***************
A vision.
Selene, older, crowned in black thorns, seated on a throne of screaming vines. Her eyes are hollow stars.
Dren kneels before her, bleeding from his chest. Lysara stands behind her, face unreadable.
The child's voice echoes:
"She touched it once. She'll touch it again. And this time, she won't let go."
***************
The moon hung low over Ashengar's lower city, a bruised pearl behind drifting clouds. Fog slicked the cobblestones like spilled silk, and Selene moved through the mist with a predator's quiet grace. Her cloak was the color of regret—gray, indistinct, forgettable.
She preferred it that way.
Even the shadows didn't notice her. But the Thorn Crown did.
It pulsed in her veins now, faint but undeniable. A dull ache in her wrists. A shimmer in her breath. The closer she came to the reliquary vaults buried beneath the old quarter, the stronger the hum became.
"You're early," murmured a voice behind her.
She didn't flinch. "Naeven. You tracked me."
Naeven stepped into view, her cloak soaked at the hem. "You're the one who told me not to let you do anything stupid alone."
Selene looked away. "This might qualify."
They stood before an iron gate, half-collapsed, ivy-choked and rusted from decades of disuse. Behind it lay one of Ashengar's forbidden reliquaries—vaults of the Inquisition that even Lysara had left sealed.
Naeven brushed her fingers over the lock. "This place... It hums. Like it remembers being alive."
"It remembers screaming," Selene whispered.
She reached into her satchel and withdrew a bone-shaped key, aged and blackened with soot. As it slid into the lock, something shuddered beneath the earth.
The vault opened.
The walls were lined with mirrors—none of them reflecting their visitors. Each mirror bore a different face: screaming, laughing, staring. Selene kept her eyes down. She knew what face would appear if she looked.
Naeven walked behind her, slower now. "You've been here before."
Selene nodded once.
"I was eight."
Naeven blinked. "Eight?"
"I snuck in during the Holy Revel. My mother was a Scribe of Thorns. She left her seal unattended." Selene paused. "Curiosity kills. But I think it only wounded me."
They reached the final chamber.
At its center stood a pedestal—empty, but not unremarkable. Vines of silver etched its sides. On the ground around it, old blood had long since dried to a copper stain. And etched into the floor: the words SHE WHO TOUCHED THE CROWN MAY NEVER BE CLEAN AGAIN.
Selene stepped into the circle.
Immediately, her veins glowed. A faint violet shimmer pulsed up her arms like ink in water. Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled—but she did not fall.
"It's calling again," she murmured.
Naeven moved forward, tense. "Calling what?"
"Me," Selene said. Her voice wasn't quite her own.
She raised her palm—and a sigil bloomed across her skin. Seven spirals within a thorned ring.
"I touched it," she whispered. "Years ago. When it was fractured. When no one was watching."
"Why?" Naeven's voice cracked with disbelief. "Why would you touch it?"
Selene's expression darkened. "Because I was trying to forget. But the Crown doesn't let you forget. It remembers for you."
Suddenly, something clattered deeper in the vault.
Both women froze.
A child's laugh echoed.
Naeven drew her blade instantly. Selene stepped forward, eyes wide.
A small figure emerged from the corridor—barefoot, dressed in rags, with luminous eyes like polished glass. She couldn't have been more than ten, but the way she moved… too deliberate. Too old.
The child smiled. "You don't remember me. But I remember you, Selene."
"Who are you?" Selene whispered.
"I'm the one who watched you almost become Queen of Thorns," said the child. "You were so close. Until you broke the vow."
Selene staggered back. "No. No, that was a dream. A lie."
The child stepped forward. "Then why is your blood still singing?"
Her hand lifted—and the mirrors behind them shattered, one by one.
Naeven lunged forward, blade raised—but the child vanished like smoke.
Silence fell.
Selene dropped to her knees. Her hands trembled violently.
"I thought it was gone," she whispered. "But it's still in me. It never left."
Naeven knelt beside her, silent for a long time. Then: "Selene… what exactly did you see when you touched it?"
Selene raised her eyes. They were haunted.
"I saw a throne made of ribs. And a crown that bled dreams into the world. I saw myself wearing it. Smiling. But it wasn't joy—it was hunger."
Naeven's voice was small. "Do you still want it?"
Selene didn't answer.
But her silence spoke volumes.