Mira's breath caught as she stared at the sky.
The sigil still burned—a symbol of spiraling black vines and twin crescent moons, pulsing with a light that shouldn't exist. Fireless. Cold. Alive.
Her mouth was dry, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might tear through her chest.
She tried to scream, but no sound came.
The villagers stood gathered in the square, eyes wide, faces pale. Some dropped to their knees, whispering old prayers in forgotten tongues. Others trembled with hatred.
Then someone pointed.
"It's her."
She turned.
"The girl! She brought this!"
"No! No, I didn't!" Mira backed away, hands raised, but already the mob was closing in.
"She came back from the woods the night the girl died!"
"She walked in blood and came out alive—what mortal survives the Beast?"
"And now the mark—look at it! The chapel is gone!"
"She's the witch's daughter!"
"She's marked."
A rock flew.
It struck her shoulder.
Pain flared.
Another hit her ribs.
She stumbled, gasping.
The crowd surged.
But just before the first blade could slash her skin, a voice cracked the air like thunder.
"Enough!"
Captain Tarren shoved through the villagers, sword drawn. Behind him came two guards, pushing people back.
"She is under investigation, not execution!" he barked. "Anyone who raises another hand to her will answer to me."
There was grumbling, snarls, but the crowd slowly dispersed.
Mira stood trembling, bleeding from her lip.
Tarren approached, eyes narrowed. "You have ten seconds to tell me what you saw last night."
"I… I went to the chapel," she whispered. "There was a woman. She called herself the Queen. I don't know how I got there. I just… walked."
"Walked?" Tarren echoed, voice flat. "You mean—like sleepwalking?"
She shook her head, tears forming. "No. It was like something pulled me. She touched me. I saw fire. Screaming. And the word—Seraphina. She said it. That was her name."
Tarren went rigid.
That name was not spoken aloud.
Not for five hundred years.
Later, they confined Mira to the old prayer tower at the edge of town. Not a prison exactly—just a place for "observation."
They left her with water, bread, and a single candle that barely warmed the stone walls.
As the door locked behind her, Mira sat in the corner, shivering. She pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the tiny flicker of light.
Her shoulder ached from the rock. Her throat burned from screaming. Her heart? It was numb.
"I didn't do anything…"
But the words tasted hollow.
Because part of her knew.
Something was wrong with her now.
That night, she dreamed of fire.
Again.
Of a throne carved from bone and obsidian. Of thousands kneeling before a woman cloaked in shadows.
The Queen's voice echoed through her dream:
"You are the vessel."
When Mira woke the next morning, something had changed.
She felt… warmer. Stronger. Sharper.
The pain in her shoulder was gone.
She pulled back the fabric.
Her skin was unmarked.
No bruising. No swelling. Nothing.
But there was something else.
A black mark—shaped like the symbol in the sky—right over her heart.
It pulsed faintly, like it was breathing.
She scrambled to her feet in panic.
"No, no, no—"
Suddenly, the door opened.
Tarren stood there with two guards behind him, grim as ever.
"You're being summoned," he said. "By the council."
The council chambers smelled like old wood, incense, and fear.
The five elders of Theralyn sat behind a long table, eyes cold. In the corner stood Mother Eltha, arms crossed, her blind eyes staring straight at Mira as if she saw more than any of them.
"State your name," the high councilor demanded.
"Mira Orlane," she said quietly.
"You have been seen speaking to the being that called itself the Queen of Black Magic. Is this true?"
"Yes. I didn't ask to. She… she just appeared. In the chapel. It wasn't destroyed when I saw it."
"Lies!" snarled another councilor. "She's possessed. She brought the mark!"
Tarren stepped forward. "The mark in the sky vanished with sunrise, but the chapel is ash. No signs of fire. The stone itself melted."
The council murmured.
"That's impossible," one whispered.
"It's magic," said Mother Eltha, voice grave. "Old magic. Cursed magic. Forbidden."
Mira dared to speak. "Who is she? The Queen? Why is she choosing me?"
The room fell silent.
It was Eltha who finally answered.
"Seraphina was once a mortal. A sorceress of unmatched power. When the kings of men waged war upon the Night Clans, she fought back. She created armies of shadow. She summoned beasts from beyond the veil. She brought death to hundreds."
Mira's blood chilled.
"But she was betrayed. A circle of thirteen priests and blood-mages lured her into a trap. Using her own power against her, they sealed her beneath the forest—using human sacrifice. A hundred maidens, bound in soul and spirit."
"That's…" Mira couldn't breathe. "That's horrible."
Eltha nodded. "And now, their seal is breaking. Piece by piece. Every time a girl dies in those woods, her soul feeds the Queen. And now she's strong enough to reach out."
"To me," Mira whispered.
The high councilor slammed the table. "This girl is a danger! We should exile her. Or worse."
"She is not possessed," Eltha countered. "She is chosen."
Tarren looked at Mira, his face unreadable. "We need her alive. If she's our link to the Queen, then killing her is the last thing we should do."
The elders grumbled, but reluctantly agreed.
"For now," the councilor said, "she remains under watch. And if the Queen rises… then we may all be damned."
That night, locked again in the tower, Mira cried silently.
She didn't want this.
She didn't want to be chosen, or marked, or hunted by shadows.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Not when every shadow looked alive.
And then—she heard it.
A voice.
From within her own mind.
"You're afraid of what they think you are."
She sat up.
"Who's there?!"
"But you don't even know what you're becoming."
"No—get out of my head!"
"You are more than this body. More than these chains. You have power, Mira. You just have to stop being afraid of it."
She clutched her head, rocking back and forth.
"Say my name."
"No—no!"
"Say it."
And then it slipped out of her lips, like a secret she wasn't meant to speak.
"Seraphina."
The candle in the room went out instantly.
And the darkness moved.
A shadow curled up from the floor like smoke. It gathered in the center of the room, swirling, shaping.
Then—eyes.
Two glowing orbs of violet flame.
"You called," the shadow whispered, and it sounded like silk and screams all at once.
Mira backed into the corner.
"No. No—I didn't mean to—"
The shadow took shape again.
Seraphina. Tall. Beautiful. Terrifying.
"You are awakening," she said. "Your blood remembers. Your body resists—but your soul knows me."
"I'm not yours," Mira said, trembling. "I'm not a monster."
"No," Seraphina whispered, leaning in. "But you could become one. And that frightens them."
The Queen's hand extended.
A small flame danced on her fingertip—dark fire, burning black and blue.
"I offer power. Knowledge. Survival. The forest will call again. When it does… will you come to me?"
Mira didn't answer.
But Seraphina smiled anyway.
"You will."
And then—she vanished.
When morning came, Mira sat alone in the tower.
But the mark on her chest pulsed stronger.
And in her hand was something new.
A flower.
Black. Alive.
And not from this world.