Chapter 23: Whispers in the Ash
Ash drifted down like snow, soft and silent, blanketing the palace grounds in a veil of grey. The guards murmured uneasily, staring at the sky. No fire burned in the city, no smoke rose from the chimneys—yet the ash fell all the same.
Inside her chambers, Seraphina stood motionless, watching it settle over the garden from her balcony. It coated the petals of the midnight roses, dulled the shimmer of the moonstone statues. The land was mourning something. Or warning her.
Mirelle entered quietly, a tray of untouched food in her hands. "There's no fire, Your Majesty. The ash came out of nowhere."
"It's not natural," Seraphina said softly. "Something old has awakened."
Mirelle hesitated. "Do you believe... it has to do with Lord Caelum's presence?"
"I believe Caelum is only the beginning."
The door creaked open again, and Laziel stepped in. His dark cloak trailed behind him like shadows made flesh. "The Oracle has sent word," he said without preamble. "She dreams of blood on the white stairs. Of a crown shattering into pieces."
Seraphina's jaw tightened. "Another prophecy."
Laziel's eyes, strange and silver, narrowed slightly. "This one feels... different. More immediate."
She turned back to the window. "Let her come to me. I want to hear it from her lips."
"There's more," Laziel added, stepping closer. "Something else came through the ash. A symbol—etched into the glass of the eastern watchtower."
"What kind of symbol?"
"A spiral," he said. "Like the ones you saw in your vision. Like the ones carved into the old prison walls beneath the palace."
Seraphina felt the blood in her veins stir. The spirals again. They were following her, echoing through time and memory. A reminder. A threat. Or perhaps a key.
She turned to Mirelle. "Tell the guards to double their rounds. No one enters the eastern wing without my approval."
"And the Council?"
"Let them sleep in their silk sheets and pretend we're safe. They'll awaken soon enough."
Mirelle bowed and left, but Laziel remained, his presence silent and watchful.
"I've seen these spirals before," Seraphina murmured. "In my first life, right before I died. There was something behind the veil of that world—something ancient, and waiting."
Laziel's voice was quiet. "Do you think it followed you back?"
"I think it never left."
She stepped toward her bookshelf, fingers brushing over the worn spine of an old tome—The Lost Histories of the First Flame. It was forbidden in most regions, its pages filled with tales of gods and monsters, of immortals bound by blood and betrayal. She opened it to a marked page: a crude drawing of a spiral, surrounded by flames.
"From the ashes she will rise, bearing the mark of the forgotten flame. Her wrath shall awaken what slumbers beneath the throne."
Her breath caught.
It was her.
Even in the myths, she had been seen.
She looked back at Laziel. "Prepare the ritual. Tonight, we call upon the ancient fire."
He blinked. "You mean to summon—"
"I need answers," she cut in, eyes sharp. "And I'm done waiting for them to come to me."
Lightning flashed again in the distance, but no thunder followed. The silence felt too deep, too expectant.
As if something was listening.
Watching.
Waiting to be called.