Aurora had gone to the room to sleep and when she opened her eyes, it was to a dim glow coming from the walls. This room was smaller, smoother, and carved in delicate curves rather than hard stone. The air smelled faintly of lavender and metal.
She was on a bed. Although it wasn't a bed so much as a stone slab, padded with a single thick sheet. Her body ached faintly, but nothing sharp. Just the dull ache that came after a day spent holding herself together.
She sat up slowly.
"You sleep like prey," came a voice from the far corner.
Aurora's head snapped toward it.
Nyra.
She was standing on the stone floor with her hands folded in front of her, draped in layers of deep violet silk that shouldn't have blended into the shadows. Her silver eyes looked like they held more light than they reflected.
Aurora didn't yet speak.
Nyra tilted her head. "Not asking what's about this room he asked you to sleep in? Good. That question wastes time."
"You could tell me anyway."
"I could," Nyra said. "But what would be the point? You wouldn't understand it yet. And I'm not in the habit of wasting breath."
Aurora's jaw clenched. She swung her legs over the side of the slab and stood, not entirely steady but unwilling to show it.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"To see if you'll crack or rise," Nyra replied smoothly. "He wants you tested. Quietly. No blades. No spells. Just pressure."
"I'm not some experiment."
Nyra drew closer, slowly yet gracefully. "Everything in this realm is an experiment. You're simply a new ingredient."
Aurora's breath hitched, but she squared her shoulders. "Lucien"
"doesn't explain things," Nyra interrupted. "Especially not to creatures still figuring out who they are."
There was no mockery in her tone. Just fact.
Aurora narrowed her eyes. "What is he?"
Nyra's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "He was made for more than they let him become."
"What does that mean?"
"You'll see."
With that, Nyra stepped to a small alcove and retrieved something wrapped in a folded cloth. She returned and placed it gently on the edge of the stone slab. When Aurora opened it, she discovered a thick leather strap embedded with a faint red crystal.
"What is this?" Aurora asked, picking it up.
"Uniform," Nyra replied. "And the stone is a tracker. So we can find you. If it comes to that."
Aurora froze. "You mean to control me."
"To find you. If you wander too far… things stir."
"Things like you?"
Nyra didn't flinch. "No. Worse."
A beat of silence passed. Then another.
"You have a choice," Nyra said finally. "Either put it on, leave this room, and step into the role he's marked out for you, or remain here and be devoured by your own mind."
Aurora looked at the strap again. It didn't burn. Didn't hum. But it pulsed faintly in her palm.
"I want answers," she said quietly.
"Then earn them."
Nyra turned and walked to the far wall. A seam appeared — a door without a handle. It split silently, revealing a corridor lit in dull red light.
"I'll return in one hour. Be dressed."
Then she was gone.
Aurora stared after her, alone once again — but not unmoved.
Something inside her was shifting. Whether it was survival or transformation, she didn't know yet.
But the strap in her hand pulsed again — and she didn't drop it.
The passage beyond the chamber became increasingly darker, though supported by massive stone arches and torch sconces that flashed low red light. Aurora hesitated at first, unsure if she should be wandering, but the silence felt too heavy. She needed to move and see something beyond smooth walls and the reflection of her own confusion.
She passed a few rooms with their doors shut with no markings. The floor under her feet became warmer as she moved. Somewhere, faintly, she thought she heard a voice. Not loud, not even meant for her. Just words. People conversing.
She slowed down.
The sound came from behind a large velvet curtain drawn across a narrow archway. There was no door. Just cloth and shadows.
She crept closer, letting her breath go still.
"…a wolf girl, they said. Dragged from the mortal side."
"She reeks of fresh rejection. It clings to her like fog."
A low chuckle followed. Not amused. Mocking.
Aurora's spine went rigid. They were talking about her.
"She's nothing," an older and hasher voice said. "An orphaned stray with no legacy. And yet he brings her here. Gives her a chamber. Has her watched."
A fourth voice now, softer, but with a sharper edge. "You think Lucien's done this without reason?"
"He's done it without restraint," the first voice snapped back. "Obsession clouds judgment. First the Blood Treaty, now this. He's slipping."
There was a pause. Aurora inched forward, careful not to move the curtain. She couldn't see who they were — only the faint outlines of movement and a flicker of wine-red robes.
"She bears no mark yet," someone said. "And still the crystal responded."
"Don't speak of that prophecy again."
"You fear it."
"I respect what it could unleash."
A scroll rustled, maybe thrown. A goblet clinked against stone.
"It's nonsense. 'The crimson-born shall split the veils, and with her will come the second fire.' Old fearmongering. Convenient to every cursed girl with a temper."
Aurora's breath caught.
Crimson-born?
She didn't know why the words hit her so hard, but something seemed to recognize the name "crimson-born" even if she didn't.
"The court will not abide another threat. If she fractures this realm the way the last did"
"She hasn't even awakened."
"Then let her not. Let her remain obedient. Quiet. Mortal."
Aurora's fingers clenched at her side.
Another voice, this one smooth and detached: "If she awakens, Lucien will be the first to burn."
Silence followed.
Then a door creaked open — not in her corridor, but within the room.
Aurora panicked. Just as faint footsteps came into the hall, she moved away from the curtain and ran behind a stone pillar. They didn't pause. Didn't search. They walked away, feet clicking, echoing down another corridor.
She stayed frozen for several breaths.
What had she just heard?
Prophecy. Crimson-born. Something fractured. And Lucien, the one who would burn?
They feared her. Not for what she'd done, but what she might become. And somehow, Lucien — the one who had dragged her into this world — was tied to that fear.
She waited until the hall was quiet again before moving.
The warmth beneath her feet had cooled. The torches no longer flickered.
She walked back to her chamber slowly. Her heartbeat wasn't fast. Not with fear, at least.
It was steady.
Because now she knew that they weren't just watching her, they were planning for her.
And not all of them agreed on what should be done.
Aurora walked slowly, her footsteps quiet against the warm stone floor. Her thoughts still reeled from the voices she'd heard behind the curtain. Crimson-born. Prophecy. Power. Lucien at the center of it all. And her.
When she stepped into her chamber, the door didn't vanish like before. It stayed, half-ajar. The air in the room was still, but not empty.
Nyra stood at the far wall, hands clasped in front of her, wearing the same sleek black dress that absorbed light.
Aurora stopped just inside the doorway. "You knew I wasn't in here."
Nyra didn't blink. "I did."
"You knew I was listening."
Nyra inclined her head. "You weren't subtle."
Aurora closed the door gently. It shut with a soft click. "They were talking about me. And about him. About something I'm supposed to be."
Nyra didn't move. "You weren't meant to hear it. But it doesn't really matter what you heard, it changes nothing."
"It changes everything," Aurora said, her voice steady now. "They called me Crimson-born. They said Lucien would be the first to burn."
A beat of silence. Nyra's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes was different.
"You shouldn't let this unsettle you," Nyra said. "Prophecies are riddles. They're twisted more in fear than in truth."
"Then tell me what it means."
Nyra walked slowly toward her, her boots silent. "You want answers like they come clean. Nothing in here gives itself cleanly. You'll learn that soon enough."
"I'm not a threat," Aurora said, more to herself than to Nyra. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"That's what people fear. Not what you are, what you didn't choose." Nyra stood just a few feet away now. "You think intention spares you. It doesn't."
Aurora swallowed. "Why bring me here at all?"
Nyra's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Ask him. When he wants you to know, he'll show you."
There was something about the way she said it — like Lucien didn't explain, he only revealed, slowly.
Aurora stepped forward. "Why do you follow him?"
Nyra finally broke eye contact, glancing toward the dark mirror. "Because there are worse things in this realm than him. And because once, I thought I could handle fire too."
The words hung in the air for a moment. Then Nyra turned away, moving toward the door.
She stopped at the entrance and said, without looking back, "You fear you are being watched. But it is worse than that."
Aurora waited.
Nyra's voice dropped, just above a whisper. "You're being weighed."
Then she was gone.
Aurora stood in the center of the room, the silence stretching again. But this time, it didn't feel like solitude. It felt like judgment, just not spoken yet.
She walked to the mirror and stared at herself. The version that looked back didn't blink, fidget or flinch.
And somewhere in the corners of the room, she could feel something. It wasn't fear, and it wasn't strength. Just knowing that something was waiting for her to act.