You feel your hand move to your belt. A blade rests there. You don’t remember drawing it.

Seraphine watches the movement. She doesn’t flinch.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Slay me. But know this – I’ve already woven a failsafe into the gem. A prophecy that even you can’t unravel. Kill me, kill the others, live your stolen centuries. But one day, a child will come. And they will see what you truly are.”

The candles flicker and die, one by one.

In the darkness, you hear a sound. Faint. Final.

When the light returns, you are alone. The texts on the table are burning with violet fire. Seraphine’s chair is empty.

But her voice echoes through the library, sourceless and eternal:

“The gem remembers, Varek. The gem always remembers…”