The ice cellar was never meant for the living.
Elara shivered as the heavy door slammed shut behind her. The air hit her lungs like a punch—sharp, metallic, and wrong. Her boots echoed against stone as she descended the narrow steps into a hollow lit by cold-blue crystal sconces.
The further down she went, the further her thoughts drifted.
And not in a natural way.
She tried to remember what she was doing here—how she'd gotten separated from Kael during the council session, how a servant in velvet red had whispered that Lysandra wanted to "apologize" in private, and how she'd followed without hesitation.
Stupid.
The name "Elara" echoed in her skull like something she'd heard once in a dream.
Was that still her name?
The ice cellar opened into a long chamber lined with frost-covered coffins and preservation slabs used for storing offerings and bodies awaiting rites. But at the far end, under a hanging sigil of the Thorne crest, stood a single slab made of blackened ice.
And on it—
Her.
Or at least, something that looked like her.
Elara staggered forward, drawn to it.
The girl lying on the ice was pale, unmoving, dressed in white.
She had Elara's jawline.
Elara's lashes.
But older. Frozen in time. Perfect.
A lace veil was drawn over her face, but the faint scar on her collarbone peeked out—the same mark.
Her blood chilled in a way that had nothing to do with the room.
She reached out a hand to touch the veil—
A voice stopped her.
"You don't want to do that."
Lysandra.
Standing in the shadows.
Arms folded.
Eyes calm.
"Elara," she purred. "Or whatever's left of her."
"What is this?" Elara rasped.
"An echo," Lysandra said. "Of the girl you might have been."
"I don't understand."
"You don't need to. You just need to forget."
Something flickered in Elara's head—sharp and fast.
Memories.
Flashes.
A forest burning.
A silver blade.
A scream in Kael's voice.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I want you to see what happens when Kael loves something too much."
Lysandra stepped forward.
Pulled a vial from her sleeve.
It shimmered gold and violet—like shattered moonlight.
"Mandrake root," she said sweetly. "Distilled into memory mist. Breathe deep, and she'll come to you."
"No—"
But Lysandra smashed the vial at her feet.
The mist rose.
Elara turned to flee—
And slipped.
Fell backward.
Cracked her head against the ice.
Darkness.
And then—
Fire.
She was running through the woods.
Younger.
Smaller.
A voice chased her.
"Run, Elara!"
Flames licked at her heels.
Smoke choked her throat.
She turned—
Kael.
But not as she knew him.
He was older.
More beast than man.
Eyes wide.
Terrified.
"You can't die again," he whispered.
"I never did."
"Yes," he said, stepping closer. "You did. You burned. I found only bone."
She reached for him.
But he stepped back.
"You're not her," he said. "But gods help me, you smell like she did."
Elara gasped awake.
Still on the slab.
The mist had cleared.
But she couldn't see.
Her vision blurred.
Black halos shimmered across the frost.
"Lysandra!" she shouted.
No answer.
Her hands trembled.
Her breath fogged the air.
Her fingers went to her own collarbone—still marked. Still real.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
She curled into herself.
"Who's there?"
No reply.
Then—
A scent.
Not smoke.
Not ash.
Him.
Kael.
But she couldn't be sure.
"I can't see," she whispered.
Silence.
"I can't tell if it's really you."
Still nothing.
Her voice cracked.
"Then prove it."
Another step.
Closer.
Warmth brushed her cheek.
Then—
A sharp sting.
He bit his tongue.
And pressed his bleeding ear against her lips.
"Smell me," Kael whispered.
Elara's hands shot out.
Gripped his coat.
Pulled him closer.
His scent crashed through her like a heartbeat—fur, smoke, blood, home.
"It's you," she whispered, clinging to him.
He didn't pull away.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Lifted her off the slab.
"I'll kill her," he said.
"I know."
"I'll burn this place."
"I know."
"I'll keep you warm."
"Then start now."
Later, Elara lay wrapped in furs Kael had stolen from the council's private stock, curled beside a fresh fire in the upper chambers.
He hadn't spoken since the cellar.
Neither had she.
Until:
"She looks like me," Elara said.
Kael didn't look up.
"I know."
"She had the same mark."
"I know."
"Am I her?"
He turned then.
Kneeled beside her.
"No."
"Then why—"
"You are what she couldn't become," he said softly. "A second chance. A better ending."
Elara didn't reply.
But she took his hand.
Pressed her lips to his wrist.
And whispered, "Then don't waste it."