15 July, 2025
Duskbane Estate,
A month had passed since Rina awoke inside Lumira's body, and what had once felt like wearing another's skin had become second nature.
The weight of unfamiliar bones, the echo of another heartbeat had faded. Now, she moved with a borrowed grace that felt eerily her own.
The Council has called her return from death a miracle. The people whispered of fate, but beneath their reverent silence, she carried a truth only she could feel - the soul inside this body was a tapestry woven from two lives. And every morning, when she caught her reflection, she wondered which of them was winning.
The first weeks had been chaos. Magic pulsed in her veins, wild and untamed, humming beneath her skin like a living storm. At times, it surged without warning, spilling from her palms in torrents she could barely restrain.
Other days, it hid from her altogether, as though testing her resolve. It was not wholly hers, nor entirely Lumira's. It was something born of both - a fragile volatile balance between two souls learning to share one breath.
But what unsettled her most wasn't the magic, it was the instinct.
Spells she'd never studied came to her as if remembered from another lifetime. Words slipped from her lips in moments of focus, and her body responded as though guided by invisible strings. Sigils formed under her fingertips with elegant precision.
It was as if Lumira's essence had sunk deep into her marrow, whispering to her - teaching her, urging her, and reminding her that this borrowed life carried expectations she could not afford to betray.
She had expected surveillance, suspicion, the cold eyes of those who doubted her resurrection. Yet the Council held true to their word, and silence reigned.
No one who had watched her burial dared to speak of her return. No gossip found its way to her grandmother's ears. For the first time in years, Lumira - no, Rina - felt the soil beneath her feet belonged to her again.
Her only constant visitor was Sera.
The bright, sharp-tongued angel, whose laughter filled Duskbane's hollow halls like morning sunlight through stained glass. She brought whispers from the market, letters from classmates, and wild plans for the new term at Aetherion Academy.
Together, they imagined the future - two girls standing tall among noble heirs, carrying secrets the world could not yet name.
But patience had never been Rina's virtue.
August felt too far away, she had lost too much to wait idly for her life to begin again. Her destiny, she decided, would not start with the opening of Aetherion's gates. It would start now.
That morning, after Sera left for her errands, Rina approached the hidden vault concealed behind the far wall of her chamber. As she placed her palm on the wall, a sigil-carved key pulsed warmly on the back of her palm, recognizing her as its rightful bearer. With a low hum, the door dissolved its wards and swung open, exhaling a breath of air thick with ancient dust and enchantment.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with relics, sealed scrolls, and treasures that glowed faintly under the magic-lamps' flicker. The air shimmered with power. Jewels sparkled from open caskets, blades hummed softly in their scabbards, and manuscripts whispered in languages the world had long forgotten, causing her pulse to quicken.
The real Lumira had hidden her legacy well. Decoy collections were displayed in the estate's open archives to mislead intruders, but this vault was was where her true inheritance was banked.
Rina smiled faintly, admiration softening her features.
"Clever woman," she murmured. "You trusted no one - not even yourself."
At the center of the vault rested ten heirlooms on dark velvet pedestals. Each one pulsed faintly, alive with restrained energy, the distilled essence of the Duskbane bloodline. Her hand hovered above them, drawn by a quiet, magnetic pull.
She chose first a necklace: a silver chain with a moonstone pendant, its glow cool and serene. As she clasped it around her neck, the stone warmed, sinking into her skin until it felt like part of her. The storm inside her stilled. Her magic, once wild and unanchored, aligned at last. The pendant had bound her spirit to the Duskbane bloodline.
Next, she reached for a wand carved from winter-white wood. Its surface shimmered faintly with frostlight, and veins of soft color danced beneath it like northern auroras. Legend said it was carved from the winter branch of the World Tree, whose boughs bore all four seasons. The wand's power was ancient, patient, and proud. It did not bend—it waited to be earned.
When Rina's fingers closed around it, the vault seemed to exhale, acknowledging its mistress. She placed the wand reverently into her subspace ring and resealed the vault. The wards reignited, humming with contented finality.
By the time she returned to her balcony, the sun had begun to dip beyond the hills. The gardens below shimmered gold and green. Cicadas sang in the hedges, and the air was thick with the fragrance of roses.
Then she saw it, a single purple Midnight Rose rested upon the stone railing.
Her breath caught, as she approached it slowly, fingertips trembling. The bloom was flawless, freshly cut, its petals still cool with dew. The shade was deep - richer than amethyst, darker than wine, glowing faintly in the dying light.
It wasn't the first.
Every evening since her rebirth in this new world, a purple rose would appear there. There were no footsteps, no creak of door or window, nor traces of intrusion in the estate. Only the flower, always left in silence - as though the night itself were her secret courier.
She should have been cautious. A witch of her bloodline had no business entertaining such mysteries. Yet each time, she found herself taking the flower inside, placing it in a vase upon her vanity. And each time she did, a strange warmth stirred in her chest - a longing she didn't recognize, something both familiar and forbidden.
That night, fatigue crept into her limbs. The moon hung high, the pendant's faint glow rising and falling with her steady breath. The roses watched from the vanity as she drifted into sleep.
The chamber grew still, as the shadows deepened.
And from the farthest corner of the balcony, where moonlight could not reach, a figure stepped forward.
He moved like mist, silent and deliberate, his long cloak trailing through the silver gloom. A hood concealed most of his face, but beneath it burned eyes like molten garnet - bright, haunting, and unbearably human.
He paused at the threshold. The air shifted around him, bending to his presence. His gaze fell upon the vase on her vanity - purple roses, each bloom carefully arranged, none discarded.
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features. A mix of surprise, relief, and pain.
"She kept them."
For a man who had taught himself to expect indifference, the sight struck him like a blade. She had not thrown them away. She had treasured them.
His breath hitched as his gaze drifted to the bed.
She lay there, soft in the silver light, her white hair spilling across the pillow like spilled silver. Moonlight kissed her face, tracing the delicate curve of her lips. Her beauty struck him anew - gentle yet devastating, a memory he could never unlearn.
He took a step closer, his gloved hand hovered above her cheek. He shouldn't... he knew the risks.
One touch could undo the fragile peace he had built - the secrecy, the distance, and the restraint - but restraint was agony as his hand trembled.
Then it fell, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. The softness beneath his fingertips seared through the leather, burning itself into his memory.
Her lashes fluttered, but she did not wake. He stood there, drinking her in, memorizing every line of her face. His chest ached, filled with something he refused to name.
Desire, longing, or perhaps something far crueler - the kind of love that ruined men.
Outside, the quick and unsuspecting footsteps sounded in the corridor as a maid approached the room.
He then froze, as the fragile spell shattered.
With one lingering and desperate last look, he turned and vanished into the night. The balcony door closed softly behind him, the scent of roses lingering in the air.
Moments later, the maid entered, to add more wood to the fireplace. Lumira stirred in her sleep, sighing faintly as the wind stirred the curtains.
On the vanity, the Midnight Roses glowed faintly under the moonlight, like a silent confession; a promise written in petals and shadow.