The walls of the Glass Tomb shivered.
They had grown thin. Fragile. The kind of fragile that meant change.
And the house hated change.
Seraphine stood at the top of it—where the air was still and cold, and the light only ever came in slivers. The room of whispers, of commands, where the house spoke.
She stepped in.
Barefoot. Pale. Her black gown streaked with the dust of a hundred halls.
She sat on the floor, her voice steady but her fingers trembling.
"I'm here," she said. "It's time."
The house groaned. The floor shook faintly beneath her.
"For what?" it asked, the voice slithering through the stone. "To leave? For him? For a man who still lies to you?"
Seraphine lifted her chin.
"Kill me," she said. "And let him go."
The house went quiet.
She screamed it this time, louder—"Kill me!" Her voice cracked, broken open by grief. "Do it! Take me!"
And below…
In the hall Vale had grown used to as his prison, a slow glow began to crawl along the walls.
He stirred.
"Seraph?" he called out, hopeful.
But light was not what followed.
Pain was.
Thwip.
A blade slammed into his thigh.
He screamed.
Another—his arm. His side. His stomach. His cries echoed against the gold. Blood poured. He gasped—not for breath, not even for mercy.
But for her.
"Seraph…"
And then—
She came.
Footsteps like thunder. Her voice like a storm.
"STOP!" she shrieked as she ran into the hall, tears streaking her cheeks. "I told you to let him go! TAKE ME!"
Knives kept flying—whirling in the air like the house's fury made manifest.
And Seraph—
She ran to him.
She dropped to her knees and pulled the blade from his stomach with shaking hands, pressing her palm against the bleeding wound.
"Vale…" she sobbed.
He looked at her—blood in his mouth, pain everywhere—and still, he smiled.
"I love you," he whispered.
Three words.
The house screamed.
Rage.
The wind howled louder than it ever had before. The walls cracked. The chandeliers above swayed violently. Dozens—hundreds—of knives filled the air, spinning, aiming—
But she stood.
She turned her back to him.
And faced the storm.
The knives came.
And she opened her arms.
Steel met skin. One. Two. Five. Ten.
Each strike meant for him.
Taken by her.
She stood trembling, blood blooming across her back, her chest, her arms—but her eyes stayed open. Her body stayed standing.
She whispered through the agony:
"You won't take him from me."
The house howled.
And something in it broke.