Bella fell.
But not through space.
Through memory.
The chains dragged her through layers of time and shadow, violet light searing around her as ghostly echoes swirled. Screams, laughter, spells. A battlefield made of moments she hadn't lived… but somehow knew.
She tumbled through a sky of burning stars.
Through a castle made of bones.
Through a nursery, blood on the crib sheets.
Then—
She landed.
Hard.
Stone scraped her palms. The chains vanished like smoke. She coughed, gasping in dry, frozen air.
Around her stretched a cavern so wide it swallowed light. The only illumination came from above—the shattered ceiling of the Witchgate, now dozens of feet above her.
I'm underground, she thought, struggling to her knees. Buried alive.
She stood slowly.
Her breath fogged the air.
And in front of her—lit by flickering torches—stood a throne.
Not elegant. Not regal.
It was terrifying.
Forged from blackened bone and obsidian, it pulsed faintly with the same sigil over her chest.
Twelve arcs in a circle. The thirteenth was still flickering, unsteady.
As if waiting.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why this?"
The silence was deafening.
Until the throne answered.
Not in words—but in visions.
Bella's knees buckled as her mind was pulled backward. Her vision blurred, her heart thudding wildly as a memory—not hers—tore into her mind.
She stood in a burning hall.
Warlocks screamed. Witches wept. And at the center—Isadora, the First Flame, crowned and laughing, her mouth dripping blood.
"Let them burn," Isadora snarled. "Let them beg."
Behind her, a small girl with violet eyes—Bella?—watched in horror.
The council chanted. They carved the Thirteenth Sigil into Isadora's heart. And she laughed through it all.
"You think sealing me stops the fire? Fire only waits."
The memory shattered.
Bella gasped, stumbling away from the throne.
"Isadora was… me?" she whispered. "Or I'm her?"
"Both," said a voice behind her.
She spun.
The Warden of the Crown emerged from the shadows, his white cloak trailing ash behind him. The antlered mask glinted in the torchlight. In his hand, the black staff crackled with restrained magic.
"You carry her soul," he said. "But the question is—will you become her again?"
"I'm not a murderer," Bella spat.
The Warden tilted his head.
"Then prove it. Sit on the throne and choose. Either claim the Flame—or sever the bond."
He extended his hand toward the bone chair.
Bella stared at it.
"What happens if I sit?"
"Your crown awakens fully. And you'll know every life Isadora stole. Every soul she burned. Including your own family."
Bella's breath caught.
"And if I don't?"
"Then the Thirteenth Sigil will consume your mind from within. Slowly. You'll forget who you are. You'll become her anyway, piece by piece."
Bella's heart pounded.
She took one step toward the throne.
The ground quaked beneath her.
"What was that?" she gasped.
The Warden turned sharply.
Stone crumbled from the cavern walls. A gust of hot air burst from the earth. Violet cracks spiderwebbed across the floor beneath the throne.
Then—
A hand burst from the ground.
It wasn't human.
It was charred, clawed, dripping black flame.
Bella screamed as a woman rose from the earth—a copy of her, but twisted. Taller. Eyes burning violet. Hair like smoke. A crown of thorns pierced her skull.
"Hello, little ember," the creature crooned. "Did you miss me?"
The Warden roared, raising his staff.
"ISADORA!"
She laughed, and with a flick of her hand, blasted him across the chamber. He slammed into the wall, crumpling.
Bella backed away.
"No—no, this isn't real—"
Isadora smiled.
"It's very real, darling. And now that you've unlocked the sigil… I'm free."
She raised her hand.
Chains shot from the throne and wrapped around Bella's limbs, yanking her forward.
"Come now," Isadora purred. "Let's burn together, like we used to."
Bella screamed—
The throne blazed with violet fire.
Isadora's face merged with hers.
Bella's body convulsed as the sigil over her heart burned through her skin, fusing with the throne itself.
Her voice echoed one last time:
"Kael…"