The silence after Thane’s unmaking was not peace; it was pressure. It seeped into the palace stone like a slow exhale, then turned, breathing back. Mirrors along the corridor trembled, their reflections lagging a heartbeat behind the living. The scent of burned honey clung to the air, sharp as regret. Nobles stumbled from the throne hall clutching half-dissolved oath-rings that sparked against their skin. Somewhere, a priest screamed that the spiral was breaking. Myrren felt it before she heard it: the tether between worlds twisting, choosing what would survive. Corven’s shadow moved first, pulling her toward the smoke.

The corridors of Eirden’s court erupted like a struck hive. Mirrors shivered, then cracked in rhythm with the tolling bells. The spiral sigils etched in their frames ignited, gold bleeding to black. Each fracture reflected a different version of the hall, nobles frozen mid-panic, others already ash. Smoke leaked from the seams of the walls, scented of iron, rose, and myrrh, the stench of Spiraldust burning itself clean.

“Hold the line!” someone shouted. Priests knelt, chanting the prophecy backwards, trying to stitch it closed. Bind, Break, Ash, their voices echoed, rhythm collapsing into coughs. The words became a contagion. Servants repeated them without meaning to, their mouths moving to a pattern older than faith.

Myrren clutched the onyx spiral in her palm. It pulsed once, twice, two heartbeats, not one. Each throb dragged her breath with Corven’s, as though their lungs shared a single rhythm. He steadied her only long enough to keep her upright. Shadows spilled from him like ink through water, drawing sigils across the floor that refused to stay still.

Beyond the broken doors, nobles surged into the grand hall. Lady Aurelia’s gown smoked at the hem. Lord Kael held a mirror shard up like scripture, whispering, “It wasn’t supposed to turn.” The Queen’s banners hung in tatters, the spiral crest reforming in falling ash. Every oath-ring in the chamber glowed faintly, then snapped. Gasps scattered like birds. The nobles cried out as invisible cords recoiled, blue fire biting into wrists where oaths had once been sealed.

“They have tethered too many vows to false spirals,” Corven said. His voice carried through the clamor, low and calm, the only sound that did not tremble. “Now they are unbinding themselves.”

A mirror across the chamber caught Myrren’s reflection, only it did not follow her movement. It smiled when she did not. Cracks spread outward from that grin, spidering the glass until the face within became the Queen’s.

A shout tore through the smoke. “The crown’s wards are bleeding!”

The air tasted of ash and fear. The spiral burned beneath their feet.

The floor rippled. Ash spiraled outward, lines reforming only to twist again, as if the prophecy itself were rewriting mid-breath. Every mirrored surface that had not yet shattered turned dark, reflecting corridors that did not exist. Through one, Myrren glimpsed herself kneeling beside Thane’s cinders, another version, another loop, before the image folded in on itself like paper to flame.

“Engineered,” she whispered. The word tasted wrong in her mouth, like poison cut with truth. “It’s all engineered.”

Seliora staggered from the smoke, her silver gown streaked gray. “You think the gods still script this?” she coughed. “No. These are devices. The crown’s prophets built the spirals as weapons. The Veil only learned to feed them.” Her ring flared once, then cracked in two. She stared at it, horror dawning. “They used our oaths as circuits.”

Around them, priests collapsed as their sigil-brands burned through cloth and flesh. Some clawed at their throats, trying to silence the chant still spilling out of their mouths. Bind what breaks, bind what breaks. Others fell still, lips twitching as smoke poured from them instead of breath. The hall reeked of myrrh and copper.

Myrren pressed a hand to the stone. Beneath her palm, the onyx spiral pulsed in time with her heart and Corven’s. The tether yanked; she gasped as his shadow flared outward, swallowing the nearest mirrors in smoke.

He caught her arm, grounding her. “The palace was the machine,” he said. “The mirrors, the bells, the vows, they are not symbols. They are the mechanism.”

The realization struck harder than fear. Every spiral was built, not born. Every death, every prophecy, every love twisted into fate had been manufactured by hands that mistook control for divinity.

A scream split the hall. Lord Kael stumbled into view, mirror shard pressed to his chest. “Proof!” he rasped. “We have proof! Look..” The glass in his hands flared gold, then black, showing Thane’s death again and again until the image burned through him. When it went dark, only his reflection remained, mouth open in a silent cry.

“Myrren!” Ori’s voice pierced the chaos. She clutched a child-page by the arm, both dust-pale with fear. “They’re saying you caused this, that your poisons unbound the wards!”

Myrren could not answer. The spiral beneath her feet pulsed again, slower now, like a dying heart. Every line of ash glowed faintly, three phrases etching themselves into the floor.

One shall break. One shall bind. One shall wear the crown of ash.

She saw it then. Thane’s light had been the break. Corven’s shadow, the bind.
And her? The spiral carved the truth before her eyes. The crown of ash was already forming on her skin, dust settling into the shape of a coronet around her brow.

Corven’s breath touched her ear. “The truth costs crowns,” he murmured. “It always did.”

A thunderous crack cut him off. The last intact mirror exploded outward, scattering fragments like falling stars. From its surface came a final echo Bind what breaks followed by the sound of something vast drawing breath beneath the palace.

The air itself buckled. Smoke roared upward from the cracks, carrying whispers that were not wind but memory. Thane’s name flared once in the ash and vanished. All lightbinding was gone; only the shadows remained, and they were alive.

Corven pulled Myrren against him as the floor trembled, the tether dragging their heartbeats into one rhythm. Every pulse stole air from her lungs and gave it back to him, a cycle of breath that felt like drowning and survival at once. His shadows wrapped around them, shuddering with each beat. For a heartbeat, the noise faded, and the world existed only between them.

“You should not have stayed,” she whispered, tasting ash.

“I was never free to leave.” His voice cracked like burned paper. “I told you, each spiral ends with you. Every one.”

“You remember them?”

“Enough to know this one hurts the most.”

The tether yanked again, hard enough to stagger her. The onyx spiral in her hand seared hot, branding her palm. The same pattern bled through Corven’s glove, black veins flaring up his wrist. Shadows and scent fused into something new, an ache that smelled of frostmint and smoke. She realized too late it was her scent, altered by his magic, binding itself into him.

“If the court sees..” she began.

“They will.” He tilted her chin up, his gaze steady through the chaos. “Let them. They will call it a curse or treason, but I have already chosen.”

The chamber shook. From the high windows, smoke poured like breath from a dying god. Nobles screamed, tripping over shards and ash. Ori shouted for her to run. Seliora dragged a wounded priest away, yelling orders that no one heard.

But Corven’s eyes did not leave hers. They were the storm’s center, terrible and calm.

“Myrren,” he said, fingers tightening around hers until their burned palms fit perfectly. “If this ends us both, I regret nothing.”

The words trembled through the tether, through the spiral, through her bones. The vow was not loud; it did not need to be. The hall itself seemed to bow around it.

Something answered, an echo deeper than any voice, vibrating through the marble: Regret nothing.

Then the shadows surged, swallowing the broken mirrors whole. Myrren gasped, half-blind, the tether pulling tighter until she could no longer tell which heartbeat belonged to whom.

Through the din, she heard the last bell toll, and for a moment, even the smoke seemed to kneel.

The last bell’s echo folded into silence. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Smoke hung mid-air, frozen between collapse and breath. Then, all at once, the mirrors began to hum, low and resonant, like a choir trapped behind glass. Shards on the floor vibrated, catching stray light until the entire hall glittered with reflected fire.

“Myrren…” Ori’s whisper trembled from somewhere near the stairs. “The mirrors, they are singing.”

No one answered. Every noble left alive had fallen to their knees, faces gray with ash and terror. The spiral carved into the marble flared again, lines widening until they split the throne dais in two. From that fissure rose the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate, regal.

Queen Aelira stepped through the smoke.

Or what wore her shape did.

Her gown was unburned, her crown gleaming, but her face was wrong. The smile came first, blooming before the muscles moved. The eyes lagged a moment behind, as if her reflection spoke before her body could follow. Cracks laced her cheeks like fine glass veins, shimmering with light from within. When she blinked, the lids scraped faintly, the sound of mirrors grinding.

“My children,” she said. Her voice carried two tones: the familiar silken chill of the Queen, and beneath it, the whisper of every mirror that had shattered. “Do you see what your false vows have made of me?”

Seliora stumbled backward, choking on air. “Saints preserve us.”

The Queen’s smile deepened, splitting slightly at the edges. “The saints do not rule here. The spiral does.”

The air thickened; the smoke obeyed her words, curling upward into spiraling columns that took the shape of crowns before dissolving. Each column exhaled the same phrase in a thousand mirrored whispers: Bind what breaks.

Myrren’s spiral pulsed violently. She felt Corven’s grip convulse, his tether jerking toward the Queen as though her voice pulled the chain taut. The onyx token burned white, fighting to keep its rhythm.

“She is not her,” Corven hissed. “She is the reflection. The palace made her.”

The Queen’s gaze snapped toward them. One eye glittered gold, the other black. “Ah,” she murmured, tilting her head. “The broken pair. The final balance.”

Her reflection in the fractured glass behind her smiled wider than the living face.

Then the mirrors all spoke at once, a thousand voices overlapping: One shall break, one shall bind, one shall wear the crown of ash.

The fissure yawned open beneath the dais, light and shadow twisting together, and the Queen stepped forward, her mirrored smile still shining long after her body stopped moving.