The moment the bone door closed, the forest exhaled.
A gust of wind tore through the ancient trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something metallic—blood, or perhaps the lingering memory of it. Seraphina stood frozen, her hand still outstretched toward where the door had been. There was no trace of it now. Only the gnarled trunks of oaks pressed close together, their bark rough beneath her fingertips when she finally let her arm fall.
The strangers had vanished, too.
Lysandra was gone.
Seraphina's breath came fast and shallow, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her throat. She turned in a slow circle, searching the shadows between the trees for any sign of movement, any hint of silver light. But the forest had gone still. Too still. Even the wind had died.
Then—
A whisper against her cheek.
She spun, dagger raised, but there was nothing there. Only the faintest shimmer in the air, like heat rising from sunbaked stone.
"Lysandra?" The name left her lips before she could stop it, barely more than a breath.
The shimmer pulsed.
And then the pain came.
It started in her branded forehead—the mark the false Sleeper had left behind—a sharp, stabbing sensation that radiated outward until her entire skull throbbed. She gasped, dropping to her knees as visions flooded her mind:
A woman with hair like spilt blood standing before a throne of writhing shadows.
A crown of jagged bone being pressed into the brow of a sobbing child.
A door—not of wood or iron, but of teeth—grinning wide as something ancient stirred within.
The images came faster, sharper, until Seraphina could no longer tell where the visions ended and she began. She was the woman. She was the child. She was the thing behind the door.
And then—
Silence.
The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving her shaking and drenched in sweat. The forest sounds rushed back—the creak of branches, the distant call of a bird. Normal. Ordinary.
But something was different.
When Seraphina lifted her head, she saw them.
Faint at first, like afterimages burned into her vision. Then clearer.
Silver threads.
They hung in the air all around her, delicate as spider silk, pulsing with a soft, rhythmic light. Some ran along the ground, others wound through the trees, all converging into a single path leading deeper into the forest.
Lysandra's path.
Seraphina reached out, her fingers trembling as they neared one of the threads. It shivered at her touch, vibrating with a low, musical hum that resonated in her bones.
She knew then what she had to do.
Pushing to her feet, she sheathed her dagger and followed the threads into the waiting dark.
Meanwhile, in the heart of the crumbling castle, the king stood over the Scholar's limp form, his hands stained red. His daughter, Seraphina's sister, watched from the doorway, her face carefully blank.
"It's beneath the crypts," the king murmured, more to himself than to her. "It's always been there."
The Scholar coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. "Too late," he rasped. "She's already walking the path. And when she reaches the end—"
The king drove his dagger between the Scholar's ribs, silencing him forever. But the words hung in the air, heavy with prophecy.
When she reaches the end—
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, washing the blood from the castle stones. Somewhere far away, behind a door that was not a door, Lysandra opened her eyes. And the First Queen smiled.
The silver threads thickened as Seraphina walked, their glow pulsing like slow, steady heartbeats in the gloom. They wove between the trees in intricate patterns—sometimes looping around ancient trunks, sometimes stretching taut across the path like the strings of some enormous, forgotten instrument. When she brushed her fingers against one, the vibration travelled up her arm, settling deep in her chest with a resonance that made her teeth ache. It wasn't just light. It wasn't just sound. It was the memory.
Lysandra's memory.
She could feel it now—fragments of her sister's presence lingering in the air like the scent of ozone after a storm. The sharp, metallic tang of fear. The warmth of determination. The bitter aftertaste of whatever the Watchers had done to her. Seraphina quickened her pace, her boots sinking into the damp earth as the forest grew denser, the canopy above knitting together until no trace of the sky remained. The only light came from the threads, their silver glow painting the trees in ghostly hues.
Then, without warning, the threads twisted.
They coiled abruptly to the left, plunging into a thicket of brambles so dense they formed a wall of thorns. Seraphina hesitated. The branches were unnaturally black, their edges glistening as if wet, and when she leaned closer, she realized why.
They weren't thorns at all.
They were claws.
Curved and razor-sharp, each one the length of her forearm, protruding from the gnarled wood like the talons of some long-buried beast. And they were moving. Not much—just a faint, rhythmic flexing, as if whatever they belonged to was stirring in its sleep.
A whisper of sound behind her.
Seraphina turned just in time to see the silver threads recoil, slithering back the way she'd come like snakes fleeing fire. The path vanished. The light faded.
And the claws flexed again, this time with purpose.
The crypts beneath the castle had not been opened in centuries.
The king stood before the sealed archway, his torch guttering in the damp air. The stones here were older than the kingdom itself, their surfaces carved with warnings in a language even the Scholar had not fully understood. Turn back, they seemed to say. What sleeps here should never wake.
His daughter, ever dutiful, ever cold, held the lantern aloft as he pressed his palm to the centre of the arch. The moment his skin touched the stone, the carvings flared red, the heat so intense it blistered his flesh. He did not flinch.
"Father," his daughter said, her voice carefully neutral. "The bloodline curse—"
"Is the only reason this door will open for me," he finished.
And it did.
With a groan of grinding stone, the archway split down the middle, the two halves sliding apart to reveal a staircase spiralling into darkness. The air that rushed out was thick with the scent of wet earth and something else—something sweet and cloying, like rotting fruit.
The king stepped forward. His daughter did not follow. He turned, one eyebrow raised.
"You're afraid," he observed.
She met his gaze evenly. "I'm not the one holding a torch."
For a moment, something almost like pride flickered in his eyes. Then he descended, the shadows swallowing him whole.
Lysandra was drowning.
Not in water—in light.
It filled her mouth, her nose, her lungs, burning like liquid silver. She tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the brilliance pressing in on all sides. The threads—her threads, the ones the Watchers had sewn into her skin—were unravelling, each one peeling away to reveal raw, glowing flesh beneath.
And the First Queen watched.
She was taller than Lysandra had imagined, her hair not just red but the deep, visceral crimson of a freshly opened wound. It moved around her like living things, tendrils curling and uncurling in the charged air. Her eyes were worse. There were too many of them—not just in her face, but scattered across her skin, her palms, the insides of her wrists—all fixed on Lysandra with terrible focus.
"Little thief," the First Queen murmured. Her voice was layered, overlapping, as if a dozen women spoke at once. "You stole into my dreams. You woke my hunger. And now you will feed it."
She reached out, one long finger trailing down Lysandra's cheek. Where she touched, the skin split, silver pouring from the wound like blood.
Seraphina pressed her back against the nearest tree, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The clawed thicket loomed before her, its talons flexing hungrily. She had two options: go through or go back.
Going back meant abandoning Lysandra. Going through meant walking into what was very clearly a trap. She closed her eyes, listening to the hum of the last remaining silver thread—the one wrapped tight around her wrist, trembling like a plucked wire. It tugged her forward, insistent.
Seraphina opened her eyes.
And stepped into the thorns.
The claws struck fast, but she was faster. She twisted, letting the first swipe graze her shoulder instead of her throat. Hot blood welled, dripping down her arm, but she barely felt it. The second claw came from the left. She ducked. The third from above. She rolled.
And then she was through, stumbling into a clearing so abruptly it felt like stepping off a cliff. The air here was different. Heavier. Older. And at the centre of the clearing stood a door. Not of bone this time. Of teeth.
They stretched from ground to sky, each one longer than she was tall, their roots sunk deep into the earth. They parted as she approached, saliva dripping from their jagged edges, the gap between them widening into a yawning, hungry dark.
From within, something laughed. Seraphina tightened her grip on her dagger. And walked inside.