Chapter 6 Secrets That Should Have Stayed Dead

• The palace never truly slept.
• Even when the torches were dimmed and the servants dismissed, the halls breathed—walls pulsing with secrets, floors groaning with memories too old for comfort.
• Espen didn’t sleep either.
• She wandered.
• Barefoot, silent, her red silk robe trailing behind her like smoke. A habit formed from years of training her body to move without sound. A habit that, in this place, had new uses.
• She wasn’t being followed.
• But something felt… off.
• The magic in her pouch had grown restless, humming through the walls now when she passed certain corridors. She swore she heard whispers where there should’ve been silence. Wind where there were no windows.
• And the pull had brought her here.
• Deep beneath the east wing. Behind the library. Past the wine cellars. Past where even the guards bothered to pretend they cared.
• A door sealed in iron.
• Unmarked.
• Unlit.
• The pulse behind her ribs thrummed harder.
• She should leave.
• She opened it instead.
• The hinges creaked like something breathing its first breath in years.
• Inside: darkness.
• She whispered a word in Old Velharan—light—and the rune stone in her palm flared.
• The chamber stretched into shadow, lined in old stone slick with age. There were markings on the walls—familiar ones. The ones she’d traced from dreams she never understood.
• And in the center… a dais.
• Atop it, a mirror.
• Not a normal one.
• A scrying mirror.
• Black glass, silver-framed, humming with dormant power.
• Espen stepped closer.
• Her fingers brushed the edge of the frame—and it woke.
• The surface flared red. Then gold. Then black.
• Images rippled across it.
• A throne burning.
• A man with eyes like Mikko’s—and a crown of bone.
• A woman screaming. Her face. But not. Younger. Bloody. Marked with something divine.
• And then a voice.
• Not hers. Not spoken.
• But deep. Old.
• “The heir is not dead.”
• The room went still.
• Cold.
• Too cold.
• She stumbled back, breath caught, pulse stammering.
• The mirror stilled.
• Only her reflection looked back now.
• And it looked… afraid.
• She backed out of the chamber, sealed the door, and pressed trembling hands to the stone.
• Whatever that was—it was older than this kingdom.
• And it knew her.
• No one could find out.
• She walked back to her chambers like nothing had changed.
• But something had.
• Something had.
• 🔥
• The next night, the palace echoed again.
• With the sounds of fucking.
• Loud. Brazen.
• Intentional.
• Kimberlee had always been cruel in bed, but now her voice was performance. She wailed like a banshee, made sounds no one made unless they were being paid or watched.
• And she was being watched.
• She made sure of it.
• Espen heard it from the bath.
• From the hallway.
• From her goddamn ceiling.
• She didn’t flinch.
• Didn’t react.
• She brushed her hair, ran oil over her arms, whispered to the tiny dragon curled on her windowsill.
• She didn’t even blink.
• But Mikko?
• He noticed.
• He kept waiting for the crack.
• The bang of a door. The shout. The scream.
• Nothing.
• Not even a passive-aggressive breakfast absence the next morning.
• Espen arrived to court looking like she’d slept beautifully. In lavender silk. With her hair braided in the shape of rose thorns.
• She greeted the nobles.
• Smiled at the guards.
• And walked right past Mikko like he was a boring painting on a damp wall.
• He wanted to throw something.
• Kimberlee, watching from the edge of the throne dais, curled her fingers into the armrest.
• She smiled, but it was brittle.
• Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
• 🔥
• Espen’s hands trembled only once that day.
• Not from them.
• Not from the show.
• But from memory.
• The mirror. The voice.
• The heir is not dead.
• She walked into her chambers after court and shut the door with calm grace.
• Then locked it.
• Sealed it.
• And dropped to her knees before the hearth.
• The dragon—small, still, gold-eyed—perked up.
• She reached beneath the stones and pulled out the pouch.
• The mirror rune pulsed inside.
• Alive now.
• Changing.
• She didn’t tell anyone.
• Not even her dragon.
• Some secrets weren’t meant to be protected.
• Some were meant to be buried.
• But fate? Fate liked to dig.
• 🔥
• Elsewhere in the palace, Mikko stood beneath the cold spray of the bath, breathing like he’d just come out of a war.
• His jaw ached from clenching. His muscles screamed from overexertion. Kimberlee had left hours ago, smug and naked and satisfied.
• And he felt…
• Empty.
• No lighter.
• No cleaner.
• He scrubbed his chest, his arms, his face. Hard. Over and over until the skin burned.
• She didn’t even blink.
• Espen’s face haunted him.
• Not in agony.
• Not in hurt.
• But in silence.
• She’d let him scream into her ceiling and hadn’t flinched.
• He didn’t know if he wanted to kill her or fuck her harder than he’d ever touched anyone in his godsdamn life.
• And that terrified him.
• Because desire was familiar.
• But this? This rage—this need to make her look at him?
• It felt like war.
• And he was already losing.
• 🔥
• Night fell again.
• Espen walked the halls alone, trailing her fingers against the stone. The dragon stayed hidden, coiled near the hearth, protective but quiet.
• She didn’t return to the mirror.
• Not yet.
• But its presence sang through her skin like old magic waking from a long sleep.
• The castle walls whispered more now.
• The guards avoided her eyes.
• Even the candles flickered differently when she passed.
• And when she reached her bedroom door that night, something caught in her periphery.
• Not a figure.
• Not a shadow.
• But a ripple.
• Like the space itself had blinked.
• She stepped inside slowly.
• Closed the door.
• Turned to face the emptiness of her bed.
• And whispered, “You’re early.”
• No answer.
• But she felt it.
• The weight of being watched.
• The kind that didn’t come from a man in heat or a mistress in silk.
• But from something older.
• Something remembering.
• The pouch pulsed beneath her pillow.
• And somewhere in the lowest belly of the castle, the mirror came alive again.