The next morning in Nightspire was no warmer than the night before. Mist clung to the castle walls like a living thing, whispering through the corridors as Seraphina walked alone, candle in hand.
Lucien had not summoned her again after their conversation.
But she couldn't sleep. Not with the strange scratching she'd heard behind the walls. Not with the icy air that never seemed to leave the room, no matter how many logs Mira added to the fire.
The servants said nothing. They moved like shadows—polite, silent, and eerily expressionless.
She passed one in the hallway. A woman with blank eyes and lips stitched into a faint smile.
"Can you direct me to the library?" Seraphina asked.
The woman only nodded and turned, leading her without a word.
But instead of the library, she was brought to a double door made of dark, weathered wood.
"This is not—" Seraphina stopped.
The servant had vanished.
The doors creaked open on their own.
Curiosity warred with caution. But in the end, she stepped inside.
The air was colder here.
Dust hung thick in the room, coating the red carpet and high chandeliers. Faded moonlight bled through long windows, casting ghostly shapes across the floor.
And lining the walls…
Portraits.
Dozens of them.
Women, dressed in finery. Some in gowns of silver and gold. Others in red, emerald, or sapphire. Each painting was carefully rendered, their expressions poised—some smiling faintly, some solemn.
But all of them had the same detail.
A black rose tucked somewhere on their person.
Seraphina's breath caught.
These were not noblewomen of the empire.
These were brides.
Nightbane brides.
She stepped closer to one. A woman with raven hair and violet eyes. Young, beautiful… and dead behind the eyes.
She looked too real. Too recent.
Seraphina turned to the next one. This woman had curls of copper and a rose clutched in her hands.
The dates etched below made her skin chill.
Each woman… had lived here. Each had married into the Nightbane line.
And each had died within a year of arrival.
She stepped back, heart pounding. "What is this place?"
"History," said a voice from the shadows.
She spun around.
Lucien stood at the entrance, cloak draped behind him, his expression unreadable.
"You keep paintings of your dead wives?" she asked, her voice colder than the room.
"I don't," he said. "My ancestors did."
He walked toward her, eyes flickering to the portraits. "The curse began five generations ago. Every woman who married into this house met an early end. Some to illness. Some to madness. Some simply vanished."
"And you still live here?"
"Because I have no choice."
He gestured to the final painting, tucked into the far corner.
Seraphina approached it slowly.
Her steps faltered.
The woman in the portrait looked eerily like her. Pale skin. Silver-blonde hair. The same high cheekbones.
Her name?
Lady Evelyne D'Ambrose.
Lucien's mother.
"She died here?" Seraphina whispered.
"She vanished," Lucien said quietly. "One night she walked into the west garden. No one ever saw her again."
A silence fell between them.
"So why bring me here?" she asked. "Why agree to this marriage at all?"
Lucien stared at the portrait for a long time.
Then said, "Because the curse needs to be broken. And you… you might be the one who can do it."
Seraphina scoffed, trying to hide the chill crawling up her spine. "You sound like a man who believes in fairy tales."
He turned to her then—close, too close.
"I don't believe in fairy tales," he said. "I believe in blood, betrayal, and the weight of history."
Then he stepped past her, toward the door.
"I'll have the library prepared for you," he added. "You'll find records there. If you truly wish to survive this place, I suggest you begin reading."
Back in her chamber, Seraphina said nothing as Mira helped her change into a warmer gown. Her mind was too full.
Of portraits that watched.Of Lucien's haunted words.Of her own reflection in a dead woman's face.
When Mira left to fetch tea, Seraphina stood before the mirror.
And for a split second—
Her reflection moved without her.
She gasped and stumbled back, blinking hard.
But the mirror only showed herself.
Cold. Pale. Alone.
Her hand trembled as she touched her throat.
"What did I walk into…?"