The whispers returned that night.
They didn't speak in full sentences. Just fragments. Breaths. The creak of floorboards where no one walked. The sound of her own name spoken from inside the walls.
Seraphina sat curled on her bed, back pressed to the cold stone, eyes fixed on the crack that had begun to spider across her mirror. It hadn't widened, but something about it felt more... aware. As if the mirror wasn't broken—it was watching.
The mark on her palm had darkened. Not visibly, not to anyone else, but she felt it—like a bruise pressing beneath her skin, pulsing with quiet heat. It didn't hurt. But it wasn't silent either.
A knock at the door.
She tensed. "Yes?"
No response.
She opened it.
No one was there. But a folded note lay at her feet.
Library. After curfew. Bring the mark.
No signature. No wax seal. Just ink.
She checked the hallway. Empty. But something moved in the shadows beyond the staircase—just a flicker, too quick to be certain.
She slipped on her coat, covered her silver pin, and left.
Empire's Library didn't sleep.
Even at midnight, it pulsed with a soft golden glow. Rows of ancient tomes stretched across arched stone ceilings, and floating lanterns hovered between the shelves like fireflies.
Seraphina moved carefully, steps echoing. A clock chimed in the distance—twelve soft bells, each one slower than the last.
The map in her hand quivered. A student directory, enchanted and outdated. She wasn't looking for books. She was following the pull beneath her skin.
Section E.
A forgotten wing of the library. The shelves grew taller here. Dust clung to the air. The shadows were heavier. And carved above the archway in old script:
House of Echoes. Restricted.
She stepped through anyway.
A figure waited by the back wall.
"You came," Elijah said quietly, stepping out of the shadows.
"You left the note."
"I didn't sign it. I didn't need to."
Sera narrowed her eyes. "Why here? Why now?"
He held out a leather-bound book. Old. Sealed in iron clasps. "This belonged to someone like you."
She hesitated before taking it. The cover shimmered darkly. On it, a name she didn't recognize—but one that made her chest tighten:
Amara Thorne.
She traced it. "Who was she?"
"A Shadowbound student," Elijah said. "One of the first. She kept a journal. It's been hidden for a century."
"Why give it to me?"
He met her gaze. "Because the mark on your palm matches hers. Exactly."
She read for hours.
Amara had once walked the same halls. Dreamed the same dreams. Fought the same whispers. But unlike the others, she'd tried to understand the curse. Not fight it. Not run from it. She believed the curse wasn't punishment—it was protection. A seal. A cage to keep something older from waking.
She'd written of mirrors that wept blood. Statues that moved at night. Voices in the fire.
And at the end of her final entry:
"When the mirror cracks again, the last Bound will awaken. She must choose: break the curse, or become it."
Sera closed the book with shaking hands.
The mirror in her room had cracked just days ago.
And somehow, she knew:
Amara's final warning had been for her.
The next morning came in gray light and chilled air.
Sera walked the halls with new weight in her step. She barely heard the sneers or felt the stares.
Everyone had seen what the Stone of Origin had done. No one said it, but she could feel it in their silence: she didn't belong. Not to a House. Not to their world. Not even to herself.
But someone was waiting for her at her locker.
A girl. Petite, sharp-eyed, with hair so white it looked silver.
"You're Seraphina," the girl said.
"I'm not interested in interviews."
"Not a reporter."
"Then what?"
The girl held up a pin. A silver star twisted with shadow. "I'm from the Aether House. My name is Nyra. I've seen a mark like yours before."
Sera stilled. "Where?"
Nyra glanced around. "Not here. Come to the Clock Tower at dusk. Don't tell Elijah."
Before Sera could speak, Nyra vanished in a shimmer of air.
That evening, the Clock Tower loomed over the courtyard. It didn't chime like normal towers. It whispered.
Sera climbed the winding stairs. At the top, she found Nyra already there, gazing over the school like a hawk.
"You came."
"Talk."
Nyra turned. "There have only been seven Shadowbound students in Empire's history. Five are dead. One vanished. One—Amara Thorne—was silenced."
"Silenced?"
"Stripped of her memories. Her legacy erased. They burned her journals... or so they thought."
"And now me."
"You."
Nyra handed her a scroll. Inside, drawings. Symbols. Each one matched the mark on Sera's palm.
"The curse isn't just a curse. It's a chain. And when the last link breaks... the shadows wake."
Sera looked out over the campus. Her pulse thundered.
"What if I'm the last link?"
"Then break carefully," Nyra whispered. "Because some things shouldn't be freed."
That night, the whispers in the walls were louder.
The crack in the mirror widened.
And for the first time, Sera saw not just her reflection.
She saw someone behind it.
A girl with eyes like hers. Dressed in old robes.
Whispering. Reaching. Bleeding shadow from her mouth.
Amara.
She mouthed one word:
Run.