Moments later,
Lumira's Room,
Turning away from the secure vault wall, Lumira moved to the set of tall, narrow French doors that led to the balcony. She drew the thick glass open, a soft, almost inaudible schuss of metal on metal.
The night air rushed in, cold and sharp, tasting distinctly of rain-soaked earth, crushed pine needles, and the faint, metallic, ozone tang of raw untamed magic.
She stepped out onto the iron balcony. The chill instantly seized her. Her long, silken silver hair whipped around her like spinning starlight, and the thin silk hem of her black nightgown fluttered around her ankles like the wings of a trapped moth.
Below her stretched the vast, shadowy expanse of the Duskbane estate and her domain.
The sprawling manor grounds, the manicured hedge mazes, and the winding paths gleamed like wet obsidian under the weak, shifting moonlight. Farther off, the dense, ancient forests shimmered faintly with silver light, the massive, invisible runes of the ancient Duskbane wards carved deep into the very core of the tree trunks. Beyond them, rivers wound through the valleys like threads of liquid glass, meticulously reflecting the silver disc of the moon.
In the distance, she could see the faint, scattered glow of village fires and the more condensed lights of the Western Foothold — the cluster of hamlets and towns that lived under her protection. All of it… was hers. All of it, they had nearly taken.
A surge of cold, righteous fury tightened her grip on the balcony's wrought iron railing.
'They stripped my name, mocked my death, and yet they dare to dance under my moon.' she thought, slightly nettled, "I have returned. And this time, I will make them remember what that name means. I will make them weep.'
Her gaze lifted to the moon — full, round, and unbearably serene. Its cold, pristine light bathed her pale skin.
And then, quietly, she did what she had been waiting to do since she drew her first breath back in this younger body.
"Author… if you are out there," she whispered into the wind, her voice low, steady, and edged with a magnificent defiance, "if you truly are the one who placed me here in this new story, then thank you."
The words caught in her throat.
"Thank you for giving me this second chance," she continued, her voice gaining strength, sounding more like a vow than a whisper. "I will not waste it. I will shatter the plot threads, defy the expectations, and survive the ending you planned."
A chilling challenge, delivered to the silent night.
"Guide me, if you can. Watch me, if you dare. Let me prove that I am not the Villainess they think I am. I am the Protagonist of my own destiny now, and my story begins tonight."
The wind answered first — a soft, long, mournful rush, then a sudden, localized spiral that tugged violently at her silver hair, coiling it tightly around her shoulders.
She stilled, every nerve ending in her body vibrating with a powerful, sudden awareness as she shielded her eyes from the wind.
For a heartbeat, the night itself seemed to lean closer, when the wind died down.
Then, with a slow, controlled exhale, Lumira opened her eyes again, gracefully fraying her hair and she froze upon sighting something.
It glimmered on the balcony railing before her, resting precisely where her hand had been just moments ago.
It was a single rose, with petals of a deep, unnatural, almost unholy purple, shimmering faintly with a dew that hadn't existed a breath ago.
The air immediately around it seemed charged, heavy, the low, unsettling hum of potent magic resonating through the wrought iron metal and into her bones.
'No one should be able to breach our wards without a trigger…' Her breath hitched.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached forward, drawn to it as though under a subtle, irresistible spell. The stem was sleek and cool, like it had been carved from moonlight.
The scent was intoxicating, rich and heady, but laced unmistakably with something metallic beneath, the sharp scent of blood and ozone.
The moment her skin brushed the thorns, a faint, visible spark leaped between them — purple but brief, and as sharp as pain.
She hissed softly, withdrawing her hand immediately.
A thin, perfect line of crimson welled across her fingertip, gleaming wetly in the moonlight.
And then, just as quickly, the blood vanished. It was absorbed — sucked directly into the thick, dark purple tissue of the rose.
The flower's subtle glow deepened for a terrifying moment, pulsing once like a feeding thing — then dimming again as though it had drunk its fill.
Lumira's heartbeat thundered against her ribs. This was a Blood-Binding Charm of the rare and highly powerful Midnight Rose.
She spun around sharply, scanning the dark gardens below, but nothing moved. The stillness was absolute and unnatural, but her instincts screamed otherwise.
Down among the thick, oily shadows, near the base of an old, gnarled sycamore tree, something shifted.
She saw a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer — like a reflection caught momentarily on disturbed water — flickered, then vanished again into the blackness.
And for a critical, paralyzing heartbeat, she saw them.
A pair of red eyes, like molten embers or freshly spilled blood, watching her with a terrifying intensity from the deep dark.
Lumira's lips parted, but before she could utter a single syllable of incantation, the eyes were gone. The shadows seemed to swell and swallow them whole, leaving not a trace of disturbance.
'Impossible... the wards had not sounded though there was clearly an intruder.'
She turned back to the rose, picked it up, and carried it inside; the oppressive, luxurious warmth of the room embraced her again as she passed her bed.
Sera was still peacefully asleep, as she laid the Midnight Rose gently beside the sputtering crystal lamp.
Then, a whisper, faint as the passage of breath, brushed past her ear, seeming to come from the heart of the flower itself.
"Welcome back, Witch."
She spun around but saw no one, though the wound on her finger had not healed.
The thorn mark glowed faintly — a deep, vibrant violet hue that pulsed in perfect, chilling rhythm with her thundering heartbeat, like a brand.
"So… it truly lives up to it's name."
Lumira exhaled slowly, drawing her heavy black velvet shawl tighter around her shoulders. She glanced once more toward the sleeping form of Sera, who was peaceful and blissfully unaware, and allowed herself one final determined smile.
"Sleep well, little dove," she murmured softly, a vow spoken to the future. "Tomorrow, the Witch of the West will rise again, and she will find the one who sent this."
Outside, in the rain-drenched, magical garden, the unseen figure tilted their head slightly, eyes burning like coals through the mist.
The Midnight Rose on the witch's nightstand pulsed once more - faint, but unmistakable, like a heartbeat answering another across the cold, vast expanse of the dark.
"Every resurrection demands a witness. And every witness demands a price. The game has begun, Lumira, and this time I intend to win." He muttered before disappearing into the fleeting darkness of the dawn.