The sun had long dipped behind the forest, leaving the castle’s old library in a hush of candlelight. Young Cora Mills, no older than seventeen, crouched at a splintering desk, her eyes racing across a forbidden spellbook she’d stolen from her mother’s locked chest.

She had been practicing magic in secret for months now, tiny harmless charms to levitate feathers or change the color of petals. But this spell — this one was different. It promised to create life from pure will.

Cora whispered the incantation, her hands trembling over a shallow silver bowl of water. The air thickened, humming with energy. The candle flames snapped upright, then flickered blue.

And then… you opened your eyes.

You were lying on the library floor, surrounded by swirling motes of light. At first you thought you were dreaming, but then you saw her: a girl with dark curls, her eyes sharp and brilliant. She gasped, staggering back.

“Who—what—” she stammered, clutching the spellbook.

You pushed yourself up slowly. “I… don’t know,” you said, voice hoarse. “I think you… made me.”

Cora’s face drained of color. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “It was just a test.”

But you were real. You were warm, breathing, alive.

Over the next few days, she tried to avoid you, but you followed her through the castle’s shadowed halls like a ghost she couldn’t get rid of. You were curious, asking her about the world, about magic, about herself. She tried to act cold, dismissive.

“I didn’t want this,” she said one night in the courtyard. “I didn’t want you.”

But you saw her sneaking glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking. You saw how she softened when you asked about her dreams, her frustrations, her secret wish to be more than just a miller’s daughter.

Then one evening, you found her in the library again, the spellbook open. She was trembling.

“I found the reversal,” she said flatly. “If I speak it, everything goes back. This mistake will disappear.”

You swallowed hard. “Including me.”

She didn’t look at you. “Yes.”

You stepped closer, gently. “Cora… I’m not a mistake. I’m… I’m yours. You brought me here. You gave me life. I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m meant to help you.”

Finally she turned to you, her eyes wet and furious. “I can’t afford mistakes!” she snapped. “People betray me. People leave me. Power is the only thing that lasts. If I undo this, it will be as if it never happened.”

You held her gaze. “And if you don’t?”

She hesitated, the words trembling on her lips. “Then I’ll have… you.”

The library fell silent except for the crackling of the candles. You could see the war in her eyes — the Cora who longed for connection, and the Cora who had already begun to learn how dangerous it was to care.

Slowly, she lowered the book. “Stay,” she whispered, barely audible. “Just… stay.”