Rowan's vision still blurred at the edges. The cold stone beneath him pressed into his back as he stirred, wrists bound in something that pulsed faintly—alive, almost. The chamber was quiet but for the soft crackle of torches. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls.
And then—footsteps.
Soft. Barely there. But deliberate.
A figure emerged from the dark.
She looked young—fourteen, maybe—but the firelight caught her hair and made it blaze like autumn flame. Orange, wild, and cascading down her back in tangled curls. It framed her pale face like a crown of fire.
"So," she said smoothly, circling him like a lioness sizing up prey, "you're Rowan. The boy your aunt spoke of like some sacred secret."
Rowan didn't answer.
She stopped in front of him, head tilted, lips curling into a thoughtful smirk. "My name is Lady Teresa. Some call me the Lady of Mysteries. Others call me nothing at all—they know better."
Rowan tugged against the restraints. "Where am I?"
"A place forgotten," she said, running a finger along the wall. "Beneath your burning village. Not quite here. Not quite anywhere."
He stared at her. Her expression was unreadable. There was something ancient in her eyes, something older than even the runes carved into the stone around them.
"You're not really a kid," he said quietly.
She grinned. "Sharp. You are the one she picked."
"You don't answer questions, do you?"
"I answer plenty," Teresa said, crouching beside him. "Just not the ones people expect. It's a bad habit of mine."
He exhaled slowly. "What do you want?"
"Want?" She touched her chin, as if pondering it for the first time. "Hmm. That's a heavy word. Desire is dangerous, Rowan. It drives men to war. Drives gods to ruin. But if you must put it simply… I want the key."
His stomach turned. "What key?"
"Oh, please," she whispered, standing now, circling him again. "You've had it this whole time. Tucked away in that little flame beating in your chest. Flora gave it to you before the Black Star arrived. She chose you, of all people. The healer."
Rowan's voice cracked. "My aunt is still out there. Fighting. And you're here, talking."
At that, Teresa went still.
When she turned back, the grin was gone. Her eyes, silver and endless, bore into his like they could peel back his skin and read his soul.
"She's buying you seconds, Rowan. Not hours. Not days. Seconds. And even that… she paid in blood."
He clenched his fists. "Then why aren't you helping her?"
Teresa's fiery hair glowed like molten metal as she stepped into the light, her features soft, unreadable.
"Because help," she said, "is an illusion. Just like me."
Before his eyes, her form flickered—just slightly. One blink and she looked twenty years older. Another blink, and she looked like a child again. Another, and she had no face at all. The room pulsed with the weight of something ancient.
Rowan swallowed hard. "Why do you look like that?"
"Because you see what I want you to see." Her voice no longer sounded human. "What you need to see."
He shivered. The air had turned colder.
"If Flora trusted you with the key," she continued, turning away from him, "then either she believed in you… or she had no other choice. Either way, it's in your hands now."
"What does it open?" Rowan asked.
She paused at the edge of the torchlight, her silhouette framed by fire.
Teresa glanced back at him, eyes gleaming.
"If you're worthy… you won't have to ask now."
Lady Teresa snapped her fingers.
There was no thunderclap, no flash of light, no shimmer in the air.
The Castle simply ceased to be.
One moment it loomed above them, towering and ominous, its stone walls soaked in shadow and menace—and the next, there was nothing. Just empty sky. Rolling hills. Wind whispering through the grass.
Rowan froze, breath caught in his chest. The ropes that had bound him—tight, biting into his wrists—were gone. No marks. No pain.
He looked around, heart pounding.
"It was never real," he said slowly, more to himself than to her.
Lady Teresa tilted her head, smiling slightly, her silver hair catching the light. "Of course it wasn't. You think I'd waste real chains on a test?"
Rowan stared at her. "You were testing me?"
"I was curious." She turned away from him, hands clasped behind her back as she began walking forward. "And I was bored. Both, really."
He didn't move. His mind reeled. The sense of helplessness he'd felt inside that illusion—the fear, the panic—it had been so real. He had screamed. He had begged.
She had watched.
"You could've just asked," he said, his voice low.
Lady Teresa looked over her shoulder. "If you're worthy, you won't have to ask. That's the point."
The wind shifted. Rowan turned his head and saw the village in the distance—scarred, broken.
They were on a hillside, just beyond the treeline. The illusion had brought him far from where he thought he was. Smoke rose lazily from blackened rooftops. Some homes were nothing more than burnt skeletons, their charred frames reaching toward the sky like pleading hands.
Rowan felt his knees go weak.
"Come," Lady Teresa said, motioning ahead. "We'll walk. You need to see what's left."
He didn't follow immediately. The sight of the ruined village was like a fist closing around his lungs.
That's where Aunt Flora had been.
His throat tightened.
He saw her again in his mind—standing in the doorway, arms outstretched, eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. Taking the hit meant for him. Falling.
He had never turned back.
He hadn't seen her body.
Now… he would.
Rowan swallowed hard. "Will I find her?"
Lady Teresa didn't stop walking. Her voice was soft but certain. "If she's there, you will."
His heart pounded as he took a step forward, then another. The grass brushed his legs. The scent of smoke grew stronger.
All he could think about was Aunt Flora—what she looked like in those last moments, what she might look like now. Burned. Cold. Alone.
He clenched his fists.
He wasn't ready.
But he walked anyway.