It wasn't the physical pain that woke Sheila that morning.
It was the silence.
Heavy. Still. So complete, it roared in her ears louder than any scream.
She opened her eyes slowly. Her body felt lighter than it had in days, yet somehow\... foreign. Her limbs obeyed her too easily, too quickly, as if they'd been rewired overnight.
She sat up, expecting the usual rush of weakness, the dizzy fog. But instead, a calm buzz coursed through her veins, like her blood had been replaced by silver flame.
And her heart—
It beat in rhythm with something that wasn't her.
"She's stabilizing."
Sheila's head snapped toward the door. Emery stood just outside, speaking softly to someone Sheila couldn't see.
"She shouldn't be healing this fast," Emery continued. "Not after what she's been through."
"Maybe it's not her doing," another voice replied.
Emery sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of."
---
They didn't keep her locked away, but the unspoken rules wrapped around her like chains.
Guards at every corner. Whispers behind closed doors. Even the witches seemed unsure whether to treat her like a guest or a ticking curse.
"Sheila."
Emery entered her chamber that evening carrying a small tray with steaming cups of something floral.
"I'm not thirsty," Sheila said.
"You are. You just don't know it yet." Emery handed her a cup anyway, then sat across from her without asking.
Sheila stared into the brew. It shimmered. Pale gold, with tiny specks of light flickering like trapped fireflies.
"Is this one of your potions?"
"It's tea," Emery said. "Mostly."
Sheila raised an eyebrow. "That's comforting."
They sat in quiet for a moment.
Emery tilted her head. "You're feeling it, aren't you?"
"The... pulse?"
"Yes. It's not your imagination. That rhythm in your blood—it belongs to something much older."
Sheila's throat tightened. "Selene."
"Part of her," Emery confirmed. "Not all. Not yet."
Sheila clenched her fists. "I didn't ask for this."
"No vessel ever does."
"I'm not a vessel," Sheila snapped. "I'm a person. I have my own mind. My own scars. My own story."
"I don't doubt that," Emery said gently. "But stories aren't always separate. Some threads are tied together before the first breath."
Sheila looked away. "Then maybe I should've never breathed at all."
Emery leaned forward. "You survived things that should've killed you. You endured a life meant to break you. That doesn't make you cursed, Sheila. That makes you chosen."
Sheila bit the inside of her cheek. "Chosen to be a puppet? A walking reincarnation?"
"No," Emery whispered. "Chosen to finish what Selene started."
---
That night, sleep came in shards.
Flashes of white trees. Wolves made of smoke. A woman in chains made of stars, screaming into a void.
And then—
Brutus.
Not as she saw him now, but before. Proud. Gentle. His hands stained with blood, his eyes wet with regret.
He reached for her.
"Don't forget me," he whispered.
She woke with a jolt. Her chest heaved, sweat clinging to her skin.
The room was silent again. But this time, it wasn't empty.
Something pulsed beneath her.
She swung her legs over the bed and placed her bare feet on the stone floor. The rhythm was clearer now—coming from the earth itself.
Calling her.
---
Sheila moved through the quiet halls like a shadow. No guards stopped her.
The forest outside was cloaked in mist. Every breath she took tasted like something old. Feral.
Her feet carried her beyond the sanctuary, through the overgrown path the witches rarely used.
The whisper returned. Soft. Repeating her name, not as a question—but as a memory.
"Selene..."
"No," she whispered. "I'm not her."
But still, she walked.
Branches clawed at her arms. Roots curled like fingers beneath her steps. And just when the forest thickened enough to swallow the sky—
She saw it.
A tree. Massive. Silver-barked and glowing faintly. Its roots splayed outward like veins, burrowed deep into the earth.
She stepped closer, heart racing.
Something was underneath.
A breeze stirred, though no wind touched the trees.
And then—
The ground hummed.
A thin, perfect line split open between the roots.
She knelt, brushing leaves and soil away, revealing a cold surface beneath.
Metal. Etched with runes.
A door.
Sealed. Buried.
Her hand moved before she could stop it.
The moment her fingers touched the surface, the sigils flared.
Light poured outward. The roots shivered. And slowly—without force—the door opened.
Darkness waited below.
Not empty. Not dead.
Alive.
Waiting.
Sheila stared into the black.
And then she heard it.
A voice. Distant, yet so familiar it made her bones ache.
"Come home."