Chapter Twenty-Five: The lost feeling

The executioners moved like wraiths, their polished armor gleaming dully in the flickering torchlight. Seraphina's grip tightened on the dagger, her mind racing. There were three of them, each bearing the King's mark—a black serpent coiled around a blade.

The one who had spoken took a slow step forward. He was tall, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but his presence alone sent a chill through the tunnel. "Did you really think you could run?" His voice was smooth, laced with amusement. "Or did you think your rebellion was ever a secret?"

Seraphina's heart pounded. How much did they know?

She didn't wait to find out. In one fluid motion, she lunged at the nearest executioner, striking low. But he was faster. He twisted away, grabbing her wrist with brutal force. Pain lanced up her arm as he wrenched the dagger from her grip and threw her back against the stone wall.

"Sloppy," he murmured, stepping closer. "I expected more from you."

Seraphina gasped as she hit the ground, but she refused to let fear take hold. Rolling to the side, she kicked out, aiming for his knee. He dodged—but just barely. It was enough. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, searching for an escape.

"Enough games," another voice drawled. The second executioner, a woman with a scar running down her cheek, unsheathed a curved blade. "You can come willingly… or in pieces. Your choice."

Seraphina's pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath came sharp, shallow. They were toying with her. But why? If the King wanted her dead, they wouldn't waste time talking. They need me alive.

And that was a weakness she could exploit.

With feigned surrender, she lifted her hands. "Fine," she said, voice steady. "I'll go."

The executioners exchanged glances before stepping toward her.

And that's when she moved.

With a sharp twist, she grabbed the fallen guard's sword from the ground and slashed upward in a wild arc. The scarred woman barely dodged in time, but Seraphina wasn't aiming for her—she was aiming for the torches.

The instant the blade struck, sparks erupted, embers scattering into the damp tunnel air. A small explosion of light, then—darkness.

The torches went out.

Shouts rang through the tunnel as the executioners staggered back, momentarily disoriented. Seraphina didn't hesitate. She turned and ran.

Her lungs burned as she sprinted through the blackened corridors, feeling her way forward. Behind her, voices cursed, blades clashed against the stone. She didn't stop. She couldn't stop.

Then, up ahead—a light.

Not torchlight. Something else. It shimmered, shifting like a mirage. A door? A passage? She had no time to question it. She pushed forward, ignoring the pounding footsteps closing in behind her.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the air around her changed. The tunnel vanished. The cries of the executioners faded into silence.

And Seraphina found herself standing somewhere else.

A grand hall stretched before her, filled with towering mirrors—each reflecting something different. Some showed the past. Some showed the future. And in the center of them all stood the golden-eyed stranger.

He smirked, arms crossed, as if he had been waiting for her all along.

"Welcome, Seraphina," he said, voice laced with intrigue. "You're finally ready."

The door behind her vanished, dissolving into a ripple of golden light before the space sealed itself shut. Seraphina turned sharply, heart hammering in her chest. There was no exit. No way back. She was trapped.

She swallowed hard and turned to face the stranger. His golden eyes glowed in the dim light of the hall, his expression unreadable. He was tall, his form draped in a long, dark coat embroidered with intricate symbols that seemed to shift when she looked too closely.

Seraphina forced herself to stand tall, refusing to let him see the unease creeping into her bones. "Where am I?" she demanded.

The stranger tilted his head, as if considering whether to answer. "Where you were always meant to be," he said finally. His voice was smooth, but beneath it was something deeper—something ancient. "The path has brought you here, just as it was written."

Seraphina bristled. "I don't believe in fate."

His lips twitched, almost amused. "And yet, fate believes in you."

The mirrors around them shimmered, as if responding to his words. Seraphina's eyes darted to their reflections, and she felt her stomach twist. Each mirror showed something different—some distorted version of her life.

In one, she was standing on a battlefield, her hands drenched in blood as soldiers bowed before her. In another, she was locked in a dungeon, chains around her wrists, her face hollow with despair. Another showed her sitting on a throne, eyes glowing with a power she did not yet understand.

Seraphina's breath hitched. What is this place?

The stranger stepped closer. "You've only just begun to see," he murmured. "These are not mere reflections. They are possibilities. They are the paths your choices will shape."

Seraphina clenched her fists. "And what if I refuse to choose any of them?"

The stranger's golden eyes darkened. "Then the world will choose for you. And trust me… you won't like what it decides."

A shiver crawled down Seraphina's spine. Something about the way he spoke sent an eerie sense of finality through her bones. "Who are you?" she asked, voice quieter now.

For a moment, he simply studied her. Then, slowly, he extended a hand.

"I am the one who will help you survive."

The mirrors pulsed, the images shifting faster now—scenes of war, death, betrayal. And at the center of it all was her.

Seraphina hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand.

If she took it, she knew there would be no turning back.

But if she didn't… she might never escape this place at all.