Lucien knelt broken on the floor, his sobs wracking the silence of the chamber. Edmund stooped, one strong arm slipping beneath the young earl’s shoulder. He didn’t try to still the weeping, grief was a storm that could not be damned, but he lifted Lucien gently, guiding him toward the chair by the dressing table as though carrying the weight of a fallen soldier.

“Sit,” Edmund murmured. His voice was rough, though not unkind.

Lucien obeyed, sinking heavily into the seat. His face stayed buried in his hands, shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. His eyes were hollow, as though his soul had slipped free and left nothing but a husk behind.

Edmund still clutched the leather notebook, knuckles white against its worn edges. He hadn’t set it down, not even when he helped Lucien sit. As if letting go might let the last remains of Seraphine slip through his fingers. At last, he drew a shaky breath and opened it once more, slower this time, determined to take in every mark instead of rushing past them. The spine creaked faintly as he eased the pages over one by one, careful, almost reverent, as though mishandling them might make the words vanish. His reddened eyes glistened, a breath away from breaking down like Lucien. Each page blurred as new tears welled, and he rubbed at his eyes now and then, refusing to let himself crumble. It was like reading Seraphine’s diary, every word steeped in her pain and fear.

Mina, watching, felt her throat tighten. She hadn’t made sense of all the scribbles before, she didn’t remember all the details either. However, she did remember how it was written. Frantic and with haste, as if Seraphine was running out of time. Each page was drenched with fear, with panic, with despair. It was as if she was suffocating. What made her so afraid?

She wondered if Seraphine had been truly depressed or if something far darker had been lurking at her. Seraphine had believed herself cursed, so maybe this wasn’t just despair, not something they could neatly label and dismiss. She had wanted to save Lucien. But did she honestly think this was saving him? That this would spare him pain?

–How naïve of her.

How utterly ignorant. Because what Mina saw now was a man broken beyond recognition, his hollow stare more lifeless than death itself. Perhaps this was even worse than dying. Death was final, but this left Lucien alive only to bleed out slowly, to suffer with every memory, every quiet corner that whispered her name. And all those memories would remind him that Seraphine had never trusted him enough to confide in him.

Maybe Seraphine had believed she was being selfless. Maybe she had convinced herself the world would be better without her. For a heartbeat, Mina felt the faintest tug of guilt because if Seraphine had been drowning in despair, wasn’t this anger unfair? But the thought evaporated as quickly as it came. Understanding was not forgiveness. To Mina, this was pure cowardice.

If Seraphine were standing here now, she would slap her hard enough to leave a mark, and then keep slapping her until she woke up and faced the wreckage she had left behind. She thought she was cursed? No. She had cursed everyone she loved. Nothing was more selfish, nothing more cruel, than abandoning the people who would have fought beside her.

And what was Seraphine’s grand plan, anyway? To vanish and leave Mina to live her life for her? For Mina to live as her forever, pretending until she died of old age? She had to admit, she had been planning to do exactly that for a while, to slip into Seraphine’s life and play along until she found a way home. But that plan had already failed spectacularly.

Seraphine had gambled everything on a forbidden spell, never once thinking about the chaos she would leave behind. The thought made Mina’s fists curl at her sides, her teeth grinding as anger welled up. What role was she even supposed to play here now? She had been clinging to the fragile idea that if this was a story, there would be a role for her, a thread to follow, an ending that might open the door back home. But what if there was not? What if she had no role at all? If this was not a story with rules but a world that simply kept turning, then she was trapped, doomed to wear another woman’s face forever.

Her stomach twisted violently. She might never see her own world again. She might never see her girlfriend again. The possibility carved something hollow and cruel into her chest. Maybe Seraphine had not been thinking at all, just acting on raw desperation. Maybe she had been selfish, so consumed by fear that she had ignored reason. It did not matter. The result was the same. Mina’s clues, her fragile hopes, had been shattered. Seraphine ruined her life.

The thought made Mina’s blood boil. She could barely breathe thinking about it, the fury and frustration hammering in her chest. She wanted to shout, to scream, to shake the pages of the notebook until her way out was revealed, hoping Seraphine left a note especially for her.

Mina swallowed the rage and shame that bubbled at the edges of her thoughts. Her gaze flicked to Edmund, who had not spoken since lowering Lucien into the chair. His face was grim, eyes tired and red-rimmed, but he held the notebook like a shield between the chaos outside and the chaos within. Mina could see the effort it took for him to remain upright, to cling to some semblance of control. Lucien, meanwhile, remained bent over, his hands still pressed against his face, trembling with sobs that seemed endless.

Isolde was farther away, sitting silently by the window. She stared into the pale light spilling across the floor, her eyes raw and swollen from crying until there was nothing left. The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving only a hollow emptiness in her gaze. Her shoulders sagged forward, and her hands rested limply in her lap, unmoving, as if even the strength to fidget had been drained from her.

–Look at what you’ve done, Seraphine. Is this what you wanted?

Mina cursed Seraphine many times in her mind, hot and merciless. No excuse could ever justify the pain Seraphine had left behind. But as fury flared, guilt and realization crawled up at her until she felt blood draining from her face. Was she any better? If her soul was here, then what was left in her world? Was there just a lifeless body lying in her apartment, or had she simply vanished into thin air, leaving only questions and grief? Were the people she loved mourning her the same way Seraphine’s parents mourned Seraphine? Was her girlfriend crying for her right now, broken and helpless like Lucien? The thought hollowed her chest, a cruel weight pressing against her ribs. Even if none of this had been her choice, she could not escape the sense that her being here had carved deep wounds in two worlds. If only Seraphine never ended her life here.

–No, wait. I got that wrong.

Mina pushed herself up from the bed, legs shaky, and moved closer to Edmund. The notebook rested in his hands, open to a page filled with frantic handwriting and intricate sigils. She leaned over to look, her breath caught in her chest.

“We’ve been interpreting this wrong,” Edmund said, voice taut, each word deliberate.

“Yes,” Mina whispered, eyes widening, understanding what Edmund referred to. “Of course. It wasn’t destruction. It was an exchange.”

The realization hit her like a punch. Seraphine had not ended her life. If the ritual had worked, her soul was still here, somewhere in this world, reborn in another body. They just brushed over this before, how foolish.

Edmund’s voice was quiet but firm. “A trade. One soul in, one soul out. A soul cannot vanish into nothing. It must go somewhere.”

“She’s still here,” Mina breathed, the weight of the truth pressing against her chest. “The real Seraphine. Alive. Somewhere in this world.”

Edmund’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, yet he spoke with grim resolve. “Yes. She could be in a newborn’s body,” Edmund went on, each possibility cutting like glass.

“Or in someone who should have died but drew breath instead. She may walk this land as a beggar, a child, even a stranger with no memory of who she once was. I cannot say. The notes… They are incomplete. But the one thing I know for sure is this. If the ritual was a total success, then Seraphine’s soul still exists.”

The words hung like a tolling bell.

From the chair, Lucien stirred. His hands slipped from his face, his eyes red, rimmed with disbelief.

“Alive…?” His voice was raw, broken. “You’re saying she’s still here? Somewhere in this world?”

Edmund’s answer came in a single, heavy nod.

Mina slumped back onto the edge of the bed, her thoughts racing. But even if Seraphine was alive, even if she carried all her memories as a newborn, what then? Would her parents wait for her to grow up, holding their breath for years until she could return? Could they even endure that?

And what if she was born without her memories? Then she might be as good as dead, a stranger in her own life, and the world that awaited her could be cruel and unkind. What if she was a beggar, or worse, lost to misfortune before she ever had a chance to come back? Then she could not truly go home.

Holding onto hope might only prolong the suffering. If they waited for her, if they clung to the idea of her return, would that be kinder, or would it be crueler than accepting the loss of their daughter?

Mina’s chest tightened, the weight of the question pressing down on her. Neither choice offered comfort, neither answer felt just. The uncertainty twisted in her gut, leaving her conflicted, guilty, and exhausted all at once.

Was hope truly mercy?