Light.
Too much of it.

When Myrren opened her eyes, the world was marble and glare: white stone, white silk, white faces staring down from gilded balconies. The candle’s death had not ended the night; it had only fed it in the morning.

The bells that tolled the hour still echoed through her skull. Each note felt like a blow: one for Ori’s cry, one for the noble’s blade, one for the cracked thorn that burned black before it broke. Her hands still smelled of ash and blood. The guards had washed her, dressed her in plain linen, and chained her wrists with gold, a mercy disguised as splendor.

Before her, the throne hall had been remade into judgment. The tables stripped, banners replaced with draped spirals of gray cloth. The same nobles who had toasted her skill now stared as if she carried plague. Incense clotted the air, thick and sweet, meant to sanctify, but it only masked the scent of fear.

Queen Aelira sat at the dais, veiled in frost-colored silk, her crown glinting like a snare.
“Mistress Vale,” she said, voice calm as still water. “You stand accused of consorting with the Silent Veil and corrupting the crown with spiral craft. You will answer as the sun bears witness.”

The Queen’s gaze slid past her to the crowd. “Yet Eirden’s mercy is vast. There is a way to cleanse this stain.”

Myrren forced herself to meet that glacial stare. “What stain would you cleanse, Majesty? The blood that is yours or mine?”

Murmurs rippled. The Queen’s lips curved, something between pity and amusement. “Defiance,” she murmured. “Always the poisoner’s habit. Listen well, Myrren Vale. You may redeem yourself. Take the Prince’s hand before witnesses, and let the court see that love, not treason, binds you to our house, or refuse and hang at dusk.”

A collective intake of breath. Chains clinked as Myrren’s fingers tightened.

Thane stepped forward, sunlight caught in his hair, eyes bright with something between terror and devotion. “Myrren,” he whispered, low enough for her alone. “It is the only way. I can protect you if..”

“If I marry you to prove I’m pure?” Her voice was steady, but her pulse wasn’t. “Is that protection or punishment dressed in gold?”

Silence thickened.

At the edge of the hall, Corven stood in the shadows, unmoving. He did not speak. But his stillness was sharper than any blade. The torches near him flickered low, their flames leaning toward him like supplicants.

Something cold coiled at Myrren’s feet, a thread of shadow, faint, trembling, then gone. Her tether answered her fear.

High above, a fox darted along the balcony rail, small, red, impossible this far inside the palace. It paused, watching her, before vanishing between the curtains.

Myrren drew a breath, tasting iron beneath the incense. The Queen’s hand lifted.
“Choose, Mistress Vale.”

Her answer lodged in her throat. The spiral token beneath her sleeve began to pulse, each beat hotter than her heart.

And at the dais, a servant drew back a shroud to reveal the rope already waiting, coiled neatly, its fibers gleaming like hair in the light.

The rope glimmered like spun sunlight, clean and ceremonial, a symbol of mercy, they called it.
But to Myrren it smelled of hemp and blood, the scent that had haunted every spiral she could not name.

The Queen’s voice was velvet. “Your silence speaks loudly, Mistress Vale. Eirden’s mercy dwindles with the morning.”

Myrren lifted her head. “Mercy is just the prettier word for obedience.”

Gasps broke the hush. Seliora’s ringed fingers tightened around her fan, eyes pleading: Stop. But Seliora did not rise to defend her. No one did.

Aelira stood, the hem of her gown whispering over marble like a slow tide. “You speak as though you stand outside the crown’s law. You do not. Every subject serves a pattern, some in light, some in shadow. So says the Seer’s line.” Her voice softened into cadence, and the words fell with ritual weight:

In the spiral of light and shadow,
One shall break,
One shall bind,
And one shall wear the crown of ash.

The prophecy echoed through the hall like a curse.
Myrren felt it crawl under her skin. Not again.

“Does Your Majesty even know what those words mean?” she said, her voice shaking. “They were written by poisoners. Repeated by those who profit when the spiral repeats.”

The Queen’s eyes sharpened. “We do not worship spirals, child. We weaponize them. Fear is faith’s twin and both keep a kingdom kneeling.”

The courtiers murmured approval, their scents turning sharp and metallic. Myrren’s chains cut against her wrists as she clenched her fists.

Behind her, Thane moved as if to speak. “Mother..”

“Silence.” The Queen did not look at him. “If your heart sways, remember your duty.”

The words were final. Even Thane’s light faltered, dimming to ash.

Myrren felt the pulse beneath her sleeve intensify, the spiral thorn’s remnant, still warm. The grooves throbbed, a heartbeat out of sync with her own. Her vision blurred. The hall wavered.

Suddenly, the scent of frostmint flooded her lungs. The marble darkened. The nobles vanished.

She stood on the scaffold.
Wind tangled her hair, and the crowd below murmured like the sea.
The rope hung before her, the same rope from the dais, yet frayed now, heavy with ash.

Ori’s voice whispered from somewhere unseen: Don’t let them make you forget again.

The rope fell from above. The hemp scraped her throat, burning. She choked, the world narrowing to black.

And then.. a crack.
The rope snapped.

She fell, not to death but into darkness, air rushing, the taste of smoke on her tongue. A thousand echoes screamed through her mind, all her deaths, all her spirals, collapsing into one breathless heartbeat.

When her eyes opened, she was kneeling on the tribunal floor. The Queen’s face hovered above her, startled for the first time.

Seliora stepped forward quickly, masking her fear with grace. “Your Majesty, she can bear no more. Let this be mercy enough” Aelira’s gaze shifted to Seliora, and something like understanding or warning passed between them. “Better she bend,” Seliora said softly, “than the spiral break the kingdom again.”

The Queen’s lips curved. “As ever, Lady Seliora, your counsel is pragmatic.”

The moment fractured. Guards moved to seize Myrren’s arms. Thane reached out, but she flinched away. Corven did not move, yet the air near him darkened, torches bowing low. For one heartbeat, shadow rippled across the floor toward her, nearly touching her hand before withdrawing like a leash pulled taut.

Her pulse thundered. The vision still clung to her throat, phantom rope-burn stinging her skin. The spiral token cooled suddenly, as if sealing the memory before it could vanish.

The Queen’s voice broke the silence, sweet as venom. “Lock her away. She may have one night to reconsider the crown’s proposal. At dawn, she will choose, a wedding or a grave.”

The cell was colder than she remembered.

Stone walls wept moisture; chains rattled whenever the wind passed through the slits high above. The light that reached her came from torches too far to warm, only to reveal the pale dust coating the floor, ash swept into spirals by drafts that never ceased.

They had taken her rings, her shoes, even the ribbon from her hair. Only the token remained, still hidden in her sleeve where no guard dared touch her. It pulsed faintly, rhythm steady now, calm, as if it had done what it was meant to do.

When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the rope’s burn across her neck, the jolt when it broke. The crack had not been in the vision alone. Something deeper had fractured, the pattern, the obedience and the fear.

From beyond the bars came the faint scrape of boots. “Still breathing, Mistress Vale?”

Her pulse leapt. Corven’s voice, low and measured, shadow dragged through iron.

She rose slowly. The light reached only his outline: tall, motionless, shoulders haloed by dim fire. Shadows moved around him like restless animals straining against a leash.

“You didn’t stop it,” she said. “You let them drag me here.”

His silence was long enough to hurt. “If I had stepped forward, the Queen would have called it proof. You’d already be hanging.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“To see if you’re still fighting.”

The words were almost tender, almost cruel. Shadows reached between the bars, thin threads trembling. One brushed the back of her hand; it felt like cold breath, like memory.

“I saw it,” she whispered. “The gallows again. But the rope broke.”

His head lifted at that. “It broke?”

“Yes.” She pressed her palm to her throat. “Something’s changing. The spiral’s cracking.”

He didn’t move closer, but the air seemed to thicken, the shadows curling tighter. “Be careful. Every fracture bleeds before it frees.”

“Then let it bleed,” she said.

A pause. The shadows recoiled slightly, as if startled.

Footsteps approached, lighter, hurried. A guard, bearing a sealed scroll and a glint of gold in his hands. “Orders from Her Majesty,” he said, voice stiff with fear. “You are to be prepared for morning rites.”

He set the items on the floor and fled.

Myrren stared at them. Two golden bands, gleaming even in the dim light.

“Rites,” she murmured. “Not a trial. A wedding.”

Corven’s shadow brushed the bars, restless. “She means to chain you with silk since the rope failed.”

Her laugh was soft, raw. “Then she’s mistaken again.”

The torch guttered; darkness swallowed his face. Only his voice remained. “If you defy her at dawn, she will kill you.”

“Then let her try.”

The token flared once, heartbeat-fast, branding warmth against her skin. The air smelled of frostmint and smoke, the scent of endings, or beginnings.

Myrren met the dark where Corven’s eyes would be.
“I will not die the same way twice.”

The shadows shivered, as if bowing, and went still.