Inside the ruined chapel's main nave.
3:21 AM.
Some places don't remember time.
They remember grief.
The surroundings were still quiet—but it was no longer the ordinary kind of silence. It wasn't the type you hear in the middle of the night.
It was the kind of silence born from inside, a grave—heavy, ancient, full of laments long forgotten.
The candle—there was no one to light it, yet it burned. Small, orange flame. Untouched. Flickering in air that didn't move.
It was as if a spirit breathed in every flicker.
There was no ceiling on half the chapel. The roof had collapsed. The stained glass windows shattered.
And yet, despite its ruin, a presence lingered—more whole than any standing church. As if someone was watching.
Seraphina stepped inside the nave. The moment she passed through the broken doorway, the air thickened.
As if something descended. Or awakened. As if the very space had shifted, and time itself had stopped.
And the shadows peeking through the cracks in the walls whispered into the dark.
Every step she took echoed.
She could hear her own footsteps.
But his—made no sound. Like air.
Still silent. Like the ghost of something unwilling to completely fade.
She glanced at him.
Still ahead. Quiet. Like a sentinel of the altar long abandoned by God.
He stood in the center of the chapel, beneath the only remaining stained glass—the only one intact.
The light touching his body was blood red.
There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Only remembrance.
That was when she saw the paintings on the walls. Cracked. Etched. The edges burned.
They weren't just relics. They looked like victims too—of time, of history, of betrayal.
But one painting caught Seraphina's eye.
A woman standing in the middle of a fire. A red crown on her head.
Clad in black, bloodied shoulders.
Torn clothing. Burning. And the woman's face—it looked just like hers.
Her muscles tensed. Her shoulders trembled.
Her chest grew heavy, as if trapped by memories she didn't know were hers.
Her strength almost left her. She couldn't move.
She couldn't believe it. This couldn't be real. But she felt it. She felt it deep in her bones.
That painting was remembering her.
As if it had been waiting. As if the walls had been whispering her name long before she arrived.
She stepped closer, her hands trembling, and as if pulled by an unexplainable force, her palm reached for the canvas.
And the moment her skin touched it—She gasped.
A sharp pain burst through her hand.
Blood spilled. It was like a needle piercing her vein. The sting was not just in the flesh—but in memory.
She yanked her hand back, but it was too late.
Her blood seeped into the canvas, crawling through the cracks of the image—until a sigil slowly emerged beneath the painting.
It glowed. Bright red. Feeding off the blood. Alive.
A pulse.
A mark.
A curse.
Then, finally, he spoke.
Low. Ragged. Heavy with memory.
"This is where they damned us."
Seraphina's eyes widened.
"Us?"
She stepped back.
"That woman in the painting—is that me? They burned me? What the hell is this place?!"
There was a tremble in her voice—not just from fear, but from a dread she couldn't explain.
It was as if her soul recognized something her body had long forgotten.
He didn't answer.
The man simply stood there, staring at the candle as though forming something in his mind—or reading a secret from the air.
The weight of his silence was louder than any scream.
Then, wind blew through the broken window.
All the candles danced.
The flames didn't just flicker.
They burst.
As if angered.
The chapel moaned.
And in the wind, something whispered.
Not his voice.
Something else.
Deeper.
Fragmented. Like it came from beneath a grave.
From a tomb long sealed—yet never forgotten.
"The queen must burn again…"
Seraphina stumbled back.
Her back hit the cracked pew.
"What the fuck was that—who said that?!"
The man didn't move. But his eyes darkened.
He looked at Seraphina.
And for the first time, she saw an emotion flicker in his gaze. A sorrow he had carried for far too long.
Not just for what had happened—But because he knew the tragedy was about to repeat.
And what he said next wasn't a question.
It wasn't a warning.
It was truth.
"You weren't just reborn, Seraphina. You were resurrected by mistake."
And somewhere in the chapel… something woke up.
Hidden crypt chamber beneath the chapel.
3:37 AM.
Some truths are buried.
Others are entombed.
Silence reigned—until the earth trembled.
The flickering candles shook.
Seraphina staggered back a step, as the old altar before them—the very stone one, charred black against the wall, edges cracked—began to split.
It was as if something beneath it breathed. Something long imprisoned—trying to break free.
"W-What's happening?" she turned to him, panic swelling in her chest.
But the man—calm as stone—looked her straight in the eye and whispered:
"You have to see what they buried."
And as he said it, the ground opened.
Literally.
The stone cracked wide, and from the chapel floor, a spiral staircase began to rise—made of rusted iron and ancient bone, winding down into the earth like a serpent's spine.
It hadn't been there before. But now—it demanded to be seen.
Seraphina felt something shift in her blood.
Like something was calling her. Like something in her veins waved back from below.
She looked at him quietly—and without a word, she stepped onto the first stair.
They descended.
Each step, colder. Not just the air—but the light. As if the dark was swallowing them whole.
His footsteps made no sound. Hers echoed like funeral bells.
And at the bottom—they arrived.
A crypt chamber.
The walls were scorched black—burn marks everywhere, as if this room had burned over but refused to collapse.
On both sides of the chamber, white veils swayed in the wind. But when Seraphina looked closer—they weren't veils.
They were wedding veils. Burned at the edges. Some stained with blood.
Next to them, melted silver crowns hung on rusted spikes—each one warped by heat, twisted by violence.
And beneath glass panels on the floor—Coffins. Dozens of them.
Each crafted from obsidian glass, trimmed in bloodmetal, lit from below by something that wasn't fire.
Each one carved with a name.
Names she didn't recognize—Until she saw the one at the center.
Seraphina.
Her name. Not just carved—written in blood.
She didn't know how—but she knew it was hers.
She stepped forward. Stared at her own coffin.
"Why is my name here? Am I… supposed to be dead?" Her voice cracked.
But he didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped aside—and gestured to the center of the room.
There, elevated on a platform of obsidian and shattered bone, stood a throne.
This was no mere seat. It was a monument.
Forged from melted swords, fragments of scorched crowns, and bones polished to a shine. Embedded within were shards of glowing red fireglass—pulsing like a sleeping heart.
Seraphina couldn't look away.
"Sit," he said.
"I don't want to—"
"Your blood brought this place back. It's already calling to you."
Her knees trembled. Her palms still stung from the painting upstairs.
But it was like her body was moving on its own. Before she could resist—
She was seated.
And the moment she sat—the chamber responded.
The walls trembled.
The sigils carved into the stone ignited—red, blue, black.
Like an ancient language, cursed and now awakened at the right time.
A wave of heat surged from the floor, and suddenly—A mark appeared on her chest.
Right above her heart.
A sigil flared to life—Sanguis Cordis. A vow etched in blood, spinning like fate reborn.
Glowing. Spinning. Alive.
Seraphina gasped. Her vision blurred.
Her veins burned. Her eyes snapped open—and they glowed red.
She looked at him—his eyes matched.
Her hands shook.
Her voice shattered with terror, rage, and something older—Something ancient.
"Who am I really?"
Her scream echoed through the crypt like a curse.
The man stepped forward. Slowly.
Heavily. No more mystery in his gaze—only pain.
Then he spoke.
Not gently.
Not softly.
But with truth.
"You were my queen—And my executioner."
Seraphina froze.
Everything inside her broke.
Silence carved space. No one moved.
Only air. Only sigils.
And her own heart, hammering in her chest.
And beneath his voice—came the final poison.
"They thought they killed you.
But you made sure I'd suffer first."
A dark room beside the chapel.
3:58 AM.
There are mirrors that don't reflect your image—But your memories.
She didn't know how she got to that room.
Just moments ago, she was still in the crypt, shaking and confused. But now—it was like something had pulled her.
A shapeless shadow.
A memory with a hand.
There was a door at the end of the hallway.
The air was thick—like it was trying to hide that room. But she felt it.
Something was waiting inside.
The door opened without her touch.
Dust greeted her. Heavy.
Dense. Like the smoke of burned secrets.
In the center of the room, only one thing stood:
An antique full-length mirror.
Standing alone. Bound in chains.
Covered in black cloth—burned, filthy, like it had been buried.
Seraphina approached, slowly, her heartbeat quickening. She didn't know why her hands trembled.
She only knew—There was something she had to see.
She touched the metal.
It burned. As if ablaze with rage. A scream buried alive.
And suddenly—The cloth fell.
She didn't move. There was no wind.
But the fabric slipped off. The chains crashed to the floor.
As if whatever power bound them had finally given up.
Seraphina looked into the mirror.
But she didn't see herself.
Not her clothes.
Not her face.
Not the Seraphina in the chapel now.
Inside the mirror—was the woman who looked just like her.
Standing in the middle of a burning throne. Dressed in black royal armor. Sigils carved on her shoulders, blood dripping from her hands. Holding a crown—stained with her own blood.
The reflection stared back. Smiling.
Not kind. But cruel. And the eyes of that woman—its pure white. No pupils.
"That's not me…" she whispered, stepping back, trembling.
But before she could move—a crack formed in the mirror.
It shattered from within. Splintered outward. Yet not a single shard touched her.
Instead, a thick silver smoke emerged—Heavy. Cold. And sentient.
It wrapped around Seraphina.
Searching. Trying to return.
"Stop… s-stop…"
But she was no longer in control.
Her mouth opened. And from it—a voice spoke. Not hers. But from a time long gone.
The voice of a queen—buried with her kingdom.
Sharp. Deep. Dark.
In a language the world no longer knew.
The lights flickered.
The walls trembled.
The earth pulsed like it breathed.
And suddenly—the door burst open.
"SERAPHINA!" shouted Lucien. Soaked in rain. Breathless.
He saw her—Seraphina's eyes were pure white.
"NO—DON'T—"
But before he could reach her—
Seraphina spoke. But not in her voice.
Not in her scream.
She spoke a name—one not meant to be heard again.
"LUCAEL!"
Lucien froze. Swallowed. Weakened.
As if drained of breath.
That name…
No one else should remember. No one knew.
It was the name he buried with his kingdom.
He rushed to her.
Held her shoulders.
"Please… come back to me…"
And as she fell into his arms, the last shard of the shattered mirror glowed—then cracked in half.
The glow left her eyes. But before she lost consciousness, she whispered—
A whisper barely audible—But sharp enough to slice the soul.
"My soul remembers you…
But my heart doesn't trust you anymore."