Lucien lingered at the threshold for a heartbeat too long, his hand curling against the frame as though unsure whether he should truly enter. But then his gaze found Seraphine, fragile against her pillows, and his hesitation melted.

Step by step, he crossed the room. Each one landed heavy, echoing in the hush, as though the world itself waited for his next move. When he reached her bedside, Isolde glanced at Seraphine, then quietly rose. She smoothed her skirts, and with a faint smile meant for comfort, she moved to stand at Edmund’s side, leaving space for Lucien.

Only then did Lucien kneel. His presence was careful, reverent, as if he feared breaking her with a touch. His voice, when it came, was raw, trembling, but steady enough to reach her.

“Seraphine…”

Her heart clenched at the sound of her name on his lips.

“I was unfair. I lashed out when I should have understood. If you wish to end our engagement, I will accept it. But I beg you,” his gaze lifted, burning with hope. “allow me to remain by your side. Even as a friend. Even if you never love me again.”

Seraphine held her breath, the weight pressing not only on her shoulders but also on her heart. Deceiving someone so genuine was wrong. Yet she dared not continue leading him on.

“Why?” The word tore from her like a sob. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

Her hands clutched the blanket, knuckles turning white. Tears streaked hot and unchecked down her cheeks–tears of fear, of frustration, of despair. She feared losing herself. She feared betraying her love. The pain was unbearable. Why did she have to make those choices? Why must she wound everyone near her?

“I only remember yesterday, Lucien! Yesterday! What if I will never love you? What if I’m not like the Seraphine you knew? Why hold on to something that’s gone?”

Her voice broke, ragged, climbing higher with every word. “It’s cruel! Cruel to you, cruel to me! So just give up already!”

Silence.

Then Lucien rose. Slowly.

She froze. His face was no longer stricken. No longer pleading. His eyes had gone flat, cold, as if something deep inside him had snapped.

“I knew it,” he whispered, his voice trembling with denial more than anger.

–What?

A chill ran through her. Something in his tone told her she didn’t want to hear what came next.

In one fluid motion, Lucien’s hand fell to his sword. Steel hissed free, gleaming in the morning light. He leveled the blade at her chest.

Seraphine flinched, a sharp breath escaping before fear stole the rest of it.

“Who are you? A witch? Some demon possessing Seraphine’s body?” Lucien’s voice was low, deadly steady. “Losing your memories is too convenient. You’re not Seraphine.”

“Lord Lucien, how dare you–!” Isolde gasped, horrified. She lurched forward, but Edmund’s arm locked around her waist, holding her still. His eyes, grim, told her to wait. She bit her lip, trembling, and complied.

Lucien’s sword gleamed in the sunlight, steady, merciless. Ignoring Isolde’s cry.

Seraphine’s chest caved with panic. She blinked at him, lips trembling before she forced them into a scoff. “What kind of question is that? I am Seraphine, of course. Who else would I be?”

He didn’t move. His stare nailed her in place.

“No. Not the Seraphine I knew.”

Her laugh rang sharp, brittle. “You’re insane. You’ve lost your mind, Lucien. First you apologize, now you point a sword at me? Do you even hear yourself?”

He grit his teeth, forcing his voice low, almost calm. The calm made it worse. The fury behind it was too alive. His fingers tightened around the hilt until the leather creaked. “Do not mock me. I’m no fool. I can see through your lies now.”

“I’m not lying!”

She snapped, tears streaking anew. “Sure, I’m not the Seraphine you knew, but I am still her!”

Then, with sudden venom in her voice, she scoffed. “Ah—I see. You can’t handle rejection. You’re so heartbroken I ended things that you’ve made up lies to punish me. Isn’t that it? You can’t stand that it’s over.”

Lucien’s voice broke into a low growl as he lifted the blade from her chest to her neck, the edge hovering so close it caught a faint glint of her skin. One wrong breath and it would cut. “Then why did you look at me last night like I was a stranger? Your eyes, the way you looked at me, it changed. There was no warmth, no recognition, only distance. Never once did she look at me like that.”

Seraphine shook her head violently. “No, you got it wrong–”

“It was when we danced,” he pressed, voice fraying at the edges. “You moved as you always did.”

He paused, breath shuddering. “But then, there was that midstep… it was then you changed.”

“Your smile died.” His gaze darkened. “You looked at me not with love, but with confusion.”

“You tried to pretend otherwise.” His tone grew bitter. “I noticed. Yet I let it go.”

“At first, I told myself it was grief. Exhaustion. Maybe you were still shaken by the balcony incident or blamed me for it. Or perhaps you suddenly felt ill.”

A trembling breath escaped him, the sword wavered as his focus faltered beneath the sting of his own shame. “I told myself many excuses.”

Then his next breath came sharper, fury breaking through the cracks. His grip tightened until his knuckles blanched. “But no.”

“It wasn’t her.” His eyes narrowed, fire and contempt coiling in their depths. “It was you.”

“Do you even hear yourself, Lucien!” Seraphine cried, pulling slightly away from the blade. Her breathing was shallow and felt tight, the guilt lodged like a stone. “You’re imagining things, twisting everything because you’re hurt–”

“Stop.”

His voice thundered. “Stop pretending to be her. Stop saying my name so carelessly as if you have the right.”

The sword quivered under his iron grip, dipping closer as she pulled back, as if even steel could feel his wrath. “You are not her.”

His gaze burned into her. “You speak as if you were her yesterday, but little did you know that she hates wine. Yet you drank it without hesitation.”

Seraphine scoffed through her fear. “What? You suspect me over that? Maybe I wanted to change!”

“Then why…” His voice faltered, then sharpened like a blade. “…why did you call me Lucien? So casually? She rarely did. Dropping formalities made her blush. She stammered, she hid her face. But you…”

He paused, thinking back to yesterday. “You looked me in the eyes, bold, careless, as though it meant nothing.” His voice cracked. “I told myself we had grown closer. But it was unlike her. Too unlike, too sudden.”

She flinched, not knowing how to respond.

“You claimed to lose your memories,” he continued, anguish spilling, “yet you dismissed our love as though it were nothing. Why would someone with no memories be so sure she would never love me again? Why push me away so strongly over and over again?” His breath shuddered, his eyes rimmed red. “It made no sense. Nothing made sense.”

“Stop…” Seraphine whispered. “Stop this nonsense–”

“I will not stop!” Lucien’s cry split the air. “I thought you were unwell. That grief, fear and pain twisted you. I wanted to believe it, I wanted to believe in you. I blinded myself. But the truth—” his voice cracked, shaking “The truth clawed at me ever since I left before. I realized my love blinded me. I ignored the signs. I failed you. No…”

His blade trembled. “I failed her.”

The weight of his grief crushed the air from the room. Seraphine’s chest heaved, each word striking her like a hammer.

Something inside her snapped.

Laughter burst from her throat, jagged and wet with tears. “Fine! You got me! Is that what you wanted?”

Her voice soared shrill, raw, filling the chamber like the howl of something cornered. “I am not your precious Seraphine! She ripped me from my world and shoved me into this body like a lamb for slaughter! A sacrifice! Nothing more!”

The room froze. Isolde gasped, Edmund’s face drained white. Lucien staggered back half a step, blade quivering.

“I never asked for this!” Her words tore from her throat, half-sob, half-rage. “I never wanted this! I was chosen, no, not even chosen. Randomly plucked, like drawing sticks from the void! As if it was a sick joke! Do you understand? I’m only here because she decided her life was worth more than mine!”

Her voice cracked into a sob, half-hysterical, half-furious. “So go on then, Lord Lucien. Cut me down if you must. But know this,” she pressed her hand hard to her chest, trembling, eyes burning into his “if you strike me, you will never see your beloved Seraphine again. She would be gone forever.”

She had enough. There was no point in convincing him otherwise, so might as well give up and tell the truth. She read stories like this, was entertained by them, and now she was living one against her will. What an irony of her life. Now she had no choice but to find ways to survive, no matter how shameless she may look.

Lucien flinched, eyes flashing. For a heartbeat, doubt wavered there. Then it burned away into rage.

“Lies,” he hissed. He stepped closer, sword lifting until the tip hovered just beneath her throat again. The steel was so near she felt the cold kiss of it against her skin. A little bit more and blood would be drawn.

“Choose your next words wisely,” his voice dropped, low and trembling with fury. “Speak no more blasphemy. Do not disgrace her memory with this madness. You make her out as a coward, even evil. She is not like that.”

Seraphine froze, chest heaving, her pulse hammering against the blade’s edge. Then she laughed hysterically and despairing. “Then maybe you didn’t know her as well as you thought. Despite suspecting me, you don’t believe me once I tell the truth? Check the notebook on the dressing table then. That notebook was hers.”

The air shattered.

Edmund’s heavy steps carried him to the table. He seized the book and began turning the pages, slow at first, then faster, eyes scanning every line with growing tension. The room fell silent, the only sound the rustle of paper and his uneven breath. Time stretched thin as he kept reading, each page turned with more urgency until, at last, his hand stopped mid-motion.

His eyes fixed on a page inked with intricate circles, his fingers trembling ever so slightly above it.

Lucien’s sword did not waver.

Seraphine’s pulse thundered in her ears, each beat louder and louder, almost dampening her thoughts.

–So this is it. He’s going to kill me. One day, that’s all I lasted. One day in this world, and I’ll die without even learning how to get back home.

Her breath hitched, shallow and quick. The air felt thick, pressing against her chest with every strained inhale. Her fingers trembled as she clutched at her blanket, nails biting through the fabric. The edges of her vision seemed to blur, the room tilting slightly, as if her body had forgotten how to steady itself.

–If it was going to end like this, I should’ve enjoyed this world more while I could. No. No, I can’t. I won’t give up here. Not yet.

Seraphine forced herself to breathe slower, steady. The haze in her mind began to thin, replaced by a cold, stubborn clarity. She braced herself, ready to leap from the bed barefoot, run if she had to–

But Edmund turned. And knelt.

“To you…” His voice rasped. “I owe an apology.”

Seraphine stared, stunned.

“Our daughter… Seraphine… She did this to you.” His head bowed low, grief etched into every line of him. “You were telling the truth. And as her father, I will bear the sin.”

Isolde staggered, horror carved on her face. “No, Edmund, no–”

“She left us,” he ground out, grief tearing through the words. His fingers tightened on the book, almost creasing the leather cover. “And in her fear, she sought forbidden power. I see it here,” he lifted the notebook slightly, pages fluttering like a wounded bird. “Scribbles of circles, incantations I thought only as an unproven, an unsucceeded theory.”

He drew in a shuddering breath. “A spell to call another soul. A trade.” His eyes flicked to Seraphine, shadowed with guilt. “A body reborn… for a life stolen.”

Seraphine stared blankly at Edmund, his words drifting past her like echoes she couldn’t quite catch. It was hard to believe he was truly on her side, even if this was the best outcome she could have hoped for.

“No…” Isolde whispered, shaking her head. “She would never–”

“She did,” Edmund cut, harsher than he intended. His voice cracked. “She feared something, my love. Something that stalked her. A death. A curse. And in her desperation, she bound another’s soul to her flesh. To this flesh.” His hand hovered, trembling, over Seraphine’s arm before withdrawing.

Lucien’s blade faltered. His eyes flicked to the notebook, to Edmund, then back.

“Lord Lucien,” Edmund said, gaze pained, “lower your sword. This girl is not your enemy. In her notes… Seraphine feared your death.”

Lucien’s breath hitched. His sword lowered. “My… death? How could she–?”

Edmund shook his head, uncertain how to explain. “I don’t know how. I couldn’t make out most of her notes. But it was clear she was afraid, desperate even. She felt cursed, and so…” He faltered, the words catching before he exhaled softly. “Maybe she thought she could cleanse her body this way. From misfortune, death or pain to anyone dear to her.”

The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. No one moved.

Then–

Lucien’s body gave out. His knees struck the floor with a hollow thud, the sound echoing in the charged quiet. His sword slipped from his hand, clattering hard against the stone, the ring of steel sharp as grief itself.

He didn’t reach for it. Instead his hands tore through his hair, clutching, trembling, as though he could claw the grief from his skull. His breath fractured into harsh, ragged sobs, each one more violent than the last, shaking the composure he was born to wear.

“No…” His voice cracked, hoarse, almost boyish in its naked pain. “No, no, no…”

He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor, broad shoulders caving in, the proud earl reduced to something raw and human, broken open before them all.

Then the words tore loose, shattering what little composure he had left.

“No! Why? We could have talked!” His fists struck the stone floor covered by carpet, once, twice, knuckles splitting under the force ignoring the soft fur.

“We could have fought together, faced whatever fear haunted you! I would have carried it with you, Sera. I would have carried you!” His voice splintered, shattering. “Did you not trust me? Did you not love me?”

The chamber shook with his grief, his cries ragged, unguarded, the anguish of a man who had lost not just his betrothed, but his very reason of happiness.

“How could you…” His chest heaved, words gasped between sobs. “How could you leave me like this? Why, Sera? Why?”

Edmund’s face crumpled. The duke who had stared down armies, who had stood tall against the monsters of the North, now looked nothing more than a grieving father forced to watch his daughter’s ghost tear apart the man she left behind. His throat worked soundlessly, as if he wanted to speak but could not.

Isolde turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth. Her eyes glistened, not just with sorrow but with fury—at her daughter, at fate, at the cruel absurdity that had brought them here. She could not bear to see Lucien unravel, not when she had once scolded him like family, not when his pain struck so close to her own.

And Seraphine, or rather Mina, sat frozen in her bed. Every sob, every shattered plea tore into her ribs as though they were her own. She wanted to reach out, to stop him, to tell him the real Seraphine wasn’t worth this, not his devotion, not his ruin. But she couldn’t move. Pity and guilt bound her in place, sinking like chains around her chest.

In the silence that followed his last broken cry, only his ragged breathing filled the air. The sound of a man brought to his knees not by blade or beast, but by love made unbearable.

The weight of it pressed against them all, suffocating, leaving the question unspoken.

If even Lucien, steadfast and unyielding, could shatter like this… what would remain when the pieces finally stopped falling?