Ash still drifted in the hall when the bells began to toll.
One for the Queen.
Two for the throne.
Three for the one who wore the crown of ash.

Myrren didn’t remember taking it off, maybe she never had. The circlet was gone, yet the skin beneath it still burned, a thin line of gold searing her hairline, refusing to fade. The dais where the Queen had fallen was nothing but soot now, her outline burned into the stone like the palace itself refused to forget what it had seen.

Outside, the horns rose, sharp, merciless. A summons, not a mourning. A messenger stepped through the wreckage, black robes dragging through the ash. He didn’t look at the bodies, or at her, hre bowed once, stiff as a blade.
“By decree of the surviving Regents,” he said, his voice shattering against the emptiness, “Mistress Myrren Vale is ordered to stand before the court of Eirden. She will answer for the Queen’s death, and for the magic she invoked.”

The words hollowed her, the nobles stirred, silk whispering like wings, their eyes bright and hungry, like vultures waiting for something still warm. Thane leaned into the stone, his light stuttering like a dying flame. Corven’s shadows uncoiled, slow and deliberate, trying to catch the pieces as everything began to fall apart.

And then, under it all, she heard it.
The spiral, not broken. not gone. Only waiting, breathing, like something ancient watching her from beneath the ruin.

The trial began at dawn, when Myrren entered, the hall went silent. She lifted her chin anyway, among the servants, Ori trembled, pale as morning frost, Holt a stone beside her, jaw locked tight.

On the dais waited the council: Lord Aedric, all blade and ambition, Lady Aurelia glittering with venomous calm, Kael still and cold as a mirror.  Above them, the Queen’s throne stood empty by design, its absence the truest power in the room.

“The accused will demonstrate her craft,” Aedric said. His voice carried like a verdict. “If holy, the crown will see it. If sorcery, let the spiral devour her.” It was happening again, the same rhythm, the same words, the same ending waiting at the edge. It echoed the dream-trial that once shattered her mind and her nails bit half-moons into her palms.

Seliora stepped forward, poised and burning. “Myrren Vale was summoned to save this court, not poison it. If she must be tested, then let it be just.”

“Justice,” Aurelia drawled, “is wasted on those who bleed foxfire.” Her gaze swept over Myrren’s brow, to the faint ring of soot where the crown had burned her skin.“We saw the ash burn into her skin,” Aurelia said. “Don’t speak of sanctity when you reek of smoke.”

Whispers coiled through the chamber, witch, shadow’s bride, spiral-marked. Then a flicker of movement at the edge of vision. A fox slipped through the doorway, soundless, quick, its coat catching the torchlight before vanishing behind the tapestry.  The sound rose around her, thin and sharp, like breath drawn before a scream. “The omen,” someone breathed. “The Silent Veil’s familiar.”

Myrren didn’t move. She didn’t blink. “What poison will you use?” she asked, her voice calm though her heartbeat thundered like wings in her throat. Kael raised a hand, a servant stepped forward, careful, reverent, carrying a silver tray. On it, a vial shimmered faintly blue in the firelight. The scent struck her before she saw the color: frostmint veiling oil, the sweetness of roses, the metallic echo of ironwood beneath. A crafted deceit, a perfume braided with death

She turned it in her fingers. “This isn’t one poison,” she said quietly. “It’s three.” Laughter rippled like breaking glass.“Then name them,” Aurelia purred.

“Frostmint to dull the tongue, roseblood to sweeten what kills and ironwood to slow the heart. Mixed together and they promise calm, right before the body remembers it can’t move.”

Even the guards stiffened, Kael’s smile flickered, sharp and hungry. “Good. Then prove the antidote.” Thane rose, fury snapping through his control. “Enough. She’s proved her skill.”

“Understanding,” Aedric said, “is not innocence.” The nobles murmured in agreement,  Thane’s hand hovered near his sword but Seliora’s warning look held him still.

“The test will be by scent alone,” Seliora said, each word measured, as though naming the rule could keep Myrren alive. Kael’s mouth curved, slow, delighted. “Then faith decides, not knowledge, if she calls it mastery, let her prove it with her breath.”

“Faith isn’t mastery,” Seliora snapped.

Aurelia’s voice slid through the hush. “Let her drink. Let the spiral judge.”

Silence swept the hall, sound folded in on itself, curling like smoke from a dying fire. Myrren’s eyes found the vial, pale blue quivering in the torchlight, delicate as breath on glass. Corven’s shadows drew nearer, restless and thin, Thane’s sigil burned faintly at his palm, a flicker of light against the dark.

“If I do this,” she said softly, “I do it on my own, no voices over my shoulder, no one touching what’s mine to risk.”

Aedric inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Myrren broke the sealm the scent rose at once: frost, roses, iron, and beneath it, wrongness and Ash.

The antidote will fail.

Ori’s voice ghosted through her skull, not present but remembered, like breath in a dream. She inhaled again, slower this time, forcing herself to taste the layers, and there it was, the faint powder of Silent Ash, used in royal funerals. Someone had tampered with the mix. No true antidote could balance three poisons and ash, not unless..

“Name it,” Kael murmured. “Or surrender.” Her gaze flicked to Thane, unmoving as his light fracturing like glass about to give way. Then to Corven, silent, carved from shadow, the darkness around him shivering as though it felt her pulse. Between them, her heartbeat fell into the spiral’s slow, relentless rhythm.

“I can make the antidote,” she said at last, voice thin as a blade. “But it will demand blood.” Aedric leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Whose?”

“My own.”

Gasps broke through the silence, Myrren was already moving her hands steady, but her heartbeat was not. Vinegar distillate, crushed rue, one drop of her own blood mixed into lavender oil. The scent rose fast and alive, sharp, green and burning.

“Saints…” Seliora breathed.

Myrren lifted the vial, eyes never leaving the council. “If this fails,” she said, “remember, it was tampered with before I touched it.” Then she drank. The liquid hit like winter turned to flame. Roses and frost clawed down her throat. The court leaned forward as one body. For a moment, nothing. Then her legs gave out, she struck marble hard. Sweetness curdled into metal, her pulse stuttered, heavy, slower and slower, each beat a tolling bell inside her chest. 

Her heart faltered and stopped, Corven moved. Darkness broke loose from the pillars, a flood of shadow spilling like ink. It caught her wrists, her shoulders, lifting her from the floor as the chamber erupted. Priests shouted, blades hissed from their sheaths.

“Shadowbinding!” someone screamed. “She’s called the Veil!”

Thane’s light erupted, gold fire bursting from his palms, slamming into the shadows. Magic clashed like storms, scorching the floor sigils, ripping the air in two. 

“Enough!” Thane roared, he dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her against him, his glow spilling wild across her skin. “Stay with me. Breathe. My light can burn it out.”

Her eyes fluttered. Behind him, the prophecy shimmered across the smoke like writing made of fire:

In the spiral of light and shadow, one shall bind, one shall break.

If his light burned the darkness now, would he save her? Or destroy her? Corven’s voice cut through the chaos, low and rough. “If you pour fire into her, you’ll kill her.” Gold met gray, their magic colliding midair.

“I can anchor her,” Corven said. “But you have to stop fighting me.”

“Never,” Thane spat.

“She’s dying.”

The word cracked through him harder than any spell,  Myrren’s breath hitched. Beneath her sleeve, the token seared her skin, then burned through cloth, falling between them in a flare of black and gold. Then an onyx spiral, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“The mark!” Aurelia screamed. “Silent Veil!”

Myrren convulsed, shadows caught her wrists, tethering her to breath. Her eyes snapped open, light and darkness fighting across her skin, tearing her between them.

“Stop,” she rasped. “You’ll..” A cough of gold dust cut the word apart. Corven’s hand hovered near her cheek, shaking. “You’re choosing wrong again,” he said softly, no anger in it this time, only sorrow.

Thane’s arms tightened. “She chooses life.” Light flared, shadow surged, then the spiral blazed awake beneath her, gold and black veins crawling toward her skin. It was no longer a prophecy.  It was alive.

Light and shadow twisted upward, braided together into a single column of searing magic. The air thickened with scent: rose ash, burning iron, the sweet rot of death pretending to be beauty.

Myrren tore herself from Thane’s grasp. “Don’t..” Her voice broke against the roar. The bandage at her wrist bled through, gold ink spilling like molten metal. Kael’s voice cut through the smoke. “Proof of her allegiance! Look how the shadow drinks her blood!”

“Lies!” Seliora’s voice rang sharp. “She’s not summoning it, she’s resisting!”

Aedric drew steel. “Then let her resist in chains.”

The hall erupted, the crowd pressed forward,  Ori screamed her name, but thunder swallowed the sound.Myrren’s knees gave out, the antidote raking fire through her veins, too much rue, but not enough ironwood.

“Thane,” she gasped, choking on smoke. “They changed it.” He reached for her, but she shook her head, eyes wild.
“Your light,  it’s burning the wrong thread. You’ll trigger it again.”

Her skin began to glow beneath the ash, each heartbeat pulsed through the spiral etched beneath her feet, drawing her, slowly, and helplessly toward Corven. He was already waiting. shadows coiled across the marble, winding up her arm like something remembering her shape.

“Let me,” he said, quiet, steady. “If I take it, the spiral will rest.” Thane stepped between them, his fire catching, gold flaring hot. “You’d turn her into your shadowbound ghost.”

Corven’s reply was barely a breath. “Better hollow than burned.”

The token between them shuddered on the floor, Myrren reached for it. The moment her fingers closed around the onyx spiral, the air split. Light dimmed, shadows inhaled and every torch in the hall went dark.

And in that instant, something inside her shifted, like a lock giving way. A memory unsealed. The same dais, the same trial, the same ending.

Pain flared white-hot followed by cold, sliding through her veins like glass. “Myrren!” two voices shouted, gold and shadow, almost indistinguishable. The last thing she saw was the onyx spiral in her palm, veins of gold igniting through black stone.

Then.. Nothing.