Ashes Whisper Back

Elara didn't sleep that night.

She sat upright on her cot in the servants' quarters, the stolen ring clenched in her hand, its sapphire dim under the flickering lamplight. The veil-wrapped woman's words echoed in her skull like drumbeats.

"You were the first. But not the only."

"Three."

Three who returned. Three who died. Three whose memories might not belong solely to them anymore.

But why?

And how many more pieces of herself were hidden away in the palace?

She rose quietly and tucked the ring into the hem of her maid's skirt, sewing a false lining beneath the folds. If anyone tried to search her, they wouldn't find it. Not unless they ripped her dress apart. Which they would. If they suspected who she truly was.

If I lose it, I lose everything.

When the sun cracked over the rooftops, she was already dressed, waiting for orders.

"Thalia!" barked Madam Winne, thrusting a silver tray toward her. "Breakfast delivery. Third-floor gallery. And don't spill the citrus water this time. The nobles think it's sacred."

Elara bit her tongue and nodded. "Yes, Madam."

She climbed the eastern staircase with the tray balanced perfectly in her hands. The hall was filled with morning light, filtered through arched windows and colored glass. Paintings of old kings lined the walls each more grim than the last.

But today, one painting had changed.

She stopped, nearly dropping the tray.

There, among the portraits, was one she didn't recognize. A woman in violet robes stood in a field of black poppies. Her hands were stained red. Her eyes were searing blue glowing faintly, almost unnaturally.

The plaque beneath read:

"High Seeress Nerathe - The Last to Hold the Fire."

That painting hadn't been there before. She knew it.

She reached toward the frame, fingers brushing the edge when a voice spoke behind her.

"You see it too, don't you?"

Elara spun.

It was Seryth. Robed, as always, in mourning grey, her eyes sharp with amusement.

Elara composed herself quickly. "She wasn't there yesterday."

"No," Seryth agreed. "But she's always been there. Just not for everyone."

Elara's pulse ticked faster. "What do you mean?"

Seryth stepped beside her, studying the portrait. "The Seeress was erased from the archives two centuries ago. Officially, she never existed. But the palace… remembers. In small ways. In magic ways."

She turned her head slightly. "Some of us are waking up. And so are the walls."

Elara narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying the palace is alive?"

"I'm saying the palace is cursed." Seryth smiled faintly. "And we're walking through its grave."

Before Elara could reply, a bell rang twice a signal for morning court to begin.

Seryth nodded toward the corridor. "We'll speak again. Before the Gala."

Then she vanished, as silent as she came.

Elara stood in place a moment longer, heart still racing. She forced herself to move on, delivering the tray as ordered, slipping between servants and nobles with practiced invisibility. But her thoughts didn't leave the portrait.

"The Last to Hold the Fire."

Was that what the Order wanted to stop?

Or what they were trying to revive?

That evening, she returned to the chapel alone. Not for prayer but for the hidden sigils.

She found them where she remembered: along the north wall, faint and blue, etched beneath layers of paint.

But now… they pulsed.

Not light. Not magic.

Breath.

Elara inhaled sharply and leaned closer.

And then a whisper filled the air.

"You remember wrong."

The voice wasn't hers.

It came from inside the wall.

"Elara," it said again. "Stop digging."

She stepped back.

The sigils glowed brighter and then went dark.

"Elara?" a second voice called and it was real this time.

She turned, ready to strike but it was Corven.

He stepped from the shadows, his black uniform dusted with ash. His expression was grim.

"You weren't supposed to find the bones," he said.

"You knew?" she demanded. "You knew about the ring, the crypt"

"I knew some of it," he said. "Not the whole story. Not anymore. Pieces of me… didn't come back."

That stopped her cold.

He stepped closer, voice low. "You think you're the only one fractured? I don't remember dying. But I remember you burning."

Elara's hands trembled.

"How many of us are there?" she asked.

He hesitated.

"Three," he said at last. "That we know of."

"And the third?"

Corven shook his head. "No name. No face. Only that they remember things none of us lived. Futures we haven't seen. Fires that haven't happened yet."

Elara's skin chilled.

"Time isn't folding," he whispered. "It's fighting back."

She opened her mouth to ask more when the chapel bell rang.

Not the small bell.

The alarm.

Corven's eyes went wide. "That's the west wing."

Servants screamed from the far corridors.

Guards thundered down the stairs.

And in the chapel above them, the stained glass shattered with a sound like breaking reality.

Elara and Corven burst into motion, sprinting through the hidden exit, up the narrow servant steps

They emerged into chaos.

Smoke.

Fire.

Magic.

And in the heart of the west wing ballroom, where nobles had just gathered for a pre-Gala rehearsal…

A message burned into the marble floor:

"The flame cannot be killed twice."

Elara's blood ran cold.

Someone knew.

And they weren't just warning her anymore.

They were coming.