Sometimes, if she was still, she caught faint fragments of her memories. A whisper of a voice. The gentle touch of a hand. Flowers dancing in the sunlight.
It’s what led her to place the crimson spindle on the spinning wheel.
It glinted now, ominously red as the ruby on her finger.
“Well, I can help with that.” Calla crossed the room and placed a small object onto Salvia’s writing desk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath glass.
The jar.
Alora’s spine stiffened, but she took a breath and let go of her reservations. She wouldn’t be ready to face her father if she couldn’t face herself.
“I’m not sure where to start,” Alora admitted.
“It is a part of you, my lady. I imagine the instinct will rise.” Calla canted her head, arching a brow at Alora’s ring. “But you have more than magic to reclaim.”
She bowed and turned to go.
“I asked Rune if he loved me…” Alora murmured.
Calla paused, arching an eyebrow. “And? Did he say no?”
She blinked at her, realizing Rune had said many things last night except that.
Calla smirked. “Rune is the founder of lies. He does so as easily as breathing, for he wears them as armor. Yet he willingly vowed to never lie to you.”
Alora frowned. “He still found ways to cleverly twist his words.”
“Of course, but if you listen carefully, you will find truth buried in them, too.”
With that, Calla slipped away and the door shut behind her with a quiet click.
Alora wrapped her arms around herself. Rune had hidden many things from her, including the part of her past he was part of. The part she didn’t remember.
Her gaze fell to the jar. Inside divine light danced like lustrous as strands of stars.
Heaven’s gift.
Her mother’s burden.
Hers.
Alora slowly approached the desk, but her hand hovered hesitantly over the jar. The siphoning had nearly killed her. Could she survive whatever past reclaiming her magic would uncover?
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Alora clenched her jaw and reached forward, fingertips grazing the cool surface of the jar. Her reflection shimmered in the glass.
This was her power.
The strands pulsed in response.
A tremor shot through her chest, sharp and hot, as the threads of magic inside the glass began to rise. They steadily blazed like a flame catching silk.
Alora stood before it, heart knocking against her ribs, hands trembling at her sides. For days, she’d avoided it. Refused to look. Refused to claim. But now, in the wake of curses, destiny, and blood-soaked inheritance, she saw it not as the magic that failed her, but the part of her she had cast away.
She had feared what it would show her. Of what it might awaken once it merged with the eldritch side she couldn’t deny.
But regardless of whether she was never meant to exist, even if she was born from a wish, this was what fate had called her to be.
It was time she stopped fearing her magic and herself.
