They gather now.
Not soldiers devotees.
Thorne brought others. Not because I asked but because they followed him.
A cursed swordsman who only speaks in riddles.
A blind seer who plucked out her own eyes to stop seeing her own death.
A warlock who dreams of drowning gods in ink.
They call me Lady Vale.
But one of them… calls me nothing.
He kneels. Bows. Obeys.
But never speaks.
His name is Mire. Or so he says.
But names… I remember those. Especially the ones carved into my soul.
And Mire's presence hums with a familiarity that slices deeper than betrayal. His silence tastes like memory. Like
Me.
Tonight, during a moonless gathering, I test him.
I burn a sigil in the air. A summoning rune known only to the Vale bloodline.
Everyone watches in awe.
Except Mire.
He flinches.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
"Where did you learn that?" I ask him softly.
His lie is smooth. "Books."
I smile like frost.
"That spell was buried with my original corpse."
Silence.
And then his eyes shift just slightly.
I see it.
Not guilt.
But pain.
He's carrying a piece of me. Not stolen. Not cursed. Hidden.
Later that night, I find him at the edge of the black lake. Alone. Still silent.
"I don't want to kill you," I say.
He turns. His lips tremble. "Then don't."
"But I will," I whisper, stepping closer, "unless you tell me who gave you that soul shard."
He looks away.
"You did," he says. "In your first life. You loved me once. Enough to spare me. Enough… to break yourself."
My breath catches.
For the first time in three lives… I forget how to speak.