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NORA

W e don’t speak of the night before.

There’s no talk of what it meant—or what it could mean. No whispered promises in the afterglow, no declarations blooming like wildflowers in the dark.

Only the quiet.

Only the warmth of his hand still resting loosely on my waist as morning filters in, fractured through the high ceiling of the ruin. Only the scent of him clinging to my skin, a memory soaked into the fabric of my breath. Only the ache in my limbs that reminds me we crossed a line, again.

And yet, neither of us moves.

The moment stretches long between us, coiled and silent, filled with all the things we don’t dare say. I can feel his heartbeat against my spine, steady now, not the shuddering storm it had been the night before. That, at least, is something.

Eventually, I rise.

He lets me.

I dress in silence, aware of his gaze like a weight along my back. It doesn't burn—it anchors. But still, I keep my thoughts buried deep as I cross the chamber, toward the spot where the artifact still pulses faintly in its resting place.

The spire has changed.

The crack that bloomed when I touched it remains, glowing faintly beneath its surface like a vein of molten gold. But now, new runes have surfaced—etched high along its body, in sharp angles that shift when I try to look too closely.

I narrow my eyes, heart pounding.

They look familiar.

And then they’re not just familiar, they’re comprehensible .

The symbols rearrange in my mind, no longer shapeless glyphs but language—words— meaning . My lips move without thinking, mouth forming syllables I’ve never spoken before and yet instinctively know:

“ Varn e'shar... tu’hadrin Medea. ”

The artifact responds .

A slow vibration ripples out, not in sound, but sensation—like the ground beneath me is exhaling. My knees buckle slightly under the weight of the reaction, and Rhaegar is instantly at my side.

“What did you say?” he demands, eyes scanning me like I might shatter again.

I stare at the spire, breath caught in my throat.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I mean—I do. I knew the words. They just came. It’s the Wraithborn tongue. I understood it.”

Rhaegar stiffens. “That language is lost. Dead. No one speaks it anymore.”

“I didn’t speak it. I remembered it.”

His jaw clenches.

And still, I can feel it, tugging at my mind like a hook in my spine.

A whisper.

A call.

I step closer to the artifact again, hand hovering just above its surface. The glyphs shimmer and align into clear words this time, and I read them aloud, voice steady despite the chill crawling up my spine:

“ Here lies the broken flame, shattered soul of she who was once Medea. Bound in blood. Sealed in pain. To wield is to awaken. To awaken is to surrender. ”

Rhaegar curses under his breath.

I don’t move.

It takes a second for the meaning to fully register.

“It’s alive,” I breathe. “This isn’t just some relic or tool of power. It’s a prison.”

Rhaegar steps between me and the spire, face grim. “A prison with Medea still inside.”

I nod, slowly. “Or… part of her. The part that couldn’t die. That was torn from her when she fell.”

His expression twists. “Then anyone who touches it long enough?—”

“—risks being possessed,” I finish, voice low. “She’s in there. Whispering. Waiting.”

Rhaegar backs away, his whole posture shifting into defensive fury. “Then we destroy it.”

“No,” I say sharply, stepping between him and the artifact. “We can’t.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” I turn to him, my voice shaking now. “If we destroy it, we lose the only thing that can stop her. That can sever the contract. It’s not just a threat—it’s the answer.”

His eyes narrow. “Or it’s a trap.”

“Maybe it’s both.”

We stand there, breathing hard, the artifact pulsing behind me like a second heartbeat. His eyes fall to my hand—still faintly glowing where the magic touched me last.

“You’re already marked.”

I nod. “And I think… that’s why I could speak the language. Why I could read her prison.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

I lift my hand. “I can control it.”

“You think you can,” he growls. “But what if you can’t? What if she uses that mark to twist your will, like she did with the mirror?”

“I stopped myself then. I can do it again.”

“I saw your face when you said her name,” he whispers. “It wasn’t yours.”

That silences me.

Because I remember it too.

The flicker in the mirror. The vision of my hands bloodied with power. The echo of Rhaegar dying at my feet while I wore a crown of ruin.

But I also remember something else.

His hands pulling me back.

His voice grounding me.

The kiss that shattered whatever grip Medea thought she had.

“I’m not her,” I say. “And I’m not you either, Rhaegar. I can’t always fight the way you do. Sometimes I have to understand . Even if it means getting close to the edge.”

He steps closer, breath brushing my cheek. “Just don’t fall off it.”

My voice lowers. “Not if you catch me.”

For a long time, he says nothing.

Then he exhales. “We’ll figure this out. But we do it together . And if she tries to take you?—”

“She won’t,” I say fiercely. “She doesn’t get to win. Not this time.”

He stares at me a moment longer, then finally nods.

And behind us, the spire pulses again.

Alive.

Waiting.

And bound to me.