The whisper was still in her ears when Ori found her.

“Saints, Myrren! what did you do?”

The kitchens were a ruin of soot and scattered silverware, steam curling from cracked pots. Guards argued near the doorway, their words blurring under the hiss of cooling stone. Myrren sat amid it all, sleeve torn, fingers streaked with ash. The spiral that had breathed beneath her moments ago was gone, scrubbed away, but its shape still glowed behind her eyes.

Ori shoved past Captain Holt before he could stop her. Her apron was singed, curls frizzed from heat, fury trembling in her small frame. “They said the blast came from your bench,” she spat, voice hoarse from smoke. “And then, then someone said they saw him pull you from it.”

Myrren’s heart lurched. “Who said that?”

“Does it matter?” Ori’s voice cracked. “Every rumor in this palace ends with the same name. Corven. The Ward of Shadows. The one who follows you like a curse.”

The words hit harder than the explosion had. Myrren opened her mouth, but her throat ached with the memory of two realities, the gold light that burned, the shadow that bound. “He.. he wasn’t here.”

“Then why do they say they saw him?” Ori demanded, stepping closer until her scent, soap and smoke filled the air between them. “Why do they say he carried you out when no one else could reach you?”

Myrren stared at the cracked floor, the faint shimmer where the spiral had been. “Because maybe they saw what I did,” she whispered. “Something that shouldn’t exist.”

Ori grabbed her by the wrist. The bruise there is gold rimmed with black caught the torchlight. Ori’s eyes widened. “Saints, Myrren, what is that?”

Myrren tried to pull away. “A mark. Nothing more.”

Ori didn’t let go. “Don’t lie to me.” Her voice shook, but not from fear, from grief. “You’ve been walking through these spirals like they’re doors you mean to open, and every time you do, I lose a little more of you.”

“Ori.”

“No,” she snapped, tears streaking her soot-dusted face. “You’re chasing ghosts, Myrren. First the prince with his golden vows, now the shadow that watches you breathe. You think you can stand between them, but they’ll tear you apart.”

Myrren swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “Maybe they already have.”

Ori’s grip tightened. “Then I’ll drag you back before there’s nothing left to save.”

“Ori, listen..” Myrren’s voice trembled, but Ori was already pacing, her boots scraping through ash.

“Listen? To what? To more riddles about spirals and shadows?” She turned, eyes bright with fury. “You think I don’t see what’s happening? Every noble is whispering your name. Half the servants say the blast was sabotage, the rest swear you conjured it. And the Queen..” her breath hitched “the Queen’s men are asking questions no one should dare to answer.”

Myrren’s pulse stuttered. “Questions about me?”

“About who you were with before the explosion.” Ori’s jaw tightened. “They found two sets of footprints in the soot, one yours, one you refuse to name. Holt’s already warning that if they call it treason, not even Thane can shield you.”

The world tilted again. Gold light. Black shadow. The sound of Thane’s voice You’re real, stay with me.
Corven’s whisper, You’re still inside the spiral.

She pressed her palms to her temples. “It wasn’t treason.”

“Then tell me what it was!” Ori shouted. “Because right now you sound exactly like the women the Silent Veil claims. They start seeing things, hearing whispers, saying they’re caught between worlds, and then they hang for it.”

Myrren’s throat burned. “You think I’m mad?”

“I think you’re marked.” Ori’s voice broke on the word. “You came here to heal, Myrren, to prove yourself. But whatever this spiral is, it’s devouring you and dragging the rest of us with it.”

She caught her breath, trembling. “Do you even know what they’re saying about Thane? That his Lightbinding cracked the walls, that he burned through stone to save you. And Corven, they say his shadows were seen in the same room, swallowing fire. Tell me how two men who hate each other ended up saving the same woman, in the same breath.”

Myrren couldn’t answer. Because it wasn’t possible, and yet it had happened.

Ori’s expression softened, grief overtaking rage. “I don’t care what the court says. I care that you’re still here. But saints help me, Myrren, if you keep standing between them, you won’t be for long.”

Ori’s fury seemed to collapse under its own weight. She sagged against the broken counter, breathing hard, hands trembling in her lap. “Do you even remember what it was like before him?” she whispered. “Before them? When we had plans that didn’t end in blood or prophecy?”

Myrren said nothing. The world still shimmered at the edges, ash in the air turning into snow, the kitchen flickering between ruin and its untouched reflection. She blinked, and for a heartbeat, she saw two Ori’s, one shouting, one sobbing, and the vision tore something inside her.

“I remember,” Myrren murmured. “I remember everything I’ve lost.”

Ori’s gaze snapped up. “Then stop pretending you don’t see what’s happening! You’re not just caught between Thane and Corven, you’re caught between worlds. Every time you breathe their names, you step deeper into whatever the Silent Veil has spun for you.”

Myrren turned toward the doorway where Holt had stood, now empty. Beyond, the corridor shimmered with torchlight. Somewhere, nobles were already whispering about the explosion, the mark on her wrist, the impossible rescue. The crown would make it political; the cult would make it prophecy. Either way, she’d be the sacrifice.

“I can’t just walk away,” she said softly. “If the spiral wants me, maybe it wants something I can break.”

Ori stared at her, horrified. “That’s exactly what they said about Cordelia. Do you know how that ended? She tried to break it, and the spiral broke her.”

Myrren flinched, the echo of that name slicing through her like frost.

Ori stood, moving closer until their foreheads almost touched. “I’m begging you. Choose the one who’s real, Myrren. Choose the man who bleeds for you, not the one who binds you.” Her voice shook. “Choose Thane.”

The words hung like a verdict.

Myrren opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her pulse thrummed against Ori’s grip, gold and black beneath her skin. The bruise flared faintly, as if both lights answered the call.

Ori’s eyes filled with tears. “If you don’t,” she whispered, “you won’t survive.”

Somewhere deep in the stone below them, the spiral whispered back, soft, satisfied.

Two hearts, one tether.
One will burn. One will chain.

And above it all, the ash on the floor began to move, slowly and silently curling back into a perfect spiral.

By morning, the kitchens no longer smelled of smoke.
They smelled of fear.

Servants scoured the floors until the stones gleamed. The spiral of ash was gone, but the scorch marks beneath remained, half sunburst, half chain. Guards blocked the doors, keeping gossip from spilling too fast, but rumor always moved faster than order.

“Sabotage.”
“Shadowbinding gone wrong.”
“Prince Thane set the blaze to prove devotion.”
“Or maybe the girl did it, to bind them both.”

Every whisper carried Myrren’s name.

She sat in the infirmary, sleeve rolled to hide the bruise still burning faintly at her wrist. The court physicians murmured about “alchemy scars,” though none could explain the alternating light and shadow that pulsed beneath her skin. When they turned away, she pressed her thumb over the mark. It pulsed once, then stopped, as if listening.

Through the thin curtains, she heard Ori’s voice in the argument. “She needs rest, not interrogation.”
And another voice, calm, polished answered, “She needs clarity before the Queen demands it.”

Seliora.

The curtain parted. The silver-gowned noblewoman stepped in, her expression perfectly composed. “You’re fortunate,” she said, seating herself at the edge of the cot. “The Queen believes you were a victim of an accident. For now.”

Myrren forced herself upright. “And when she doesn’t?”

Seliora’s gaze lingered on her wrist. “Then she’ll ask which prince’s magic touched you first.”
Her tone softened, but her words did not. “Choose carefully what story you tell, Myrren. Fire and shadow rarely share the same air without smothering something.”

Ori stiffened behind her. “She doesn’t owe the court a story.”

“She owes them survival,” Seliora said. “And survival, my dear, is an art.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window where dawn filtered through pale smoke. “The council meets within the hour. Holt will speak for you. Thane will try to. Corven..” she paused, a ghost of uncertainty crossing her composed face, “is already under suspicion.”

Myrren’s stomach tightened. “For what?”

“For being seen.” Seliora rose. “In this court, sometimes that’s all it takes.”

When the door shut behind her, silence returned, thick and humming.

Ori sank onto the cot beside her, voice raw. “It’s starting again, isn’t it? The spiral. The whispers. The choosing.”

Myrren stared at the faint shimmer of her bruise, the light and shadow flickering like two hearts arguing beneath her skin. “It never stopped.”

Outside, a bell tolled, the summons for the Queen’s morning council.
And from the soot-choked chimneys above, ash began to fall again, slow and deliberate, tracing perfect spirals in the light.