "And the second?"
"Second: Stop protecting Diana from her own mistakes. Let her see what her love costs. Let her feel it."
"That could kill her."
"Or save her," she said. "True wisdom does not shield people from pain. It teaches them how to carry it."
I stepped closer. The light from the crack in the wall illuminated something beyond—memories sealed in crystal. Visions too dangerous to be seen by the living. My failures. All of them.
"And third?"
Sorella looked back at me, and for a moment I saw something frightening in her expression.
Pity.
"Third: Choose the version of you that doesn't flinch when love gets messy. Because in the timeline where the world almost survives… you stopped trying to be the hero and became something else entirely."
I stared.
"Something else?"
"A villain, perhaps," she said softly. "Or something worse—a woman with nothing left to lose."
The crack in the wall sealed shut with a hiss.
And just like that, the warmth was gone.
The throne returned. Her eyes closed.
Our moment ended.
But I had what I came for.
A prophecy.
A warning.
And finally, a path that wasn't fate's.
I tucked the scroll into my coat. "Thank you."
And finally, a path that wasn't fate's.
I tucked the scroll into my coat, heart still hammering from the weight of it all. "Thank you," I said, turning toward the stairs.
But halfway up, I stopped.
Old instincts flared—those quiet, useful instincts that had nothing to do with being a hero and everything to do with surviving witches, courts, councils, and the devil himself.
I turned back toward Sorella's throne.
Her eyes remained closed. Still. Waiting.
I cleared my throat.
"One more thing," I said carefully. "I'd like to offer a trade."
The silence grew thick. And then—
The eyes snapped open.
"Oh?" she murmured, voice like honey poured over knives. "The child dares to bargain with the dead?"
"I've never stopped," I said. "And you're not just the dead. You're an Armini."
A flicker of pride—or amusement—passed over her skeletal features. "What do you want?"
"An artifact," I said, stepping slowly toward the base of her dais. "One of the old ones. Something time-woven. You have pieces in here even the Council doesn't know exist."
Her head tilted. "I do."
"I need something that can anchor a soul against tampering. Not protection. Retention."
That made her pause. "You want to trap a memory?"
"I want to keep one."
"Yours?" she asked, voice sharp.
I hesitated. "...His."
That changed her entirely. Sorella leaned forward now, the grin spreading unnaturally wide across her face.
"You're already preparing for the next fracture," she said, almost giddy. "How practical. How... devastatingly Armini of you."
"Do we have a deal?"
"What do you offer in return?"
I reached into my jacket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Inside: a sliver of phoenix feather sealed in amber—one of only three I'd ever seen.
She didn't move, but I felt her reaction in the air.
"I have been dead a long time," she said slowly. "But even I remember the price of fire."
"It's old. Pre-sundering. Untouched."
She considered me for several long, strange moments.
Then—without a word—she reached into the dark behind her throne and pulled something from the shadows.
A ring.
Simple. Iron. Laced with thread-thin runes that shimmered in the corners of vision but disappeared if you looked directly at them.
She set it at the edge of the dais.
"A soul anchor," she said. "If worn during trauma or spell-collision, it binds the moment to the flesh. Not forever. But long enough to survive it."
I stepped forward, trading the pouch for the ring.
Our hands didn't touch. Wouldn't dare.
As I held the artifact, I felt the weight of its magic settle against my palm. Not warm. Not cold. Just inevitable.
"I'll make it count," I said.
"I know," Sorella replied. "You always do."
And this time, she closed her eyes for good.
The vault didn't creak. It exhaled.
And I climbed the stairs, ring clenched tight, already thinking of the next move.