The tower no longer felt haunted.
It felt alive — whispering to Elara with every breath she took.
Days melted into nights as Seris drilled her relentlessly through the dark halls of the Veiled Circle. She learned to summon the black flame with precision, to bend shadows like silk threads, to hear the truths people buried under their lies.
Each lesson began with a whisper and ended with blood.
The first time she failed, the tower punished her.
A mark appeared on her wrist — a thin, burning scar in the shape of a chain.
"Every weakness leaves a chain behind," Seris had said, her voice cold. "Break enough of them, and you'll be free. But if you falter, they'll drag you down forever."
---
Weeks passed. The chains faded, one by one.
Elara grew faster. Stronger. Quieter.
But inside her, something else grew — a shadow not taught by Seris, not born of magic, but from her own soul.
At night, when she closed her eyes, she saw them — Darius and Merek — laughing in the golden hall of Valenor, their hands still stained with the blood of her family.
She woke each morning with the same whisper on her lips:
Soon.
---
One evening, Seris took her deeper into the tower — to the Hall of Mirrors.
"This," Seris said, gesturing to the endless rows of black glass, "is where the Circle binds our oaths. It reflects not your face, but your truth."
Elara stepped forward. Her reflection shifted — her eyes darkened, her crown returned to her head, but blood ran down her face like tears.
Then, the reflection smiled at her.
A cruel, knowing smile.
Seris didn't flinch. "Do you still wish for revenge, even knowing it will destroy what's left of you?"
Elara met her own gaze in the mirror, her voice steady.
"Destruction is the point."
The mirrors rippled like water. The air trembled.
A deep hum rose from the ground, and a symbol burned itself into her palm — a black thorn encircled by flame.
"The mark of vengeance," Seris whispered. "Your oath is sealed."
---
That night, the Veiled Circle gathered in the courtyard — cloaked figures surrounding her as moonlight fell in silver lines across the stone.
The hooded leader — the one who had given her power — spoke solemnly.
"Elara Vayne is no more. From this night, you are Thorn-Blooded, first of the reborn. Your purpose is vengeance — but your loyalty is to the Circle alone."
The others bowed. A low chant began, echoing through the ruined tower.
Elara raised her hand. The black flame flared, dancing like a living thing.
"I accept the chains," she said, her voice clear. "And I will use them to choke my enemies."
The flames surged, wrapping around her body in ribbons of light. The chant grew louder, faster — a hymn to the darkness that gave her purpose.
Then, silence.
When she opened her eyes, the courtyard was empty. Only Seris remained.
"You've crossed the line now," Seris said softly. "There's no turning back."
Elara looked up at the stars — their cold light reflected in her silver-streaked eyes.
"I don't want to turn back," she said. "I want to make them remember me."
Seris gave a faint smile — something between pity and pride.
"Then you will."
---
Later, as the tower slept, Elara slipped away to the highest balcony. The wind tugged at her cloak, the world stretched far below — and in the distance, she could just make out the faint glow of Valenor's palace.
She pressed her palm against the stone rail. The thorn mark on her skin burned faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
In her mind, she saw the throne room again — Darius's eyes cold, the guards dragging her through marble floors.
Her whisper was soft, but the night seemed to carry it far.
"You'll kneel, Darius. You'll kneel before me."
Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating her face — fierce, unyielding, and touched by madness.