The black flower in Mira's palm pulsed with warmth.
It wasn't wilting.
It wasn't dying.
It breathed.
She stared at it for hours after sunrise, until the guards came with bread and water. They didn't speak to her—not anymore. They dropped the food and bolted the door before their shadows could touch her.
Even fear had become silent.
Mira didn't eat. Couldn't. Her body was heavy and light at the same time, her mind split between herself and something… older. Like whispers from under the ground were curling up her spine.
Her dreams were getting clearer.
Not just fire anymore.
Now she saw a village—like Theralyn—but burning.
People screaming.
Men being torn apart by beasts cloaked in shadow and women with eyes like moons.
At the center of it all was her.
Seraphina.
Sitting on a throne of black roots, holding a child—a baby with Mira's eyes.
That afternoon, the door opened again.
Tarren stepped inside. His expression was harder than usual, jaw clenched, but not with anger. With fear.
"You're coming with me."
"Where?" Mira asked warily.
"The forest."
Her blood ran cold.
"No."
"You don't have a choice."
He tossed her a cloak.
"It's happening again."
They rode in silence.
The wind howled through the trees as they approached the forest's edge. The skies were dim—not dark, not cloudy, just dim. Like the sun didn't dare shine here anymore.
Soldiers stood at the perimeter, torches raised, faces pale. Some made warding signs when Mira passed. One even whispered, "Marked one."
Mira swallowed.
"What happened?" she finally asked.
Tarren's voice was low. "Another girl. Fifteen. From the neighboring village. She vanished at dawn."
"No screams?" Mira asked. "No signs?"
He looked at her. "There never are. Just blood. And silence."
They dismounted.
Tarren guided her past the border of trees, and at once, she felt it.
The pulse.
It beat in the dirt. In the air. In her own body.
The deeper they walked, the stronger it became.
Like the forest remembered her.
And welcomed her back.
They came upon a clearing. And at the center—a pool of blood, still warm. No body. No footprints leading out. Just blood… and a circle of black petals.
Like the flower in Mira's hand.
"Gods," Tarren muttered. "She was devoured."
"No," Mira said, staring at the flowers. "She was claimed."
Tarren turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
But Mira didn't answer.
She was already walking.
Something called her deeper into the woods.
Tarren followed reluctantly, sword drawn. The deeper they went, the stranger things became.
Trees bent unnaturally, their trunks twisted like they'd grown screaming. The air grew colder. No birds. No insects.
And the shadows grew longer even as the day should've brightened.
Then Mira stopped.
At the base of a weeping willow stood an old stone well. Cracked, moss-covered, untouched for years.
And etched into the stone—that same mark.
The Queen's sigil.
Mira moved toward it, hand trembling.
As she touched the edge, a whisper echoed—not from her ears, but from within her skull.
"Blood remembers. Blood obeys."
Suddenly her hand began to burn.
She gasped, yanking it back.
Black veins snaked up her wrist.
Tarren lunged forward, grabbing her arm. "What the hell—Mira!"
But then the ground beneath the well shuddered.
Stone cracked.
Roots twisted up from the soil like serpents, curling around the well and bursting through its center.
A glow—violet and blue—poured from the hole.
And then…
A scream.
A girl's scream.
From inside.
"I'm going in," Mira said.
Tarren grabbed her. "Absolutely not. That's madness."
"She's alive," Mira hissed. "You heard it."
"She's gone. Whatever's down there is baiting you."
"I'm not afraid of her."
"You should be."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Finally, Mira ripped her arm from his grip and stepped forward.
Before Tarren could stop her, she jumped.
The fall was silent.
But the descent wasn't normal.
There was no pain, no wind, no walls rushing by.
Just cold.
And then—she landed.
On her feet.
In the center of a glowing cavern.
Black roots pulsed through the ceiling and walls, like veins through flesh. In the middle of the room stood a stone pedestal with a bowl carved into it—and above it, a mirror made of obsidian, suspended by magic.
And in that mirror…
Her reflection was smiling.
But she wasn't.
Mira took a step back.
Her reflection didn't move.
It watched.
Then… it spoke.
"You're not ready."
Mira froze. "What are you?"
"I'm what you become when you stop pretending to be human."
The voice was her own—but layered. One beneath it was deeper, older, darker.
The mirror twisted. It showed Mira as a child. Alone. Crying in the forest. Then—an image of her mother, cradling her while hiding from men in silver armor.
"She tried to keep you away from your bloodline," the voice said. "But the truth was always in your bones."
"I don't understand."
"You will."
The mirror shimmered.
Now it showed Seraphina—pregnant.
She stood atop a mountain, wind howling around her, black storm clouds swirling above.
"She gave birth to twins," the voice said. "One died. The other… survived. Hidden away. Raised like a lamb."
"No," Mira whispered. "I'm not…"
"You are her heir."
Then the roots around the cavern pulsed, and the walls rippled like skin.
The Queen's voice spoke directly now:
"You cannot run from what you are. The mark is awakening. And soon… so will your throne."
Mira bolted from the mirror and back toward the shaft she'd fallen through.
This time, it opened.
Vines carried her up like a rising elevator.
She burst out of the well, gasping for breath, collapsing in the moss.
Tarren ran to her, sword drawn. "Mira!"
She grabbed his shirt, trembling.
"She's coming," she whispered. "And I think she's coming through me."
Back at the village, the sky had darkened again—unnaturally.
The townsfolk were panicking. Some tried to flee. Others knelt and begged invisible gods.
And in the center square, where once the chapel had stood, a tree had sprouted.
Tall. Black. Twisted.
Thorns like daggers.
At its roots were bones.
And on its bark—the Queen's sigil.