Whispers of the Past

The air was thick with silence.

Even after Alistair left me alone in the drawing room, his words remained—heavy, stubborn things that clung to the corners of my mind. "Prince Caelum is about to make his move." That single sentence echoed louder than anything Elira had said earlier. It meant the palace was no longer a distant threat. It was looming. Watching. Waiting.

And I was no longer invisible.

I curled my fingers around the edge of my teacup, watching the steam spiral upward, vanishing into the air like the peace I had fought so desperately to maintain these past few weeks. I had stayed quiet, remained in the shadows, distanced myself from everything that once brought me pain—yet it was still coming for me.

I was never meant to be the center of this story.

That role belonged to Elira.

I was supposed to die, forgotten and pitied—a tragic side character whose death would propel the true heroine forward. But I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't Seraphina from the novel. I wasn't the girl who wept over her broken engagement or clung to the prince's empty affections. I was me—a stranger with knowledge I was never meant to possess, rewriting a story that didn't belong to me.

But now, the original narrative was fighting back.

And I wasn't sure I was ready.

A knock came at the door—sharp, deliberate.

Before I could respond, one of the housekeepers peeked inside, her eyes wide. "My lady, Prince Alistair requests your presence in the carriage. He says it's urgent."

I stood immediately, heart thudding. "Where are we going?"

"To the eastern district. He didn't give details."

Something felt off. Alistair never moved without reason, and when he did, it wasn't usually with urgency. Grabbing my cloak, I fastened it quickly and followed the housekeeper out, where a sleek black carriage waited near the courtyard steps. Alistair was already inside, his expression unreadable, though I noticed the faint stiffness in his jaw.

"What's happened?" I asked as the carriage pulled away.

He didn't answer right away. He was wearing his gloves again—black leather, a habit I'd noticed he turned to when he was uncomfortable or hiding something.

"There was a fire," he said finally, his tone clipped. "In the old Bellhurst estate."

My breath caught. Bellhurst.

That was… the place Seraphina used to sneak off to. A crumbling mansion outside the capital that she once said reminded her of stories from her childhood—tales of brave warriors, secret love, and magical relics. She had always been drawn to places like that. Places people had forgotten.

"Why would someone target Bellhurst?" I asked.

"That's what I intend to find out."

The ride passed in tense silence. When we arrived, the air smelled of ash and something worse—sour, like burnt silk and twisted iron. The manor was a shell of blackened stone and cracked windows. A crowd had gathered behind a hastily drawn guard line. Nobles whispered amongst themselves, fanning themselves with lace-covered hands, their eyes hungry for scandal.

As I stepped down from the carriage, memories surged. The dusty halls. The hidden garden Seraphina once found behind a vine-covered archway. The diary she kept hidden there.

"Someone wanted this place destroyed," I whispered.

Alistair nodded. "And they didn't want you to find out what was here."

I shot him a glance. "You think this was about me?"

"I'm certain of it."

The words settled like ice along my spine.

We stepped carefully through the ruins. Most of the upper floor had collapsed, but the ground floor remained, albeit scorched and trembling. It was in the study that we found it—burnt at the edges but still intact enough to recognize.

A journal.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

"This was hers," I murmured. "Seraphina's. My past self."

The first page was singed, but the second still bore legible handwriting—delicate loops and elegant curves I hadn't seen in what felt like lifetimes.

"…I no longer know who I can trust. Caelum has grown colder by the day, and Elira… she avoids my gaze. I hear whispers at court—rumors I don't understand. But something is coming. I feel it. And I fear I will not survive it."

My breath stilled.

This wasn't just a place of memories. It was a graveyard of secrets.

I closed the book and looked up at Alistair. "They destroyed this place to erase her. To erase me."

"And they failed," he said simply.

There was something in his voice—fierce and steady, like a promise. I didn't know how to respond, so I said nothing. But in that moment, something shifted between us. It wasn't affection. It wasn't trust. But it was an understanding, a silent vow between two people caught in a story neither of them had written.

That night, I sat by the window of my room, the journal in my lap. I had read the entire thing, each word a dagger to the heart.

Seraphina had known she was going to die.

She had seen the signs. The schemes. The betrayals.

But she hadn't known why.

Now I did.

They hadn't just wanted her gone. They wanted her erased. Because someone feared what she might become. Or what she might know.

And if the story was following its original path, the one written in the novel I once loved—then Caelum and Elira's relationship would blossom from this fire. From this grief. Their love was born from the ashes of mine.

I laughed bitterly. "How poetic."

Except this time, I wasn't going to be the ashes.

This time, I would burn brighter than the fire they tried to bury me in.

Unbeknownst to me, from the shadows of a high tower within the palace, a figure watched the city below. Prince Caelum's hands were folded behind his back, his eyes sharp and calculating. Behind him, a young knight approached and whispered, "She's been seen. Seraphina is alive."

He didn't flinch.

"Find out where she's staying," he said coldly. "And keep it quiet."

"But, Your Highness, the council—"

"I said quietly."

The knight bowed and retreated.

As the door shut, Caelum let his expression crack.

"She was supposed to be gone," he murmured. "Then why do I feel…"

He didn't finish the thought.

But the tightening in his chest told him something he hadn't felt in years.

Regret.

Or was it… longing?