The palace beneath the palace feels like another world.
Stone corridors stretch endlessly, warm from the breath of the earth yet still cold enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. Every sound echoes—a drop of water, a footstep, even my heartbeat. It’s strange to feel heat and fear at once, as if the air itself is alive but holding its breath.
Brenno leads the way with a torch, his armor clinking softly. “No one comes here anymore,” he mutters. “Not since the old king’s time.”
I don’t ask why. I already know. Places like this are made to be forgotten.
We stop at a small chamber. The walls are lined with empty crates and faded banners, their emblems eaten by dust. A single bed stands in the corner, its sheets too fine for such a hidden place. On it lies Mira—my Mira—her skin flushed, her breath shallow.
“Mama…” she whispers, her voice so faint it’s almost a sigh.
I drop the basket I’m holding and fall to my knees beside her. My hands tremble as I touch her face, the heat burning through my palms. “I’m here, love. I’m here.”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but her lips move. “It hurts.”
“I know,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’ll stop soon. I promise.”
Brenno sets down the torch and paces the room, deep in thought. Minutes crawl by. Maybe half an hour. The sound of his boots scuffing the floor is the only reminder that time still moves.
Finally, he stops. “We need a plan,” he says flatly. “This has gone too far.”
I glance up from Mira, exhaustion heavy in my bones. “What has she done to Aldric?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. But from what you told me, it sounds like she’s using his injury as a door—keeping him asleep, rewriting his mind while he’s too weak to fight back.”
The words sink like stones in my chest.
Brenno continues, his tone grim. “If she wipes the memory of you and the child, that curse will finish its work. If he doesn’t remember his daughter, he can’t claim her as his own.”
I clutch the sheets tighter around Mira, my jaw locking. “Then we stop her before she does.”
He looks at me, cautious. “How?”
“We find someone strong enough to break her spell,” I say firmly. “Someone with real magic. Someone who can fight her power with their own.”
For the first time that night, Brenno’s lips twitch into something like a smile. “Well,” he says quietly, “if we’re talking about magic… I might know a certain someone.”
Before I can ask who, he turns toward the doorway. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
Then he’s gone.
The room feels emptier without him. I sit beside Mira again, brushing her hair back, counting her breaths. The minutes stretch into hours. My mind races between prayers and plans, both equally desperate.
Finally, footsteps echo down the corridor. Brenno returns—and he’s not alone.
When I see who walks behind him, I almost laugh from disbelief. “Liora?”
Madame Fleetlace steps into the torchlight, elegant as ever despite the dust clinging to her hem. “I see we’ve gone from fashion to conspiracy,” she remarks dryly. “I must admit, Brenno, this wasn’t how I expected to spend my evening.”
Brenno grins faintly. “You’ll live.”
They tell her everything—about the curse, Seraphine, Aldric’s fading memories, Mira’s life hanging by a thread. By the time we finish, Mira’s asleep again, her small hand curled in mine.
Liora blinks, visibly overwhelmed. “Wait… you want me to do what?”
“We need you to break Seraphine’s spell,” I say, meeting her gaze.
She laughs—a nervous, incredulous sound. “Lara, I’m a mistress of wardrobes. I can turn fabric into silk, summon thread from air, maybe even charm a dress to fit a queen—but breaking a royal enchantment? That’s leagues beyond my craft.”
“You’re the only one we can trust,” Brenno insists.
Liora folds her arms, frowning. “You overestimate me, captain. I’m no sorceress. My power is practical, not divine.”
I sigh, despair pressing in. “There has to be something. Anything.”
Brenno steps closer to her. His voice softens—not commanding now, but persuasive. “Madame Fleetlace, I’ve seen you work. What you call ‘practical’ has more power than you realize. You weave life into cloth, thought into thread. That isn’t normal magic. That’s creation itself.”
Her eyes flick to him, uncertain. “If I don’t acknowledge that power, how am I supposed to use it?”
Neither of us answers.
Silence settles like dust again. Brenno moves to check the corridor, leaving Liora and me in the faint torchlight. I stare at her, watching the doubt crease her usually perfect composure.
“Liora,” I begin slowly, “you always said your magic works best through objects, didn’t you? Through what connects to people?”
“Well, depending on the object…” she replies cautiously.
“Then it could work.” I sit forward, my mind racing. “If we find something that binds me, Mira, and Aldric together—something we all touched, something filled with meaning—you could use that as a channel. The magic could travel through it, break Seraphine’s hold, and bring his memories back.”
A heavy silence follows.
Then Brenno, standing by the door, turns sharply. “The Victory Ring,” he says.
We both look at him.
He nods once. “It’s the only object that ties you all. He wore it that night, didn’t he? It connects your fates—the king’s blood, your love, the child’s curse. It’s everything.”
Liora hesitates. “And how exactly do we get it back? If Seraphine has any sense, she’s keeping it close.”
I can’t help it—I smile, a small, dangerous smile that feels foreign on my lips.
“Leave that to me.”
Brenno raises an eyebrow. “Lara…”
“I know her,” I say quietly. “I know how she works. And I know exactly where she hides what isn’t hers.”
Liora looks at me, the flicker of admiration replacing her doubt. “You sound almost certain.”
“I have to be,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from Mira’s face. “Because if I’m not, she dies.”
The torch crackles softly, casting our shadows long across the wall.
Brenno exhales, gripping his sword hilt. “Then it’s settled. We find the ring. We break the spell. And we end Seraphine’s hold once and for all.”
Liora nods, her voice steady now. “I’ll prepare what I can. Just bring me the object.”
I glance at Mira—her fragile breathing, the faint color returning to her cheeks.
The promise lodges in my throat. “I will.”
For the first time that night, hope feels heavier than fear.