The door shut behind Lucien with a muted thud, the sound reverberating in the stillness like the closing of a tomb. Seraphine’s throat felt raw, as though she had torn something loose in herself with those words. She sat frozen, fingers knotted tightly in the folds of her blanket, eyes stinging though no tears fell. The bright morning sunlight spilling across the floor felt cruel, as if the world outside dared to continue when hers had cracked down the middle.

Was she regretting her decision? Perhaps. She hadn’t wanted to give him false hope, but had she gone too far? Was there even a right way to do what she had just done? No matter how she would go about it, she would have still hurt him. Still, seeing the devastation in his face had carved its own wound into her.

Her hand pressed against her chest, the burn inside almost unbearable, as though she were the one brokenhearted. For a moment, it frightened her. Were these truly her feelings? Or the remnants of the original Seraphine’s, bleeding through? She had already felt it before, like how her body had moved with unnatural grace when she danced, how she’d trusted Lucien without reason. Or how she felt when she saw her mother alive and well. Was she being swallowed, bit by bit, by a girl who was no longer here?

No. She bit down hard on her lip, forcing the thought away. She would not lose herself. She would not become a shadow of someone else.

Her decision had been the right one. It had to be.

Across the room, Edmund exhaled sharply, his large hand dragging down his face. His boots thudded against the rug as he began to pace, shoulders drawn taut with frustration.

“This is madness,” he muttered.

He turned on her, voice rising. “You speak as though none of this matters. Lord Lucien is not a suitor you can cast aside on a whim. You chose him, Seraphine. You loved him. You smiled again because of him.” His hand raked through his hair, violet eyes blazing. “And now you discard that as if it were nothing?”

Her throat constricted. “It isn’t nothing,” she whispered, but he barely seemed to hear.

“You think you are protecting him,” Edmund pressed, “but all you are doing is running away. Do you not see it? You rob yourself of the one chance you have at happiness. When your memories return, will you not regret this? You may not remember, but before Lord Lucien you shut yourself away. You let grief devour you piece by piece. It is not too late to call him back–”

“That is enough.”

Isolde’s voice rang sharp, cutting through his words like a blade. She moved to stand between them, eyes bright with unshed tears yet fierce with defiance.

“Do not put this burden on her, Edmund. She is our daughter, not some pawn to restore your sense of order. She has buried two betrothals already. Would you shackle her to a third before she can even breathe?”

Edmund’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands tightening at his sides as he held his tongue. Isolde pressed on, her voice rising with each memory dragged to the surface.

“She was sixteen when Leonard died. Sixteen! And the very next year you agreed to another engagement, as if grief could be patched over with duty. You knew she only wanted that engagement to distract herself. Have you forgotten? Her mourning, the screams in the night until her throat bled? Did you not see how she withered before our eyes? She is still here, Edmund. Barely. Would you crush what remains of her spirit?”

“Enough!” Edmund barked, though his voice cracked with grief more than anger. He turned away, fists trembling at his sides.

“Do you think I did not hear her cries? Do you think I did not beg her to open her door while she shut us out? That is exactly why I cannot allow this. If she pushes Lord Lucien away, she loses the one anchor that keeps her from drowning.” His voice broke. “And she will not find another.”

Isolde’s hand flew to her chest, trembling. “And how can you be so sure of that? If Lord Lucien truly loves her, he will wait. Just as I waited for you.” Her eyes burned with tears as she stepped closer to him. “This is her life, Edmund. She is only twenty. She deserves time to choose, not chains around her heart.”

For a moment, silence reigned, taut and unbearable. Then Edmund gave a hollow laugh, his shoulders sagging.

“Then perhaps it is a mercy she lost her memories.”

The crack of Isolde’s palm against his cheek shattered the quiet.

“Edmund!” she cried, tears spilling freely now. “How can you say that? Do you not see how lost she is? You think she wanted this?”

Edmund staggered, clutching his cheek as though stunned. A single tear slipped down his face, not from her strike only, but from something deeper, rawer.

“I only meant… she is free of the pain,” he muttered hoarsely. “If Lord Lucien cannot bring her joy, then let her start anew. Let her find happiness in another way. Is that so wrong?”

Isolde’s breath hitched, torn between fury and pity. At last she cupped his face, softening. “Too harsh, my love. Much too harsh. You cannot speak so while she listens.” Her thumb brushed the reddened skin. “Does it hurt?”

He gave a wounded nod, almost like a wounded puppy, perhaps more for sympathy than truth.

A watery laugh escaped her. “The Beast of the North, tamed by one slap. You endure wounds from monsters without flinching, yet this brings you to tears.”

Edmund flushed, averting his gaze. “You strike harder than they do. And besides…” He hesitated before meeting her eyes again, a crooked grin slowly forming on his face. “When you fight with me, they fear you more than me, Madwoman of the North.”

Her eyes narrowed, tugging at his cheek with mock menace. “Say that again, and I’ll prove you right, darling~”

Seraphine sank into her pillows, half in disbelief. Her parents had gone from shouting to tenderness to bickering in the span of minutes. Did they not see her sitting there, splintered in silence?

–Wait. There were monsters in the North? And a woman fighting against those monsters as well?

That was no delicate noblewoman’s pastime. No, it sounded like something ripped straight out of a bard’s saga, like a tale about warriors or heroes. Honestly, her parents fit the bill of main characters far better than she ever could.

Great. Fantastic. Maybe she wasn’t the heroine at all, just a side character shoved into their epilogue. Or worse, this was some kind of sequel, and she’d been promoted against her will to female lead.

The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it became. It was maddening. Nothing about this life adhered to a single narrative. Everything felt spliced together from different stories. Like romance one moment, tragedy the next, with threads of mystery, politics, and bloody fantasy battle stitched between. Genres colliding in a chaotic jumble, as if the very world couldn’t decide what kind of tale it wished to be. It almost felt like real life, a living world rather than a story, aside from the fantasy part, of course.

Her tired sigh slipped out too loudly. Both parents turned instantly toward her.

Isolde moved first, kneeling by her side, gathering Seraphine’s hand in hers. “What troubles you, Sera? Tell me.”

Seraphine pressed her free hand to her temple. “It’s only… a headache.” Not entirely untrue. Thinking too hard about what kind of story she had stumbled into always left her skull throbbing–

A knock came from the door.

Everyone turned to the door. Before anyone could speak, the latch clicked and it eased open, slow, as if pushed by hesitation.

A figure stood in the doorway, half-shadowed by the hall behind him. His hair was in disarray, his clothes creased as though he had run here. A sheen of sweat clung to his temple. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

Seraphine blinked, her mind stumbling.

–No, it can’t be.

The figure stepped inside, light catching his face. His eyes were rimmed red, as though freshly wept.

Lucien.

He stood there, silent.

No one spoke. The air tightened, charged with surprise.

–Why did he return? And so soon?