The Ashworth Palace was nothing like the de Montfort palace.
If Verlaine was cold, measured grandeur, then Ashford was magnificent, open warmth. Its walls were not made of somber gray stone, but golden sandstone that caught the morning sunlight and reflected it in warm golden hues. Its gardens were not arranged in rigid, perfect symmetry, but allowed to grow with a slightly wild beauty—red and white roses alternating with lavender bushes nearly waist-high, and in the center, a white marble fountain sprayed clear water that sparkled like liquid diamonds.
But Rowena had little time to enjoy the beauty.
They arrived at the palace gates just as the city bells rang eight times. Kaelan had already contacted his connection inside—a palace lady-in-waiting named Lady Isolde Ashworth, a second cousin of Duke Armand, who supposedly had access to the old archives due to her position as the palace historian. From the outside, Lady Isolde was an unremarkable figure: a middle-aged woman with blonde hair beginning to gray, wearing a simple gray gown, with round glasses perched on the tip of her nose that made her look more like a librarian than a noble.
But her eyes—Rowena noticed immediately—were the eyes of someone accustomed to seeing things others did not want to see.
"Lady Celine," Lady Isolde greeted softly when they met in the palace's back garden, far from the crowds. "Or do you prefer to be called Rowena? Duke Armand has already told me."
Rowena was surprised but tried not to show it. "Rowena is better."
"Rowena it is, then." Lady Isolde smiled faintly. "A fine name. A name that appears in several ancient manuscripts as one of Morana's titles. 'Rowena, the One Who Brings Light into Darkness.' But that might just be a coincidence."
"Or maybe not," Rowena said.
"Or maybe not," Lady Isolde repeated, her smile widening slightly. "Come with me. We don't have much time. The secret archives are not located in the main library, as you might expect. They are beneath the eastern tower, in a chamber that can only be opened with the key you carry… and with blood from the Ashworth line."
She took a small knife from her gown pocket—the blade thin and silver, engraved with spiral patterns similar to those on Morana's mirror.
"Don't worry," she said, seeing Rowena's expression. "Just a drop. Duke Armand has given his permission. In writing, with the royal seal. I won't let you get hurt."
They walked through the quiet back corridors of the palace, past the busy kitchens preparing breakfast, through narrow hallways used only by servants, until they finally reached an old oak door at the end of the easternmost corridor. The door had no handle, no visible lock, only a small inverted triangular indentation—the same symbol as the Sigillum Dei Mortis on Rowena's wrist.
Lady Isolde took the silver key from Rowena and inserted it into the indentation. The key glowed with a pale blue light, the same as the small mirror in Rowena's pocket. Then she sliced the tip of her index finger with the silver knife and pressed a drop of blood onto the wooden surface.
The blood sank into the wood like water into dry earth. And the door opened.
Not with a creak or the clink of a lock, but with total silence, like a door made of mist dissolving. Behind it was a spiral stone staircase descending into darkness.
"This archive has existed since before the Kingdom of Ashvold was founded," Lady Isolde said as she lit a small lantern hanging on the wall. "Long ago, it was a sacred place for the priests of Morana. After the kingdom was established and House Ashworth took control, we turned it into an archive. But its essence remains the same. This is where the oldest secrets are kept."
Kaelan stepped in first, as always. Rowena followed behind him, with Lady Isolde bringing up the rear. The staircase was long—Rowena counted one hundred and twenty-three steps before they reached the bottom.
The underground chamber was vast. Extremely vast. Far larger than one could imagine from the tower above. The ceiling was so high that Lady Isolde's lantern could not reach the top, leaving only darkness above that felt like a starless night sky. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of scrolls, manuscripts, stone tablets, and strange artifacts Rowena could not identify from a distance.
But what stood out most was in the center of the room.
There was an altar. The same as the one in the de Montfort family dungeon. Black marble, spiral engravings, and atop it… a mirror.
A large mirror, the size of a door, with a black-silver frame engraved with intricate spiral patterns. Exactly like the one Celine had seen before she died. But this mirror was different—its surface was not dark and moving like water. It was clouded, like glass covered in mist, and a large crack ran through its center, splitting the mirror in two.
"That," Lady Isolde whispered in the silent chamber, "is the mirror we recovered from the Veyne family dungeon after Lord Aldric died. We keep it here because… because we don't know what to do with it."
Kaelan walked closer, his face pale. "That's what killed my father."
"We don't know if the mirror itself killed him," Lady Isolde said gently. "But it is the only clue we have. Since that mirror arrived here, strange things have begun happening in the palace. Nightmares. Voices in the dark. Shadows that move on their own. Duke Armand ordered that no one approach this chamber without his permission."
Rowena walked toward the mirror. On her wrist, the Sigillum Dei Mortis throbbed rapidly, and the small mirror in her pocket felt warm.
"May I touch it?" she asked.
"No!" Lady Isolde and Kaelan exclaimed at the same time.
But Rowena had already extended her hand.
Her fingers touched the clouded surface of the mirror.
And the world around her changed.
She stood inside the mirror.
Not in the field of lilies like before. This was a different place. She stood on a glass floor that reflected the sky above—a sky with the same two moons, but this time the moons were larger, closer, as if she could reach them just by stretching out her hand.
Around her were mirrors. Hundreds of mirrors. Perhaps thousands. All of different sizes and shapes, each standing alone on the glass floor like trees in a silent forest. Each mirror reflected something different—some showed faces of people she didn't know, some showed landscapes she had never seen, some showed… the past. Or the future. She couldn't tell.
And in the middle of all those mirrors stood a man.
The man sat on a chair made of mirror as well, one leg crossed over the other, like a king relaxing on his throne. He looked young—perhaps in his early thirties—with jet-black hair falling to his shoulders, dark eyes that had no recognizable color, and a smile that was too wide to be human.
He wore a neat black coat with a white shirt underneath, without a single wrinkle. In his hand, he held a book—a book with a black leather cover and a title Rowena couldn't read because the letters moved on their own across the page.
"You came," the man said. His voice was the same one she had heard in the inn room—deep, heavy, like a rumble from the belly of the earth.
"Who are you?" Rowena asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
The man closed his book and placed it on his lap. "I have many names. The priests of Morana called me The Nameless because they feared to speak my name aloud. House Ashworth, in their secret records, called me The Mirror King because… well, because of this." He gestured around him, indicating the sea of mirrors. "But you may call me Caspian. That was the name I used the last time I walked in the outside world. It was a very long time ago. Perhaps a thousand years. I've forgotten."
"Caspian," Rowena repeated. "You're the one who spoke to me last night."
"I'm the one who spoke to you last night. Also the one who spoke to Celine before she died. Also the one who spoke to Lord Aldric Veyne before he died. Also the one who has spoken to every person who dared look into these mirrors for the last thousand years." He smiled. "I talk a lot, you know. It's the only entertainment I have here."
"You're the one who killed them."
Caspian shook his head, his expression shifting to something resembling sadness. "I didn't kill anyone, Rowena. I cannot kill. I don't have the power to do so. I only… speak. Those who died, died because of their own choices. Because of what they saw in these mirrors. Because of truths they could not accept."
"What did they see?"
Caspian looked at her with eyes that suddenly became deeper, older, heavier.
"They saw you, Rowena. Or more precisely, they saw what would happen if you chose to open the gate. They saw destruction. They saw death. And they could not live with that knowledge."
Rowena felt her chest tighten. "You're lying."
"I never lie. That is the only honesty I have here. I cannot lie, Rowena. That is my curse. I can only speak the truth. And the truth is often more painful than a lie."
He stood from his chair. He was extraordinarily tall—perhaps over two meters—and when he rose, all the mirrors around them trembled slightly, like tuning forks being struck.
"I have waited a long time to meet you, Rowena Ashworth. Not because you are the key to the gate. Not because you are a wandering soul. But because you are the only one who can break this cycle. The only one who can end what began thousands of years ago."
"What began thousands of years ago?"
Caspian extended his hand. In his palm, an image formed—like a hologram made of light and shadow. She saw three figures standing in a circle around a black marble altar. A man with a crown—the first king of Ashvold. A woman in a blue gown—the high priestess of Morana. And a small child—a girl with golden-blonde hair braided into two plaits.
"House Ashworth, House de Montfort, and House Veyne," Caspian said. "They were three siblings, Rowena. Children of the first king of Ashvold and a priestess of Morana. And when that king died, his three children made a pact with Morana herself. They cut her soul into three parts and sealed it inside the mirrors, using her power to keep the gate closed. In return, Morana would remain alive, trapped in the First Layer, and the three families would rule forever."
The image in his hand changed. Now she saw Morana—the goddess with silver-white hair—entangled in chains of light coming from three large mirrors. Her face was not angry. It was empty. Like someone who had already given up.
"But they didn't know that Morana was only a guardian. Not a prisoner. They thought they were imprisoning her, but in truth they were imprisoning themselves. Because without Morana, the gate could not be guarded. And behind that gate, there is something older, hungrier, more… impatient."
The image disappeared. Caspian lowered his hand.
"Me, Rowena. I am what is behind that gate. I am the one who has waited thousands of years to be freed. Not by Morana—she cannot free me. But by someone like you. Someone unbound by that pact. Someone who can choose."
He stepped closer, and Rowena felt the weight of his presence like pressure on her chest.
"But I will not ask you to free me, Rowena. I will only show you the truth. The truth about who you are. About why you are here. About what happened in every life you have lived before."
Rowena tensed. "Before?"
"You thought this was the first time you became a wandering soul, Rowena? You thought it was a coincidence that you were born as an archaeologist in another world, studying artifacts connected to this one? You thought it was a coincidence that you share the same name as half of Morana's soul?"
He smiled. A smile that held no humor at all.
"You have lived nine times, Rowena. Nine lives in nine different worlds. And in every life, you always returned here. To this world. To these mirrors. To this choice. And every time, you chose to close the gate. Every time, you chose to keep everything as it is. And every time, you died, and were reborn in another world, forgetting everything, only to start over again from the beginning."
Rowena felt her legs weaken. The world around her seemed to spin.
"That's impossible."
"It is the truth. You can check it yourself. In this archive, there are records of every one of your lives. Hidden among the ancient manuscripts, written in a language no one but you can read. Because you wrote them yourself. In every life, before you died, you left notes for yourself. For the next life."
Caspian picked up the book on his lap and opened it. The pages were blank—but slowly, writing began to appear. Handwriting. Her own handwriting.
Rowena read:
"I am Rowena. First life. I chose to close the gate. I died on the altar, my blood flowing into the cracks, and the seal closed once more. I do not regret it. But I am tired. Perhaps in the next life, I will choose differently."
She turned the page.
"I am Rowena. Second life. I chose to close the gate again. This time I died on the battlefield, protecting the mirror from those who wanted to open it. I saw Kaelan's face before I died. He did not remember me. He never remembers."
She turned again.
"I am Rowena. Third life. I chose to close the gate. I died in this library, burning myself along with the records that enemies might use. I am tired, Caspian. Perhaps in the next life, I will let everything end."
Page after page. Nine lives. Nine deaths. Nine identical choices.
And on the final page, different writing. Older, more exhausted, with faded ink.
"I am Rowena. Ninth life. I chose to open the gate. But something went wrong. I did not die. I became trapped between worlds, my soul split into three. One became Celine. One became Morana. One became… me. But I am no longer me. I am a shadow of what I once was. I write this for myself in the future. If you are reading this, perhaps you are me. Or perhaps you are a newer version. I don't know. But I know one thing: there is no right choice. There is only the choice you live with."
Rowena closed the book with trembling hands.
"I… I wrote this?"
"You wrote this," Caspian said. "In the ninth life, you tried to open the gate. Not to free me. But to free yourself. Because you were tired, Rowena. Nine lives. Thousands of years. The same choice repeating over and over. You wanted it all to end. But something happened. The ritual failed. Your soul fractured. And you were reborn in another world as… an archaeologist studying artifacts from this world. Ironic, isn't it?"
Rowena sat on the glass floor, her legs no longer able to support her.
"So this… all of this… has happened before."
"Again and again. Like a circle that never breaks. You choose, you die, you are reborn, you forget, you find the mirror, you face the same choice, and you choose again. Nine times."
"And this time? What will be different?"
Caspian knelt before her. Up close, she saw that his eyes were not truly dark—they were like mirrors, reflecting whatever was in front of them. Right now, they reflected Rowena's own face. Three faces in one.
"This time, you are not alone. Celine is inside you. Morana is inside you. And Kaelan… Kaelan is out there, waiting for you. In the nine previous lives, you were always alone. Kaelan never remembered. But this time, he is here. And he remembers."
Rowena lifted her head. "What do you mean he remembers?"
"Not consciously. But his soul remembers. That is why he is loyal to you beyond reason. That is why he cannot leave you even when everyone says it is foolish. Because in every life, he did the same thing. He loved you. And he died for you. Again and again."
Caspian stood.
"I will not ask you to choose now, Rowena. I only want you to know the truth. When the time comes, you will choose. Just as you always have. But perhaps this time, with Kaelan by your side, with Celine and Morana inside you, you can choose something different. Not to close the gate. Not to open the gate. But… to change everything."
He extended his hand. In his palm was a key. An old silver key, similar to the one Duke Armand had given her, but older, more worn, with different engravings.
"This is the real key, Rowena. Not the key to this archive. But the key to… yourself. The key that will reunite the three parts of your soul. You can use it whenever you are ready."
Rowena took the key. The metal was warm in her hand, like something alive.
"But be careful," Caspian said. "Once you use this key, there is no going back. You will become Rowena, Celine, and Morana all at once. You will remember the nine previous lives. You will remember every death. Every loss. Every choice you made. And you will have the power to change everything."
"And you? What will happen to you if I use this key?"
Caspian smiled. A genuine smile, for the first time.
"I will be free, Rowena. Not to destroy the world as everyone fears. But to… go home. Like you. I am also trapped here, you know. Not by the pact of the three siblings. But by something older. Something I no longer even remember. But perhaps, if you reunite your soul, you will remember. And you will know what must be done."
He stepped back, and his body began to fade, blurring at the edges.
"Your time is almost up, Rowena. In the outside world, Kaelan and Lady Isolde are panicking because you fainted after touching the mirror. You must return. But remember what you saw here. Remember your nine lives. And when you are ready, use the key."
He vanished. And the sea of mirrors around Rowena began to spin, faster and faster, until everything became a vortex of light and shadow that dragged her downward—
Rowena opened her eyes.
She was lying on the floor of the archive, her head in Kaelan's lap. The man's face was deathly pale, his eyes red, and there were tear stains on his cheeks.
"Rowena! Rowena, can you hear me? You fainted for almost an hour! I called your name over and over, but you didn't move!"
One hour. Inside the mirror, it had felt like only a few minutes.
"I… I'm all right," she said, her voice hoarse. She felt something in her hand. She opened her palm.
The old silver key was still there.
Kaelan saw it, his eyes widening. "What is that? That's not the key Duke Armand gave you."
"This… this is the key to reuniting my soul," Rowena said, sitting up slowly with Kaelan's help. "I met Caspian. The Mirror King. He told me everything."
Lady Isolde, standing behind them with an expression caught between fear and curiosity, stepped closer. "Caspian? That name appears in the oldest manuscripts in this archive. He is… a name that is never spoken aloud. They say he is a god older than Morana. The god of mirrors. The god of the boundary between worlds."
"He is also a prisoner," Rowena said. "Like Morana. But older. Trapped longer."
She stood, her legs still shaky, but she refused Kaelan's help. She walked toward the large cracked mirror. Its surface was no longer clouded—she could see her reflection clearly. But her reflection was not Celine's face.
It was her own face. Rowena Ashworth from Oxford. With messy brown hair, round glasses, and the same tired expression as the woman in her old photographs.
"You," she whispered to the reflection. "You are me. I am you. And we have done this many times before."
The reflection smiled. Not Morana's threatening smile. Not Celine's fragile smile. But her own smile. The smile of a woman who had seen too much, but had not given up.
"We will do this one more time," Rowena said to her reflection. "But this time, we will do something different."
She turned to face Kaelan and Lady Isolde.
"I need time to think about all of this. But I know one thing: we cannot let that gate open. And we also cannot keep everything as it is. Something is wrong with that pact. Something is wrong with the way these three families maintain the balance. And I will find out what it is."
Lady Isolde nodded slowly. "Duke Armand will be glad to hear that. He has long suspected that something is wrong with the pact. But he didn't have enough evidence to challenge the tradition."
"We will give him evidence," Rowena said. But her mind was already elsewhere.
She looked at the large mirror one last time. The crack now seemed larger than before. Or perhaps it was only her imagination.
"Kael," she said.
"Yes?"
"Have you ever dreamed about me? About… Celine? Before you knew her?"
Kaelan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Maybe dreams about places you've never been. About events that never happened. About… death."
Kaelan fell silent. His face turned pale.
"I… yes," he said slowly. "Since I was a child, I often dreamed of a woman with golden-blonde hair, standing in front of a large mirror, crying. In my dreams, I always tried to reach her, but my hand passed through her body like mist. And then she smiled, the mirror shattered, and I woke up."
He looked at Rowena with eyes full of something he could not express.
"I thought it was just a dream. But when I first saw Celine on the palace balcony, I knew. I knew she was the woman in my dreams. That is why I couldn't leave her. That is why I swore to protect her."
Rowena felt tears welling in her eyes. Not Celine's tears. Her own.
"Caspian said you have loved me many times," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "In every life. And you always died for me."
Kaelan didn't answer with words. He simply took her hand and squeezed it.
And for the first time, Rowena felt not only the warmth of that grip, but something else. Something older. Something that had existed long before she was born in this world. Something that had waited through nine lives to find its way back.
Love that never died. Love that transcended death itself.
"This time," Kaelan said, "I will not die. And neither will you. We will find another way."
Rowena smiled. "Promise?"
"Promise."
They left the secret archives as the sun began to set. The sky over Ashford was a deep orange-red, and the two moons had already begun to appear on the eastern horizon.
Lady Isolde promised to guard the mirror and inform Duke Armand about what had happened. But before they parted, she pulled Rowena aside and whispered:
"Be careful who you trust in this palace, Rowena. Duke Armand may be your ally. But not everyone in House Ashworth agrees with him. Some want the gate opened. Some want the power they believe will come afterward. And they will do anything to achieve that goal."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But I know they have already begun to move. News of your 'death' and resurrection has spread. Some believe you are the key to opening the gate. Some believe you are a threat that must be eliminated. And some… some believe you are the answer to their prayers."
Lady Isolde squeezed Rowena's hand.
"Don't trust anyone until you know where they stand. Not even me. Not even Kaelan. Because in this palace, truth is a rarer commodity than gold."
She left, leaving Rowena and Kaelan in the darkening back garden.
Kaelan stepped closer. "What did she say?"
"She said not to trust anyone."
"Even me?"
Rowena looked at him. His face was illuminated by the blue and red moonlight, creating strange shadows on his high cheekbones.
"You," she said, "are the only one I trust."
Kaelan smiled. The same smile he had given her the first time he saw her in Celine's bed. Warm. Gentle. Awkward.
"You are also the only one I trust," he said.
They walked out of the palace under the light of the two moons, leaving the shadows behind them. In the distance, inside the secret archives, the large cracked mirror pulsed with a pale blue light.
And from within that mirror, Caspian watched them go with an unreadable smile.
"This time it might be different," he whispered to himself. "This time it might be different."