Hazel drifted through a world of silver mist and broken stone. Her wedding gown flowed behind her like spilled moonlight, the hem brushing cracked cobblestones as she walked barefoot through an abandoned town. Crumbling buildings leaned inward, ivy choking their throats, windows staring like hollow sockets.
"Hazel…"
The voice came again—soft, familiar, aching with love.
She followed it, heart racing, until she reached a forgotten square where moonlight pooled around a dry fountain. There stood a woman who could have been her reflection aged by a decade or two: the same ginger waves, the same emerald eyes, the same gentle mouth that smiled now with tears shining in the corners.
"Who are you?" Hazel whispered.
The woman stepped forward, cupping Hazel's face with warm, living hands. "I'm your mother, my love."
Tears blurred Hazel's vision. "Mother…"
"You look just like me," Anna said, voice thick with wonder and sorrow. "I've waited so long for you to find me, to ask the questions that have haunted your soul. But not today, sweet girl. I will come again."
Hazel frowned, confused. "You said… past life? Have I existed before?"
Anna's gaze softened, ancient and knowing. "Memories will return—little by little, like stars appearing at dusk. When they do, do not hate your husband, Hazel. Love him. You will understand why, in time."
She drew a delicate silver necklace from the folds of her gown. A crescent moon cradled a crystal teardrop that caught starlight even in this dream-place. "Wear this. Never take it off. It will protect you when the time comes."
Hazel closed her fingers around it. "Time for what?"
Anna pressed a tender kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Go back now, before your husband tears the palace apart thinking you are lost to him forever."
The world dissolved in light.
Hazel woke with a sharp gasp.
The room was carnage.
One maid lay dead on the floor, throat opened in a clean, brutal line, blood pooling dark beneath her. Three others knelt, trembling, heads bowed, sobbing as they awaited the same fate. At the center stood Lucian—sword dripping crimson, eyes blazing with feral, heartbroken rage. He had already turned toward the next kneeling girl, blade rising.
"Lucian," Hazel called, voice steady despite the horror.
He froze. The sword clattered to the marble.
In a heartbeat he crossed the room, dropping to his knees, pulling her into his arms with crushing desperation. "Hazel—you're alive?" His voice cracked, raw with fear. "You weren't breathing. For hours. The doctor said you were gone."
She blinked, disoriented. "I… went to sleep after the wedding. How—"
"It's three in the afternoon," he rasped, cradling her face as though she might vanish. "You've been still as death since last night. No breath. No heartbeat. I thought I had lost you on our wedding night."
His gaze dropped to the necklace clutched in her hand, then to the twigs, leaves, and forest dirt tangled in the hem of her gown, as if she had wandered through woods in her sleep.
Hazel looked at the dead maid. "You killed her?"
"I thought she poisoned you," he said, voice thick. "I thought someone had taken you from me again."
Hazel turned to the surviving maids. "Everyone—leave."
They scrambled out, relief warring with terror on their faces.
Alone, she cupped his face. "I'm sorry for frightening you."
Lucian buried his face in her neck, trembling. "I don't know what I would have done without you, little rabbit. Punish me however you wish."
A small, teasing smile curved her lips. "For your disobedience… you will visit the family of the maid you killed. Offer them compensation. And apologize."
He exhaled. "Fine."
His eyes flickered—crimson bleeding to pitch black, then back again, restless and starving.
"When did you last drink?" she asked gently.
"Before the wedding," he admitted, brushing her cheek.
"You can drink from me."
"You need to eat first."
A servant brought a tray—warm bread, fresh fruit, soup. Lucian lifted her onto his lap, cradling her like something infinitely precious. He fed her small bites, teasing when juice dripped down her chin, laughing when she swatted his hand. For the first time since her father's death, Hazel laughed—bright, unguarded, and real.
──
Far from the palace, in the fog-choked alleys of Blackshire Town, Morwen and Tobias stepped into a shop that reeked of rot—dried blood, decaying herbs, the metallic bite of old magic. Shelves groaned under jars of floating organs and cages of twitching, unnatural things.
Zakri, the black witch, sat hunched over a cauldron, yellowed teeth flashing in a crooked grin. "Long time no see, Tobias. Still not a righteous man, eh? Still plotting in the shadows."
Tobias inclined his head. "We need a potion of mind control. The slayer bloodline has a survivor—she's currently in the palace."
Zakri froze. His yellow eyes widened, shock rippling across his gaunt face. For a long moment he stared at them, unblinking.
"The slayer bloodline…" he breathed, voice low. "A living one? In Primus's palace?"
Morwen shifted uncomfortably. Tobias's jaw tightened.
Zakri leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something between fear and greed. "Then I need to see her myself. I need to enter the palace. She is a dangerous one—be careful if you don't want to be killed in between."
Tobias narrowed his eyes. "You'll need a disguise."
"I will find a way to get you inside," Morwen said thoughtfully.
Zakri nodded slowly. "Give me three weeks to prepare. I will come as a guard. The potion will be ready by then—but mark my words: if she wakes fully, she will burn us all."
Silence fell, thick and cold.
They had come seeking a weapon. Instead, they had just learned that even the blackest witches feared the girl they planned to break.
Without another word, Morwen and Tobias left the shop, the weight of Zakri's warning pressing heavier than the vial they would soon carry.