Chapter 17
Silence returned, but it wasn't peace.
It was thick, grave, and unnatural.
Lila gasped, a raw, broken sound, as breath tore into her lungs for the first time in what felt like centuries. Her eyes—glassy, wide, and blinking rapidly—searched the room, and then the girl beside her.
But Olivia was no longer there.
Her body remained—still and pale—yet something was gone. Stripped.
"Olivia?" Lila croaked, voice rasping against her throat like sandpaper.
She tried to sit up but wavered, hands trembling. The altar was cold, and her skin felt foreign. Heavy. She touched her face, then her chest. Everything was the same—yet not.
Because she could feel her.
Inside.
Memories not hers flickered behind her eyes: moonlight on bloodstained floors, her mother's lullaby sung in reverse, a red ribbon burning like a flame through the forest.
Scarlet.
The name pressed against her ribs like a buried scream.
Across the room, James lay slumped, blood trickling from his forehead. Henry groaned, half-conscious, whispering Olivia's name like a prayer. Neither of them noticed what had truly happened.
But the man did.
He stood quietly by the altar, watching Lila. Or was it still Lila?
"You took her place," he murmured.
Lila's breath caught. "I didn't choose this."
"No," he said. "But the house did."
She looked down at Olivia's still body and choked back a sob. "She's… is she dead?"
He tilted his head. "No. She's beneath. In the root of the house. In the place where the First Flame sleeps."
Lila's mouth trembled. "Scarlet?"
His expression didn't change. "She stirs now… in both of you."
Behind her, the mirror began to hum.
It had survived the ritual. But its surface was no longer glass—it was red. Not painted. Not glowing.
Bleeding.
Lila staggered to her feet. She could hear whispers now—just under her skin. In Olivia's voice. In another's voice too—older, fractured, furious.
"She's remembering me," said the voice.
Lila flinched. "Who said that?"
"I'm the part of you no one dared to name."
The mirror pulsed. The reflection staring back at her was not hers.
It was Olivia's.
But the eyes… were Scarlet's.
⸻
Meanwhile…
James stirred, blinking slowly. Pain bloomed across his temple, but he dragged himself upright, panic flashing in his eyes.
"Olivia?"
He saw her—on the altar. Still. Unmoving.
But Lila stood.
James stumbled to her side, grabbing her arm. "What happened? What the hell did she do?!"
Lila turned slowly, tears streaking her face. "She gave herself… for me."
Henry, coughing, limped closer, fury in every step. "That wasn't her choice to make!"
"No," the man said from the shadows, "but it was always her fate."
James turned on him. "What are you?"
He smiled. "A guide. A relic. A memory of the house itself."
"You could've stopped this!"
He tilted his head. "And deny her the truth of who she is?"
Lila's voice came then—softer, deeper. "It wasn't just about me. It was about her past."
James froze. "What do you mean?"
"She's not just Olivia, James. She's… someone else too. Someone old. Someone the house buried."
Henry shook his head. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Lila stepped back, staring at the mirror, and whispered the name as though tasting fire.
"Scarlet."
And the mirror shattered.
But not with glass—with laughter.
Low. Female. Terrifying.
"Finally," it said. "You remember."
The house groaned.
The walls peeled.
And a new corridor, hidden for centuries, opened behind the altar, leading into the bones of the earth.
The man bowed his head toward it. "She calls."
James took a step forward. "Who?"
But Henry already knew.
"She never left," he whispered. "Scarlet is still here."
Lila turned to them both, her eyes reflecting candlelight that hadn't been lit.
"She's waiting for me."