The Gravedancer’s Waltz Part - 3

A thin veil of dusk laced the estate, though time’s rhythm had already begun to stutter.

Elira stood alone in the music room, her fingers brushing the spines of abandoned scores. Each parchment pulsed faintly with residual magic—inked not with notes but sigils. These were not mortal compositions. They were fragments of memory, twisted and set to melody. When she whispered a note aloud, a chandelier above her flickered in time.

Tovik’s muffled voice cracked through the heavy door.

“Elira? You’re not thinking of composing a ghost opera, are you?”

She smiled despite herself. “Only if you’ll star in it.”

He entered, donned in an ensemble befitting a minor noble, powdered wig slightly crooked, one of his boots untied. “I’m having dinner with myself tonight. The ghost version of me eats with a fork upside-down and doesn’t blink.”

“You’re blending in nicely.”

“I hate it here.”

She turned back to the music. “I think this house sings. Not just echoes, actual harmonic response to intent. If I can tune into it properly, we might be able to map the fracture. It’s not just memory, it’s an unscored Remnant seam.”

“That sounds bad. Dangerous bad.”

“It is.” She lowered her voice. “And it’s calling to Vaelin.”

Meanwhile, in the crypt levels beneath the ballroom, Vaelin descended a spiral stair so old it groaned under weight. The torchlight he carried flickered between stone and shadow until it landed on something impossible:

A painting. A perfect likeness of himself.

The figure stood amidst a crowd of nobles, blade bloodied, with a cold satisfaction in his eyes.

Beneath the portrait was etched a name: Vaelin d’Marrow, Gravedancer of House Thorne.

He stared.

His hand trembled faintly as the Remnant pulse inside him stirred, warm first, then burning.

A voice echoed from the dark:

“You remember it differently.”

Vaelin turned. The ghost-noble from the ballroom stood behind him, maskless now, revealing an aristocratic face etched with the arrogance of the old Drevril court. His name had once been Lord Renald Thorne.

“I’ve seen what you did. Felt it a hundred times. The blade to my throat. The whisper you gave before the cut.”

“I didn’t kill you,” Vaelin said. “Not in this life.”

“But one of you did.”

Renald stepped closer. His form flickered, flesh one moment, bone the next.

“You were mine once. My blade. My shame. The Gravedancer’s steps were learned beneath this roof. Do you truly think your vow makes you clean?”

Vaelin didn’t flinch. “I came to break the loop. Not beg forgiveness.”

A sudden swell of music echoed from above. The beginning of the Last Waltz. The fracture had begun again.

“I remember,” Renald said softly. “What you said as you killed me. This time, you die forgotten. Let’s see if it’s your turn.”

Back above, Tovik stumbled into the study, dodging spectral dancers mid-spin.

He froze when he saw his ghost-self standing at the liquor cabinet, humming a fractured tune.

“Okay, listen,” Tovik began, “I know we’re both dashing and morally complex, but I need your help.”

The ghost-Tovik smirked. “You’ve always needed me.”

Tovik swallowed. “You remember why they framed us?”

“They said it was for stealing the queen’s seal.”

“But it wasn’t.” Tovik leaned in. “It was because of him, wasn’t it? The masked archivist. The one who said the truth could burn kingdoms.”

Ghost-Tovik stiffened. “You still remember him?”

“Only in nightmares.”

The mirror above the mantle cracked.

Elira burst in then, eyes lit with feverish understanding. “Tovik, we need to get to the ballroom. Vaelin’s echo is fighting itself. If he loses this dance, he becomes that version of himself.”

“And if he wins?” Tovik asked.

Elira looked up. “He might not come back at all.”

In the ballroom, the clock struck midnight. Glass fractured in reverse. Chandeliers spun backwards. The dancers blurred.

Vaelin stood at the heart of it all, locked in a circular dance with Renald Thorne, sword meeting rapier in perfect, repeated rhythm. The battle had happened before. It was happening now. It would happen again.

“You know what this place is,” Renald hissed. “A mirror, Vaelin. All your unlived lives dancing in blood.”

Vaelin’s voice was low. “Then I choose.”

He closed his eyes, just for a breath, and reached into the Remnant echo, not to fight, but to surrender it. To offer it willingly to the fracture. The power hummed.

A thread of shadow pulled from his spine, writhing, burning, echoing with every path he might have walked. One by one, he severed the ties.

The ballroom flashed.

Music halted.

Renald faded mid-swing, a look of shock frozen on his face.

The spell shattered.

And Vaelin dropped to one knee.

Elira rushed to his side, catching him before he hit the marble floor. His scar pulsed, fading from fire to ash.

“You gave it up,” she whispered.

“Not all,” he rasped. “Just the part of me that wanted to be him.”

She kissed his temple.

Behind them, Tovik approached, holding a fractured mask.

“Good news,” he said, tossing it into the air. “Our ghost host gave me his vote of thanks. Bad news—he expects me to take his place at the next waltz.”

Vaelin groaned.

Tovik winked. “You’re not the only one with a dangerous legacy, Gravedancer.”

The music room trembled once and went still.

But in the deepest corner of the house, a new mask formed. One bearing the sigil of flame and ash… and a fox’s grin.

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All Parts of the Series

The Gravedancer's Waltz Part 1

The Gravedancer's Waltz Part 2

The Gravedancer's Waltz Part 3

The Gravedancer's Waltz Part 4

The Gravedancer's Waltz Part 5