Power always invites resurrection.
But it also invites enemies who remember how you fell.
The boy is delivered in chains.
Thrown at my feet like an offering. Pale hair, pale skin—his body wrecked by spells meant to break minds.
I almost ignore him.
Until he speaks.
"You begged," he says, eyes flickering.
"When they cut your throat. You begged for someone to save you."
Silence devours the temple.
Thorne steps forward, sword unsheathed.
But I raise a hand.
"Let him speak," I say.
His name is Ashen.
A servant boy from the Temple of Final Light. Once invisible. Always listening.
He was there the night of my death. The night Seren orchestrated my execution like a divine opera.
And he remembers everything.
"You screamed for the stars to burn your enemies," he says. "But they only watched."
"I don't beg anymore," I reply coldly.
"I didn't come to mock you," he says. "I came because Seren wants me to haunt you."
Then he smiles, and it's not human.
"She placed something in me, Seraphina. A curse you cast yourself. A fail-safe."
My breath stills.
A fail-safe?
He rises without my command.
Magic slithers up his spine like silver rot.
In his chest burns a shard of me. Not a gift. Not a secret.
A trap.
"She used your own spell against you," he whispers. "And if I die, you do too."
He lunges
And I let him.
Not because I'm weak.
But because now… I understand.
They think my past is a cage.
But I'm going to turn it into a blade.
I smile as his magic pierces me.
Because the moment the spell connects, I rewrite it.
I reach inside his soul, tear the curse free, and burn it to ash.
Ashen collapses.
Alive.
But shattered.
I lean over him, and whisper:
"Tell Seren: If she wants to kill me again… she'll have to try harder."