Chapter 1: Velir'Kaal – The Year That Never Ended
Chapter Text
Date: 1st Lunaris, 103 years after the Cycle break (103 a.C)
Location: Elythara, Hidden Temple Library
Character: An unnamed priestess
In Elythara, the new year was not celebrated – it was whispered about.
The nameless priestess moved silently through the long, dark corridor of the temple library. Stone, centuries old, lay cold beneath her bare feet, smooth from the footsteps of those who had walked here before her. She had left her sandals at the entrance so as not to make a sound. Every step was a risk, every breath a violation of rules that no one spoke aloud.
From afar, she could hear the muffled tinkling of golden bells—an echo of the celebrations taking place in Solthara, the floating golden city. There, the Elythari would dance in their flowing, shimmering robes made of magically enhanced fabric under a starry sky controlled by the priests. She remembered the gentle floating of the platforms between the eternal flames that illuminated the sacred temples, the intoxicating scent of magical elixirs that were only served on special occasions and were known throughout Ikaril.
But down here, in the hidden depths beneath the golden towers, there was only the smell of old parchment, stale water, and dust that was older than she was. A smell that captured the true nature of Elythara better than all the golden facades up there.
She had learned to be invisible. A shadow among many, a mask without a face, hidden under a hood of dark linen. Even her eyes, deep brown and alert, disappeared almost completely in the darkness. Only her hands betrayed her nervousness—white and trembling with cold and anticipation. She wore a simple robe, unlike the magnificent robes of the immortals of the Council who floated above in the golden light.
Outside in Solthara, people wore masks, laughed softly, and kept the lights burning until night was over. She herself could hardly remember these celebrations, even though she had loved them so much as a child: dancing on floating platforms, the gentle vibration of the air from the currents of magic, the sweet smoke of burning herbs from the secret gardens accessible only to the Elythari. But the older she got, the more she realized how much Elythara was trying to cover something up on this day. No celebration, she thought now, is so loud that you can't hear what's hidden beneath it.
The Hidden Library—for that was what she was looking for—lay far away from these festivities. It was a quiet place where history piled up as if time were nothing more than a burden that had to be laid down somewhere. A burden that the Elythari pretended to bear while calling themselves immortal. The priestess had come here because something was troubling her, a feeling she couldn't quite put her finger on – like a dream that faded after waking, but always left an echo behind.
A single ray of moonlight fell through a tall, narrow window, revealing tiny dust particles dancing in the air like tiny stars in a forgotten universe. The priestess paused and gazed at the light—it came from one of the three moons, the smallest one, whose silvery light shone so intensely only once a year. A sign, the elders said. A promise from the Circle of Light that true immortality existed—somewhere beyond the limits of even the most powerful Elythari's understanding.
Her destination was a forgotten chamber at the end of the corridor, hidden behind a wall that shouldn't have been a door. She did not know how she had found her way here, or how she even knew that this chamber existed. It was as if something inside her had always known that this room existed, hidden behind legends and forbidden knowledge.
When she finally stood in front of the wall, she took a deep breath and gently ran her fingers over the stone. It felt cold, and her skin seemed to absorb the faint vibrations of the past—an echo of the currents that had once coursed through the world. A pressure, a barely audible click, and the wall opened silently, as if it had been waiting for her.
The room behind it was small, barely larger than the chamber where she slept. But it was full of shelves filled with scrolls and books whose covers had become brittle with age. The light from the crystal lamp she had brought with her—a small, forbidden jewel she had stolen from the main altar of the Hall of Memories—made the shadows on the shelves seem menacing, as if they were about to close in on her at any moment.
She stepped inside and the air changed immediately. Cold and dry, and something else—a hint of something older than Elythara itself. She approached the shelves cautiously, running her fingers over the backs of the scrolls until she stopped at one. No inscription, no title, just bare, worn leather. But at the edge she recognized a symbol, so faint it was barely visible: two intertwined circles, broken by a single jagged cut. The symbol of the broken circle—the sign of Velir'Kaal.
Her fingers seemed to pull the scroll out almost automatically, as if her decision had long since been made. The parchment felt warm in her hands, almost alive, as if ancient magic pulsed within it.
She carefully unrolled the parchment. It rustled softly, the sound seeming unpleasantly loud in the silent chamber. Her gaze wandered over the old lines. The writing was pale, barely legible—she had to move closer, almost bringing the paper to her face. What she saw made her breath catch in her throat: the writing was Ikaril, the ancient language of the world they lived in, which only a few Elythari still spoke, and she had studied it her entire life – ⨥⩎⩖'⩪⨭ ⨳⨯'⨍⩜⪣. ⨥⩖⩢'⨥⩎⩢ ⨳⨯'⩪⨭ ⩎⫸ – ⨥⩎⫸ ⩢⩎⫸ ⨅⨯ ⩪⨭ ⨥⩎⩖. ⨥⩖⩢'⩥⩎⩢ ⨳⨯'⩎⫸ ⩖⨦⩢. ⨥⩖⨍⩖⩢ ⨳⨯'⩎⫸ ⨥⩎ ⪨⨯⩎⫸ ⩢⩎⩸. ⩪⩪ ⨳⨯'⨍⩜⪣ ⪨⩎⩥ ⨳⨯'⨥⩖. –
She blinked and rubbed her burning eyes. Some of the symbols were smudged, others so faded that they were barely recognizable. She traced the lines with her finger, trying to breathe life into the fading text.
"Kael'nir thal'... xor'zarien," she murmured as her brain tried to interpret the runes. 'Velir'Kaal xor'nir... vel'ar lor...' Here, an entire word was illegible, just shadows on the parchment. "...kael. Vel'mir'kaar xor'ar thir."
She frowned, concentrating harder. The next line contained a symbol she had never seen before—a confusing squiggle between two familiar characters.
"Vel'quor xor'ar ka thal'... mir," she continued, her voice uncertain. "Nai... thal'kaar xor'kael."
She leaned back, sweat beading on her forehead. From what she could decipher, the translation was something like:
"There are years that never... Velir'Kaal was not a year—it was a breath between... a heartbeat that stopped and did not return. Our world paused when the... broke. Not... time itself dared to move on."
The words, even fragmentary, echoed within her, pulsing in her blood. The name Velir'Kaal was little more than a myth in Elythara. A warning that no one took seriously anymore, a bogeyman for wayward novices. The Elythari, who so proudly called themselves the Immortals, had relegated it to a footnote in their history.
But here, in these dusty pages, lay something else. Not a legend, but a testimony. And between the lines she read, something else awoke: handwriting, hasty and small, as if someone had written it in the dark. Marginal notes, fleeting and fearful.
"The currents were never separate—they connected more than just our world. We should not have broken them."
An icy chill ran down her spine. The currents Elythara's priests spoke of were considered paths of magic, ways of power. In Solthara, they celebrated them as the source of their immortality, proof of their superiority. But what if they were more than just metaphors, more than images given to children to explain magic?
She carefully turned the page. The crystal in her hand flickered briefly—a warning sign that its magic was weakening. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly as she sank deeper into the lines. Each movement sent up small clouds of dust that caught the light of the crystal lamp and turned into tiny golden galaxies before disintegrating like lost dreams.
"The paths connected everything. Stars and shadows, life and death, here and there. We didn't know how fragile they were until we abused them for our own gain. We saw the paths as power—not as connection."
Next to these lines, even smaller, was a shaky note:
"Whoever finds this—forgive us."
The priestess felt her breath catch. The room around her seemed to grow smaller, as if the walls were closing in to better guard its secrets. The paper suddenly felt warm, almost alive, as if these words had not been written but breathed, straight from the memory of a long-dead soul.
She forced herself to continue reading. Every word tasted of dust and truth.
"One wanted to control them. One wanted to be master of the currents, wanted to open and close their gates as he saw fit. But the currents tolerate no master. The circle broke under his grip, and the paths sank into silence."
A note, almost illegible, was written underneath:
"We believe he is still alive. Somewhere. Somehow. In a memory that will never die."
The chamber suddenly felt smaller, as if the words were growing and taking her breath away. She knew the legends about Velir'Kaal, about the year that never ended, but this was different. It was not a metaphor, not a poetic description of a cosmic misunderstanding—it was a fact, carefully hidden behind myths and fairy tales.
As she read on, she learned more: The Immortal Council, which outwardly appeared to be the sole power in Elythara, was in truth only a facade. The real power lay with the Hidden Elders, a group so secret that not even all members of the Council knew of their existence. And they, these Elders, were the guardians of knowledge so dangerous that it had been erased from history.
Suddenly, everything seemed different to her. Elythara, the floating city of masks and power games, was just a small dot in a much larger story—and perhaps not even the most important one. The golden towers, the magical elixirs, the controlled downpours—all of it was just an illusion to hide something much darker.
The priestess swallowed hard. She remembered a gesture that Aldaris, one of the few Elythari who could still speak Ikaril, had once shown her—a small movement with his hands that looked like a prayer but was different—older, deeper. The movement was meant to symbolize the circle of light, he had explained to her. She hadn't understood it at the time, but now it became clear what Aldaris had wanted to show her: it was a reminder of the broken circle, hidden in gestures that no one understood because no one knew the truth behind the words anymore.
She began to carefully roll up the scroll again, but a noise made her freeze: footsteps. They were muffled, but they were getting closer. Was it one of the immortal messengers who could fold through time, as the legends said? Her pulse raced. Hastily, she pushed the scroll back into the niche from which she had taken it and tried to calm her hands. The footsteps came closer, paused briefly, then passed and faded into silence.
Her legs trembled. She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The truth about Velir'Kaal was dangerous—more dangerous than any political intrigue in Elythara. A violation of the balance of immortality—the greatest crime an Elythari could commit. But she knew she could no longer remain blind.
After a few minutes, she had gathered enough composure to leave the chamber. She carefully closed the heavy wooden door, which turned it back into a wall. She looked around, but no one had seen her. It was Lunaris, the festival was outside, but here in the temple there was a silence that weighed heavier than any celebration.
As she walked back down the dark hallway, she stopped at the archway whose symbol she suddenly understood. Time had made it almost invisible, but now she could feel every line, every curve, every crack. It was the symbol of Velir'Kaal—of the rift that no one wanted to admit existed.
She spoke softly to herself, but her voice sounded strange, almost like an echo in her ears:
"If that's true... then we've never been alone."
The words hung in the air, hovering between hope and fear. Then she walked on, out into the cool wind that blew through the open windows, carrying with it the smell of smoke and festivity. But suddenly that smell seemed wrong to her, artificial and empty—like everything in Elythara.
She looked up at the star-studded sky and wondered for the first time if the currents she believed in were not just fragments of a much larger network that no one could see anymore. Was the immortality of the Elythari really a gift—or a curse, as the forbidden lines suggested?
Slowly, thoughtfully, she walked on, clinging to the thought that Velir'Kaal had never ended. And as she heard the festivities in the distance, she suddenly knew why Elythara welcomed the new year with masks—because no one wanted to wear the face that recognized what had been lost.
High above her floated Solthara, the golden city of the immortals, its flowing robes shimmering in the moonlight. The hidden elders would now gather in the Eternal Chamber, a place no one but them had ever entered. Would they talk about him—the nameless man who had broken the Cycle and was still supposed to be alive? Was he the reason for their immortality—or for their downfall?
Her footsteps echoed on the stone slabs, and the further she walked, the clearer it became to her that she had crossed a line. Not just the line of the chamber, not just the line of her duties—but a line from which there was no turning back.
And deep inside her, a thought flickered that would accompany her from now on: What if the Cycles had never really been broken, but only forgotten?
What if the truth about Velir'Kaal was not the end, but a beginning?
She looked up once more at the sky, where the golden towers of Solthara shimmered in the moonlight, untouched by the dust and secrets of the earth. Like the Elythari themselves, they seemed to float above everything, immaculate and timeless—and yet she now knew that they too were prisoners. Prisoners of a history they themselves had written and then forgotten.
"We are not the rulers of time," she whispered, repeating the words of an unknown Elythari sage she had found in the hidden lines, "we are its prisoners."
Chapter 2: Splinters in the Blood – Zarrek's Oath
Notes:
⚠️ Content Warning / Trigger Warning:
This story contains depictions of body horror, mutation, psychological distress, implied violence, self-sacrifice, and death.
Please only continue reading if you feel emotionally safe.It's about courage, loss, rebellion—and the silent weight of a sentence.
✦ “Nai xor'mir – no longer possessed.”
Chapter Text
Date: Late Vaelaris (Storm Season, 348 a.C)
Location: Zarrek Gorges, Kael'Zara
Characters: Two nameless blood smugglers
In Kael'Zara, they whispered that Zarrek's stone could smell blood. Not just the blood of enemies, but also that of their own sons and daughters who returned to the canyons.
It was a whisper that no one dared to utter when the storms whipped across the land. In the taverns of Zir-Khaal, people spoke of it only behind closed doors, in broken Kael'Zir dialect, and never in full consciousness. Anyone who spoke too loudly about it was soon reported missing.
The Zarrek Gorges were older than any empire that had been built on the barren rocks. They cut through the land like open wounds, formed by ancient currents that had long since dried up—or, as some said, had never really disappeared, but continued to flow deep beneath the earth, hidden, dangerous, alive.
The red dust of the evening blew through the steep gorges, settling on skin and tongues, tasting bitter of stone and iron. It heralded the approaching storm—typical of late Vaelaris, when the hot days gave way to the merciless, dry winter winds.
The air had grown heavier. Every breath burned in the lungs like liquid metal, as if the dust itself were trying to penetrate the lungs and settle there like a curse that would never go away. Even the wind sounded different here—not a gentle rustling, but a plaintive howling as it swept through the jagged rocks, like the cry of a soul denied salvation.
In this forgotten corner of the empire, tales were told of a heart beating deep beneath the stone – a heart made of quartz and blood.
It was said that down here lurked the first fracture of the world – hidden beneath meters of quartz rock, cursed by what the Kael'Zir had once feared: bone quartz.
They called it "Zarharnil" – the splinter in the blood.
And Zarharnil was no silent stone. It pulsed in the light of the dying sunbeams, faint and ominous, as if it were breathing. Crimson hues danced across its surface, changing from deep blood red to shimmering purple, as if life were flowing beneath it. Black veins ran across its surface, fine as hairline cracks, but sharp enough to cut the currents themselves. Those who looked at it for too long could swear that the veins moved, as if searching for skin to pierce.
Not all returned from here. And those who did not return as they once were.
In the arenas of Zir-Khaal, where warriors fought for honor, it was forbidden to even mention it. To carry it, to trade it, to even touch it—not out of principle. But out of fear.
For Zarharnil was no ordinary resource. It was a remnant of the First Cycles – a material capable of grasping, cutting, and turning the flow of currents. Those who possessed it could bind power. Those who breathed it could break.
The two smugglers knew this. They knew it better than any War Elder, better than the elected Warlord himself, who had to defend his title in ritual duels in the golden halls. They knew the truth that was kept from the inhabitants of Kael'Zara.
And yet they moved through the gorges, their hoods pulled low over their faces, the bundle on their backs heavier than any law of the Warrior Council. The bundle contained something for which even the notorious Bloodborn warriors would leave their homeland—if they survived.
One was taller, his movements calm and controlled, like a warrior who had long since accepted his own death. His companions once called him Varkath, the Patient—a name he had discarded when he left the halls of Zir-Khaal. Around his neck he wore an ancient rune necklace, a relic from the Hall of 100 Swords. Anyone who saw it would know what it meant – a warrior without a name who had never laid down his sword. His left hand was scarred, as if he had once reached into burning sand. A sign of shame or loyalty – only the wearer could decide.
"I forget every time how damn heavy this thing is," he muttered as he adjusted the bundle on his back. His voice sounded rough, as if decades of silence had worn it down.
The other was smaller, wirer. His companions had once called him Lyreth – the swift one. His name was forgotten, as was his past. His steps seemed more impatient, his breath shallower. A faint binding rune was burned into his forehead – the intricate symbol of a house that had long since been erased from the chronicles. He wore it openly, as if to remind himself that he had nothing left to lose. His eyes were bright, almost too bright for a Kael'Zir. Some whispered that he had once been born a slave, a bastard between houses—too strong to be broken, too worthless to be kept.
"Of course, always the same plan," he replied with a fleeting, bitter smile. "In, out, and don't die."
Both knew the legends. Both knew that the arena of Zir-Khaal was now only open to those who had the courage to risk everything—or had nothing left to lose. Both knew there was no turning back.
They had seen the wells of Tal'Marek dry up, children with hollow cheeks digging for springs that had long since run dry. They had witnessed the crops withering in the fields while the halls of the Warrior Council still overflowed with water and prosperity. A grain of Zarharnil, no bigger than a fingernail, could fill a well with water for months—if you knew how to use it. And if you were willing to pay the price.
They walked in silence, but the tension between them was palpable. Again and again, the smaller man's fingers slid over the bundle, as if to make sure it was still there, that it was real. His lips moved silently, whispering as if he were saying a prayer—not to the gods of the Kael'Zir, but to whatever lurked deep beneath them.
Kael'Zara had once been the cradle of the Rune Masters, but since the fall of the Halls of Vel'Kaarn, the land had been cursed – torn apart by the same currents that the Elythari sought to tame above in their golden halls. Here, there were no allies from Ignirion with their weapons and elixirs. No magical artifacts to fight over with Thal'Vareth and Elythara.
Rumors from the borders spoke of a coming conflict. Of Elythara scouts pushing deeper and deeper into Kael'Zara territory. Of Thal'Vareth trade caravans that suddenly disappeared. The balance of power between the four realms was shifting, and Zarharnil could be the key—or the spark that would set everything ablaze.
There were no halls down here. Only cracks in the stone, so deep that even the light dared not follow them.
The smugglers knew the paths of Zarrek—narrow blade trails used only by the bravest. Paths that ran like ancient veins through the rock, marked with ancient war symbols carved into the stone that only they knew how to interpret.
The deeper they went, the older the symbols on the walls became. These were not Kael'Zir runes – those were too new, barely a thousand years old. What was carved into the stone here must have come from a time when the currents flowed differently. Curved lines that looked like frozen waves, intricate circles that seemed to devour themselves, symbols that the eye could not comprehend without the head beginning to ache. The symbols seemed to pulsate in the light of the quartz veins, to breathe, as if they were not carved into the stone but growing out of it.
They weren't here for the first time. Many years ago, they had sworn on these walls never to return. But necessity had broken them. And as they passed the carved runes, the smaller of the two couldn't help but pause for a moment.
His finger slid over a symbol—an inverted sword framed by two circles.
"The oath of the divided blade," he whispered so softly that the wind almost carried it away.
The taller one glanced at him with bitterness in his eyes. "No more oaths," he muttered.
But they both knew that was a lie. Everything here was an oath—every step, every breath, every drop of sweat they shed in the sand of the gorges.
The ground beneath their feet changed. Fine dust gave way to coarse, black rock. Quartz veins ran through the rocks, glowing faintly in the twilight, as if waiting for their touch. The smaller smuggler narrowed his eyes.
"They're close," he muttered.
"We have no choice," came the reply.
The taller one crouched down and placed a hand on the ground.
An almost inaudible vibration rose through the rock into his palm. The quartz hummed as if calling to them. The skin beneath his fingers began to tingle, as if coming to life. The old burn, long since healed, suddenly seemed to glow, in the same rhythm as the quartz beneath their feet.
"The stone is restless today," whispered the smaller one.
"It senses its home," replied the taller one, "and its home is not here."
They moved on, but the noises grew louder.
A whisper that swelled into a murmur. At first, the smaller one thought it was the wind whistling through the crevices. But then he realized that the air was still. Not a breath stirred in this part of the gorges.
The sound came from the rock itself. A scraping, scratching—like nails on dry stone. The smaller one sucked in his breath sharply, his eyes darting across the walls.
He saw the first signs. In some places, the stone seemed to have burst open, as if something had tried to dig its way out from the inside. Splinters of Zarharnil stuck in the cracks, black and blood-red, sharp as glass shards.
Remains lay between the crevices.
Bones – some still covered with scraps of flesh, as if they had been broken only recently. Petrified hands clawed into the stone as if trying to save themselves, the finger bones hardened into crystals that glistened faintly in the pale light. Eyeless skulls, their silent mouths remaining open in eternal silence. Fine crystal veins grew from some of them, connecting them to the rock as if they had never been anything other than part of the rock.
"They tried," whispered the smaller one.
"And failed," added the larger one. His voice was firmer, but there was a shadow in his eyes.
They walked faster, but the further they went, the louder the humming in their bones became. The bundle on the taller one's back seemed to grow heavier, vibrating slightly as if to lure or seduce its carrier—or warn him. With every touch, it seemed to grow warmer, pulsing gently against his skin as if searching for a connection, a way into his inner being. He felt his heartbeat begin to match the rhythm of the stone, his thoughts becoming clearer and at the same time more foreign.
Suddenly, they both stopped.
Between two crevices stood a figure. Half in shadow, half in the light of the faintly pulsating quartz veins.
Its body was shrouded in dark cloth, but what peered out from beneath it made their blood run cold. The skin was covered in cracks from which fine quartz splinters sprouted like thorns from rotten flesh. The eyes—where eyes must once have been—glowed faintly in an unnatural crimson, as if they had absorbed the light of the Zarharnil and were now reflecting it back like broken mirrors.
An Iz'kar. One afflicted by the crystal curse.
In the halls of Zir-Khaal, people whispered about them only behind closed doors. No one knew exactly how the transformation began – whether through contact with the Zarharnil, through its dust in the air, or through mere proximity to the deepest crevices. But the result was always the same: crystals growing out of living flesh, piercing bones and breaking wills. The transformation was irreversible, cruel in its slowness.
Some of the afflicted froze completely, becoming grotesque statues, captured in a moment of terror. Others—like this one—remained active, driven by a strange hunger that made them attack anything that was still untouched by the crystal. It was as if they were seeking companions in their suffering. Or as if the Zarharnil itself was reaching through them for new hosts.
The Kael'Zir believed that the origin of this mutation lay in a destroyed magical source deep beneath the canyons. A source that had been corrupted by the first rupture of the world, whose energy now flowed backwards – not giving life, but distorting it.
A smuggler. Or what was left of him.
"Gods..."
The smaller one took a step back. An icy shiver ran down his spine as every hair on his body stood on end. The air around the figure seemed to vibrate as if the currents themselves were receding before it.
The creature did not move. It seemed to be listening, its head tilted slightly like an animal that had caught a scent. A broken chain hung around its neck—the symbol of a Kael'Zir house, which the taller man thought he recognized vaguely. A smuggler from the eastern cliffs, perhaps, who had disappeared months ago.
"Back," hissed the larger one, but it was too late.
With an ugly crunch, the thing tore its mouth open. A scream so high and distorted that even the rock seemed to tremble echoed through the gorge. It was no longer a human sound—it was the song of the Zarharnil echoing through its disfigured body. The sound brought the smaller smuggler to his knees, his hands pressed against his ears as blood began to drip from his nose.
"Run!" yelled the larger man. He grabbed his sword and drew it in one fluid motion. The blade caught the faint light of the quartz crystals, reflecting it in a dull glow. "Take the bundle and run!"
With trembling hands, the smaller man took the package. The moment of the handover seemed endless – their eyes met one last time. No words were necessary. They both knew that only one of them would leave the gorges alive.
The taller smuggler turned around and stood between the creature and his companion. He heard the hurried footsteps behind him, the panting, then the disappearance into the deep shadows of the gorges.
The creature moved, scraping across the ground like a broken insect. Its head jerked as if picking up a scent—not with eyes or ears, but with something else. With a shrill screech, it lunged forward, faster than any human being should be able to move.
The larger smuggler swung his sword, feeling the blade strike something that was neither flesh nor stone. There was a crunch, a spark, as if metal had struck crystal. The creature staggered back, not from pain, but from surprise.
He knew he couldn't kill it. No one could. All he could do was buy time. Time and distance for the one carrying the Zarharnil.
With a grim smile, he assumed the fighting stance he had taken hundreds of times in the arena of Zir-Khaal. For the first time in years, he felt like a warrior again. Like a Kael'Zir.
The creature screamed again, and this time he felt the sound cut through his body like a physical weapon. Blood trickled from his ears, but he stood his ground. His hand on the sword hilt did not tremble.
"Come on," he whispered. "You had your fight. Now it's mine."
Every vein in the Zarharnil seemed to point the way to the smaller smuggler—or lure him deeper into ruin. The stone beneath his feet vibrated as if it were beating out the rhythm of his heart. His tongue tasted like metal, his breath grew hotter, more raspy. The dust settled on his skin like a second coat of fur, creeping into his lungs, his veins, his thoughts.
With every breath, he felt fine crystal needles tearing his windpipe, liquid fire streaming through his bronchial tubes. His legs grew heavier, as if the rock itself wanted to hold him back. Each step cost more strength than the last, each heartbeat booming in his ears like war drums.
He didn't dare look back. He knew there was nothing left to see. But the images burned themselves into his mind anyway: the figure of his companion disappearing into the dust, the last glance, the last nod, the silent promise.
His legs grew heavier. The bundle began to tremble—not just in his hands, but within itself.
It was as if the Zarharnil was breathing. As if it were speaking to him in a language of pure emotion. A language of hunger and power and something he couldn't name.
"Not here... not now..." he gasped, trying to swallow the words as if they could reorder reality. His vision blurred as the walls of the gorge seemed to distort before him. The stone itself suddenly seemed fluid, breathing, alive.
Suddenly, a crack appeared in the ground in front of him. One of the ancient fissures—so deep that no light had ever touched it. A soft hum rose from the darkness, accompanied by a cool breeze that smelled of rotting rock and old blood.
One step too far and he would have fallen.
He stopped, gasping for air, his gaze darting around. The blade paths ended here—a dead end. But the quartz veins beneath his feet glowed brighter than ever, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm that beckoned him deeper.
He knelt down, carefully placing the bundle on the ground, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The rune on his forehead burned as if heated from within, pulsing in time with the Zarharnil before him. He had to leave it here. He couldn't carry it any further.
His fingers slid over the leather. For the first time, he noticed the fine cracks in it, the shimmering glow of the Zarharnil, pulsing faintly like a beating heart. Every touch sent shock waves through his body, making his nerve endings burn as if they were red-hot wire.
Dark veins ran through the stone as if they were living veins searching for a new host. Inside the quartz, purple and blood-red veils danced, looking at him like an eye from another world.
"You don't belong here..." he whispered, his voice little more than a breath.
He took the bundle in his hands again, but the trembling did not stop. It grew stronger. The vibration became a soft throbbing, a pulse that was not his own. The quartz was reacting. He could feel it. Every fiber of his body rebelled, his blood seemed to thicken as if it wanted to reach for the stone itself.
He felt the Zarharnil move beneath his fingers, trying to merge with him, reaching for his currents to change them, to bend them. The binding rune on his forehead glowed, hurting as if it were burning from within.
He clenched his teeth, trying to suppress the dizziness. But the Zarharnil was already whispering in his mind—not a sound, not a language, but pure sensation. Power. Greed. Hunger. And something else... Something that reminded him of the dry fields, the starving children, what he was trying to save.
His knees buckled as a sharp pain shot through his chest, as if a red-hot wire were piercing his ribs. He clenched his teeth, but a stifled gag escaped his throat. Blood gathered on his lips, dark and thick as pitch. Drops fell onto the dust at his feet, drawing small, trembling patterns in the dry rock.
He had to get rid of the bundle.
Now.
With his last ounce of strength, he tore it from his chest and let it fall into the crevice. It disappeared without a sound. No echo. No impact. As if it had never existed.
He collapsed, crouching in the dust, his arms wrapped around his body. His vision blurred as the vibration slowly subsided, but the tingling in his veins remained. He knew it was too late. The stone was inside him. Perhaps not as deep as those who had become the creatures that haunted the canyons—but deep enough to change him.
He stared into the darkness of the crevice, whispering a final prayer to the Eternal Challenge that awaited every warrior who had broken the oath.
He didn't know how much time passed. Perhaps hours, perhaps only minutes. But when he stood up, there was only silence.
No drumming in the distance. No whispering in the stone. No more voices.
He was alone.
Slowly, breathing heavily, he made his way back through the gorges. Every step burned. Every thought weighed heavier than the last. He had failed—or had he?
The Zarharnil was gone. Deep in the crevices, where no one could find it.
For now.
His legs carried him back—not to the exit of the gorges, but deeper into their weathered walls. He knew he would never be able to return. Not to Zir-Khaal. Not to the steppes. Not to the halls where warriors laid down their swords when their battles were over.
But there was one last place even traitors were allowed to go.
The Hall of 100 Swords.
It was not a building, not an arena like the others. It was a depression in the rock, a sacred circle of black obsidian where the greatest warriors had once laid down their blades. No one guarded this place, for no one dared to desecrate it.
Only the voices of the dead watched here—or what remained of them.
When he entered the hollow, he immediately felt the change. The air was cooler here, still as the interior of a forgotten temple. The blades of the fallen warriors glinted in the faint light of the quartz crystals, some shiny as if they had been laid down only yesterday, others rusted, broken, bent – witnesses to lost battles and broken oaths.
Stone faces stared down at him from the walls of the circular chamber—the masks of the First Warriors, carved into the rock centuries ago, their eyes empty yet alert, as if judging every intruder.
With unsteady steps, he reached the edge of the hall. The swords still lay there – rusted, broken, some bare, as if they had been laid down only yesterday. No warrior was allowed to touch one unless he had earned it.
He fell to his knees and pulled the dagger from his belt, the last one he had left. Not worthy enough for the hall – but it was all he had.
He laid it in the dust, between two of the oldest blades.
A silent sign.
"I have failed..." he whispered, his voice hoarse. 'But I held on as long as I could.' The words faded away in the wind. No echo. No answer. He closed his eyes and waited. For death. For judgment. For the voices that would come for him. But nothing came.
Only the wind.
And the whisper of swords echoing through the Zarrek Gorges.
A sound that only those who knew the oath could hear—a promise sealed under the gaze of the War Elders.
Years later, the smugglers in the shadow-filled chambers of Kael'Zara told a new story.
Of two warriors of the Warrior Council who had almost succeeded in retrieving the Zarharnil from the cursed gorges. Of one who never returned, whose name was whispered only in ritual duels. And of one who disappeared in the deadly Zarrek Gorges, only to return years later as someone else—with eyes that reflected the pale glow of bone quartz and a heart that no longer beat to the rhythm of the Kael'Zir, but to the broken beat of twisted currents.
They said that the Zarharnil shard was never truly lost.
Only hidden in the veins of a damned man.
Waiting for those whose blood was strong enough to endure the bond of the currents.
And when the dry wind swept across the steppes of Zir-Khaal once more, when the copper-colored dust rose from the ravines and the ancient blades in the Hall of 100 Swords began to whisper, the War Elders remembered the oath. The invisible burden. The sacrifice that had saved their world from destruction.
They remembered the shard in their blood that sang in their warriors.
They remembered Zarrek's oath, which silenced the Arena of Kings.
And they remembered the awakening that was yet to come, when the last bearer of the cursed mineral would reveal his true nature and put the eternal challenge of the Kael'Zir people to the test.
Chapter 3: Bone Quartz – Harvest from the Land of the Dead
Chapter Text
Date: Spring, early Feymaris (sowing season, 344 a.C)
Location: Kareth'Zal, pits and camps
Characters: An old miner and his apprentice
It began as it always began—with silence.
Not the kind of silence that brings peace, but the kind that hides something. A silence that breathes. Kareth'Zal never breathed shallowly. It sucked you in, slowly, until you believed you were part of the rock itself. And eventually, the weak no longer noticed. They continued to strike at the veins, unaware that something beneath them had long since awakened. But Graufinger always felt it. He stood at the edge of Pit Thirty-Nine, his shoulders heavy not only from years of labor, but from memories that dug into his flesh like quartz needles. His bony fingers clenched the handle of his harvesting hammer, familiar as an old friend, hated as an old enemy. The veins that ran like black, glowing lines under his pale skin pulsed faintly in the dim twilight, in sync with his guilt-ridden heartbeat. Bone quartz—the mark of his life's guilt. Duty, whispered a part of him. Betrayal, hissed another. These voices had accompanied him since the day he first swung a hammer against the living stone.
The sky above Kareth'Zal was nothing more than a scarred cloth of ash and pale light, the smell of sulfur and metallic dust so pervasive that only newcomers still noticed it. Feymaris had begun, the second month in the thirteen-month cycle of the year. Everywhere else in Kael'Zara, seeds would be driven into the dry fields. The month of nature and fertility would adorn the land with the first delicate shades of green, while warriors would prepare for the tribal race, according to the tradition of spring. In the arenas of Zir-Khaal, the blood of fresh challengers would stain the ground—a sacrifice to the awakening forces. But here, deep beneath the earth's breath holes, there were no seeds. Only splinters. Only dust. Only death.
He heard footsteps approaching. Too light, too hasty, too young. The boy was on time. Greyfinger turned slowly, each movement a conscious balancing act between pain and necessity. The apprentice was smaller than expected. Too thin for a worker, too nervous for a fighter. But there was something in his eyes—a tremor that was not born of fear, but of the kind of restlessness Greyfinger knew well.
Energy. Unbound. Uncontrolled. The boy saw the stone. He just didn't know it yet. "You're late," Greyfinger growled, even though it wasn't true. A habit from a thousand lessons; small cruelties to make the big cruelty more bearable. The boy lowered his gaze, but the quick twitch of his mouth betrayed that he saw through the lie. "I was sent. As punishment." The voice was firmer than Grayfinger had expected. Good. He wouldn't survive long if he let himself be intimidated from the very first word.
"What's your name?" "Marn." An ordinary name. Like dust. Like stone. Like all names before the quartz ate them. But there was an edginess in the way the boy spat it out. As if he himself despised the taste of his own insignificance. Greyfinger examined him more closely. His eyes revealed more than Marn was aware of – they had the dull look of those who had never seen anything but the mine. Born in the camp, raised in chains. The scars on his wrists spoke of early years under the whip. No wonder he was different from the other apprentices Greyfinger had trained before. Most of them came here as convicts, debtors, or prisoners of war—at least they had known a life before. Marn knew only Kareth'Zal, only dust, only the whip. His gaze never wandered to the horizon, because he had no idea what lay beyond it. And yet... there was this restlessness in him. This connection to the stone that Greyfinger hadn't seen in anyone for years. Greyfinger turned back to the pit. The abyss stared back, like a hungry maw that never quite closed. A faint singing came from the crevices – so deep that it could be felt more in the teeth than in the ears. Most called it the crunching of rock. Graufinger knew better. "The others say you heard the whispering." Marn nodded slowly, as if afraid to confirm it out loud, as if saying it would make it more real than the fact itself. "Three times already." His voice broke on the last word. "And? Did you understand it?" Silence. Then an uncertain, "No."
Greyfinger twisted his lips into a smile that was more scar than joy. "Good. Those who think they understand die faster." The bitter aftertaste of his own words made him wince inwardly. How many times had he heard that said? How many times had he said it himself? Marn swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck like a trapped bird. But his eyes, Graufinger noticed, did not flinch. "Then why did you call me here?"
A good question. A dangerous question. The kind of question Greyfinger himself had asked long ago. Before the quartz had marked him. Before he had learned to serve and hate at the same time. He held out his hand, letting the sleeve of his worn coat slide back. The faint crystal veins beneath his skin glowed, barely perceptible, but there—like sleeping snakes waiting for their next victim. He felt a burning sensation, as if liquid metal were being pumped through his veins. Zarharnil—the dreaded mineral that could bind the currents of the world, and yet was so coveted by the powerful. "Because I am the last one who can still control the stone. And because that will soon end." He turned to Marn, forcing the boy not to look away with his gaze. "And because you are my heir, whether you like it or not."
Marn ducked his head as if Greyfinger had struck him. His fingers clenched unconsciously into fists, then relaxed again. But he did not flee. Good. Better than Graufinger had hoped. Better than he deserved. The air between them suddenly seemed thicker, as if the stone itself were drawing in its breath. Graufinger could taste the metallic taste on his tongue, bitter and old, like forgotten blood.
In the days that followed, he showed the boy what no guard would ever explain. How to hear the stone before it speaks. How to feel it before it strikes. How to guide it without being consumed by it.
The boy learned quickly—too quickly for someone who had never learned the art of channeling. While Greyfinger himself had taken almost a full year to feel the first subtle resonance, Marn seemed to grasp it instinctively. Perhaps, Greyfinger thought bitterly, it was Marn's slavery that helped him. He had never learned to distrust his senses. He had never known the distractions of the outside world, never the confusion of the many voices beyond the mine. His whole life had been confined to this place, to the stone, to the dust in his lungs.
They worked side by side while above them the council of warriors sent out its messengers. Men in heavy cloaks whose words sounded like law but were as hollow as the exhausted veins of the upper mines.
One of them stayed longer. An envoy with smooth skin that was too clean for the pit, and eyes that saw everything—except the truth.
Salek Veylan, Greyfinger remembered, although the man had never given his name. He moved like someone who was used to others backing away from him. His hands, flawless and without calluses, never rested on anything in the mines for longer than necessary. As if he feared the dirt might be contagious. As he strode through the tunnels, the workers whispered that he came from the month of Veydris—the seventh month of the year, associated with shadows and secrets. It was said that those born in that month had a special gift for deception and betrayal. Greyfinger didn't believe in such signs, and yet—the name and the behavior fit too well to ignore.
Greyfinger knew that look. He had seen it years ago when one of the Blood Envoys had examined him. The way such men looked at you as if you were nothing more than another formation in the rock. But he said nothing. Not yet. The envoy demanded that they dig deeper. "The upper veins are no longer yielding enough," he said in a voice that was velvety smooth yet sharp as a blade. He didn't seem to speak the words, but rather shape them, as if each one were a small work of art of mastery. "We need more. The warrior council demands it."
He did not say, "You need more." He said, "We." As if he were part of this broken place. As if he had ever held a hammer or a probe in his hand.
Greyfinger did not contradict him aloud. A flickering glance at Marn was enough to silence the boy when he opened his mouth. He knew what questioning the council would bring. Instead, he lowered his gaze—but his thoughts cursed, and the quartz boiled in his veins as if he could feel the lie.
Deeper meant death. Deeper meant awakening the stone. But what did silence mean? The same thing.
The envoy smiled thinly as Greyfinger showed his sign of submission. A smile that did not reach his eyes—cold and calculating, like a general sacrificing his pawns. "The council is... concerned about the reports of whispering," he said casually, his gaze sliding over Marn. "It would be unfortunate if inexperienced workers... spread misunderstandings."
The threat hung unspoken in the air. Greyfinger felt something harden inside him. Not out of fear, but from something deeper. From something he had thought long buried. Salek Veylan placed a hand on Greyfinger's shoulder—a gesture meant to be familiar, but it felt like he was inspecting a piece of merchandise. "The Council trusts you, Greyfinger. You have always been... reliable."
The word reliable sounded like a judgment, a brand as deep as the quartz veins themselves. When the envoy had left, Marn turned to him, her eyes wide and full of unspoken questions. "Why didn't you say anything? About the deeper tunnels? About—" "Because words mean nothing down here," Greyfinger interrupted sharply. Then, more gently: "Except those spoken by the stone."
At night, he sat with Marn at the edge of the pit, where fog crept out of the crevices like forgotten ghosts. The smell of damp stone and old iron hung in the air, mixed with something sweet that no one had ever named.
Greyfinger stared into the blackness below them. His fingers twitched involuntarily, as if even now they still had to reach for the hammer, the pickaxe, everything that made him a machine. Decades of duty had hollowed him out like the passages beneath them. "You felt it, didn't you?"
Marn nodded slowly. His fingers traced the ground beside him, feeling the faint vibrations that no normal worker would have noticed. "It's alive." Greyfinger looked at him sharply. "What did you feel?" "Anger. Hunger. Memory." The answer came too quickly, too confidently. Not the nervous stammering of a novice, but the calm clarity of a confidant. Greyfinger closed his eyes, suppressing a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. "You're further than I thought." Marn was silent for a long time, his breath forming small wisps of mist in the cold night air. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm. "You say the stone is just... stone. That we're imagining the whispers." He swallowed. "But that's not true, is it? It... it wants something." Yes, thought Greyfinger. It wants us all. "Is that why we're here?" Marn continued, with a hint of bitterness that didn't suit someone so young. "To calm the stone while they steal it?" Greyfinger laughed briefly, a dry, rattling sound that came more from habit than amusement. "We're here because we're expendable, boy. Because we're worth less than what we carry." He looked directly at Marn. "Except to each other." He remembered his first days in the mine, more years ago than he cared to admit. He had come there differently than Marn—not as a native, but as a fallen warrior, his honor broken like an old sword. Back then, in the days of Kaelmaris—the eighth month of war—he had refused an order. No great heroic deed, just a moment of doubt that cost him everything. They hadn't killed him. That would have been too merciful. Instead, he had been sent here, to the Zarrek Gorges, to mine Zarharnil – the forbidden material that, in the wrong hands, could break the currents. The irony was not lost on him: The man who had refused to take a life was now spending the rest of his life bringing death out of the earth.
On the third day, he showed Marn the forbidden path. Not the path of the overseers, wide and well-lit. And not the path of the workers, well-trodden and safe. But the one known only to the quartz miners. Down to the ancient chambers. To where the Zarharnil himself had broken the stone. The passage was narrow, the ceiling so low that even Marn had to stoop. The air was heavy with old blood and petrified screams—metallic and sweet at the same time, as if death itself had mixed with the stone. The walls pulsed faintly, not visibly, but perceptibly, as if invisible currents were running through the rock. With every step, the ground trembled beneath their feet, a tiny vibration, a soft plea or warning. Marn touched the walls with his fingertips, and Graufinger saw the trembling in his shoulders. Not out of fear—that would have been understandable. Out of something else. Out of... Recognition.
"Why are you showing me this?" The boy's voice was barely a whisper, as if he feared the passage itself could hear him. Greyfinger stopped, the torch in his hand casting ghostly shadows on his scarred face. He turned slowly toward Marn, each movement deliberate, as if dealing with a shy animal.
"Because otherwise you will die for them. Like me. Like all those before me." He raised his hand, allowing the faint glow of his crystal veins to brighten. They pulsed in time with his heartbeat—a painful throbbing, as if something were trying to cut through his skin. "They used us. They broke us. Because we are the only ones who can calm the stone." The pain in his veins was constant, like liquid fire flowing through his veins. Every grain of Zarharnil he had inhaled over the years had settled, distorting and twisting the natural currents of his body until he was more mineral than man. He carried the curse in his bones—the fine needles that could pierce even stone, that kept his circulatory system trapped in an eternal dance between life and death. When he had first inhaled the dust thirty years ago, they had told him he would not survive more than five years. Most quartz workers died quickly—their lungs rotted, their blood coagulated, their bones became brittle. But something different had happened to Greyfinger. The quartz hadn't killed him. It had changed him.
Now, in the deep tunnels where the whispering was strongest, he could feel the connection—the resonance between the quartz in his veins and the living veins in the stone. He could direct the mineral, calm it, sometimes even bend it. It wasn't a gift. It was a curse that kept him alive, only to continue serving.
He felt the bitterness rising in his throat like ancient poison. How many times had he repeated those words to himself in silence? How many times had he suppressed them out of fear, out of habit, out of the desperate hope that he might be wrong?
Marn shook his head as if he could shake off the truth like raindrops. "But why? What... what is this really?" Greyfinger nodded into the darkness before them. His eyes glistened in the torchlight like wet stone. "See for yourself."
They entered a chamber so large that even the light of the torch did not reach the edges. The ceiling was lost in the blackness, as if there were no boundary between earth and emptiness. The floor was not level, but sloped like a funnel leading to something in the middle. And there... The stone. Not mined or broken. Alive.
A huge core of pure Zarharnil, pulsing like a heart that had never stopped beating. It glowed faintly with a light that did not come from the fire—a deep, pulsating black-violet that cast shadows that moved when you didn't look. Black veins ran across the walls and floor, rippling through the air itself as if weaving an invisible web of painful beauty.
The whispering here was not a single sound, but a chorus—hundreds of voices, thousands, speaking, singing, moaning, screaming all at once. Not loud enough to hurt the ears, but so insistent that every nerve in the body seemed to vibrate.
Marn stared with his mouth open, his face a mixture of awe and horror. The core was reflected in his dilated pupils like a dark star. "What... what is that?" Graufinger stepped closer, his face marked by the purple glow like a mask. "That is the origin. The first crack they never filled. The beginning of the end."
The core pulsed stronger, as if Greyfinger's words had touched it. The veins on the walls twitched like wounded snakes. Marn backed away, bumping into the wall behind him. His breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. "It's... beautiful," he whispered. "And terrible."
Greyfinger nodded slowly. "Like everything that is more powerful than us." Greyfinger knew that the boy couldn't understand what he was seeing. No one understood it the first time. He hadn't believed it either when his own Lenker had brought him here. And yet it was the only truth that existed in Kareth'Zal: the quartz was not just stone. It was memory. It was hunger. It was the legacy of those who had died here.
"They say the cracks are history," Greyfinger began quietly. "Something that is long gone. An old scar on the world." He stepped closer, the ground beneath his feet vibrating like a sleeping creature twitching in a dream.
"But this crack is here. And it lives."
The legends about the Zarharnil ran deeper than the official prohibitions and warnings. In the oldest stories whispered by mothers to their children in the camp—when the guards weren't listening—it was said that the first cracks had appeared in the days of Elytharis. In the ninth month, the "Lost Month," when the boundaries between the worlds were as thin as morning mist. It was said that a foolish wizard had tried to bind the currents, forcing them into a form that was against their nature. The Zarharnil was his creation—or his curse. A material that could not only direct the currents, but break them.
The cracks, the stories said, were his last legacy—gaping wounds in the world itself, through which the twisted currents still bled. Marn took a step back, his breath shallow, as if the air itself were crushing him. "That... that's madness."
Greyfinger turned slowly toward him. There was no anger on his face, only weary certainty. "Is it? Or is it madness to believe we can tame it forever while we dig deeper and deeper?"
He let his gaze wander around the chamber. His voice grew quieter, almost confidential. "This place was once sealed. Generations ago. It was said that no one was allowed to enter. The old leaders gave their lives to seal the entrance."
A bitter smile flitted across his lips. "But the overseers came back. Because the quartz above grew too weak. Because the council demanded more and more." His voice grew bitter, each word a splinter. "And because they knew we existed. The leaders. Those who pay the price." The core pulsed as if responding to Greyfinger's words. The whispering grew louder, more urgent, as if a thousand mouths were speaking at once.
Marn was silent for a long time. His hands trembled, but no longer from fear. Something else had replaced the fear—a fire that was beginning to burn even in this cold place. When he looked up, something was different in his eyes. Something Greyfinger hadn't seen in a long time: anger.
"What do you want from me?" hissed the boy, his voice little more than a whisper, but sharp as a blade. "Should I replace you? Live on, just to tame the stone until I become like you? Until I..." He faltered, pointing to Greyfinger's arms, to the pulsing veins in them.
Greyfinger closed his eyes briefly. The old pain that never left him flared up more strongly, as if the core had goaded him. "No, boy. I want you to learn to free him."
Marn stared at him as if he hadn't understood him correctly. The air in the chamber tasted of metal and something indefinable – decay and eternity at the same time. "What?"
Greyfinger stepped closer, his skin strangely translucent in the dim light, the fine crystal veins beneath it pulsing faintly in an unnatural purple hue. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper that dispersed like fine dust in the room, but every word seemed to echo in the chamber as if the Zarharnil itself were resonating. "They are holding us to bind the stone. To maintain the balance." A fine crackling sound emanated from his arms, as if tiny needles were breaking beneath his skin. "But the balance has long been broken. All we are doing is delaying the decay." He pointed to the core, which pulsed like a grotesque heart before them. With each beat, a delicate, sickly glow seeped through the walls, causing shadows to dance like ghosts from a forgotten time. "This place... is the last hope that something could be different." Marn took a step back, as if he needed to put distance between himself and the words. A fine film of shimmering sweat had formed on his forehead. In the flickering light of the core, his eyes looked like dark abysses. "You want to open the crack?" His voice broke, rough as stone on stone.
Greyfinger shook his head. A soft crunching sound came from his neck, as if fine quartz splinters were rubbing against each other. "No. I want to release it. Free the voices inside. The spirits that are trapped." His voice broke briefly, and in that pause, the soft singing of the stone could be heard more clearly—not just in his ears, but in his bones, a distant song from another world. "Maybe... maybe then they'll find peace. Maybe we'll all find it." The core pulsed stronger, faster, as if it understood Greyfinger's intention. The whispering became a hum, a vibration that ran through his entire body like a fever. The air itself seemed to grow denser, heavier with each breath, as if he were inhaling liquid glass. Marn's face was a mask of horror and fascination. His fingers twitched involuntarily, as if they could already feel the fine needle pricks of the Zarharnil. "And if not? If there's... something worse than this?"
Greyfinger laughed softly, a sound like breaking glass echoing in the chamber and mingling with the deeper pulsing of the core. Fine cracks appeared on his cheek, through which a faint glow shone like morning light through crystal. "Worse than slowly dying while your body turns to crystal? Worse than knowing you only live to feed a monster?" He shook his head. A fine rain of crystalline dust trickled from his shoulders, floating in the air like tiny lights. "What could be worse than an eternity in this hell?"
That night, the envoy came to them. He was not alone. Three guards accompanied him, heavily armored, their faces hidden behind the masks of the blood envoys—polished metal that glistened like liquid silver in the torchlight and revealed no human features. Their armor seemed to swallow the light and yet reflect it back like the surface of the Zarharnil itself—a warning in silent form. They moved with the precise uniformity of men trained in the lockstep of war. Their armor did not clang, their footsteps were as quiet as those of a big cat despite the heavy steel they wore. The air around them seemed to vibrate as if invisible currents were flowing around them.
Greyfinger thought he recognized the stance immediately. Too upright. Too controlled. He knew this school. This way of breathing, deep and steady like the ancient currents themselves. The way they filled the room with their presence without speaking a word, like an approaching storm that thickens the air before it strikes. He knew this man.
"Kaelis Veydris," Greyfinger whispered, barely audible, a name from a previous life, bitter as burnt ash on his tongue. But it wasn't Kaelis. It was someone else. Someone who had once fought with him under the same banners, long before Greyfinger disappeared into the pits, before the bone quartz began to run through his veins. A shadow from a past he thought he had buried.
The envoy stepped forward, the guards keeping their distance—not far enough to show they weren't protecting him, but far enough to demonstrate that he didn't need protection. Fine lines crisscrossed the ground beneath his feet, as if the stone itself recoiled from his touch. Salek Veylan moved with the supple elegance of a man who had never had to fight for his life, and at the same time with the barely perceptible tension of a predator. His voice was calm, dangerous, the soft crunch of a knife on stone, the splintering of Zarharnil crystals under too much pressure.
"There are reports of unstable deposits. Of disobedience. The Warrior Council demands answers." He did not say it as a question, but as a statement. As if the guilt were already laid bare before them like an open book, and the conversation was merely a formality before the verdict. The air in the chamber grew colder, as if the currents themselves were receding before his voice. Graufinger stood still, his breath a light mist in the sudden chill. He let the sleeve of his cloak slide slowly back, revealing the glowing crystal veins. They pulsed faster than usual, like a fever racing through his body, a thousand tiny needles dancing beneath his skin. "Answers you want? Here they are: the stone can no longer be controlled."
Marn flinched behind him as if Greyfinger had struck him, a sharp intake of breath that sounded like tearing fabric in the silence. But the old man raised a hand to silence him. His fingers trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from a deep, suppressed anger that had been smoldering inside him for years. "You keep him alive with guides like me. But the life you take..." His voice grew rougher, as if sharp crystals were cutting his throat. "It's not a balance. It's theft." He spat out the last word like poison. For a moment, the spit seemed to glow on the floor, purple like the veins in his arm, before fading away.
The envoy took a step closer. The light fell more sharply on his face, cutting deep shadows into his features. His posture hardly changed, but something in his eyes shifted—a coldness that seemed not of this world, as if he had looked beyond the cracks into the void and it had looked back. "You led the boy. Into the forbidden chambers. You know what that means." It was not a question. It was a statement, hard and unyielding. His gaze slid to Marn, sizing him up with the cool calculation of a butcher assessing an animal or a miner testing a rock for its value.
Greyfinger raised his head, the pain in his arms a constant burning, as if a thousand tiny crystals were trying to cut through his skin. He let the bitterness he had held back for so long rise in his throat. "It means I understand more than all of you put together." The guards shifted, a barely perceptible tension running through their bodies. Metal clinked softly as hands closed around weapon hilts. The air in the room thickened, becoming heavy with the promise of a storm, charged with a tension that was almost palpable.
But Greyfinger was faster. With a movement too fluid for such an old man, he let the blackness of the quartz in his arms glow. The crunching of his skin could be heard, a sound like breaking parchment, as if something was trying to break out from within. His skin tore open, finer than paper, and the light that burst forth was not the soft glow of before, but a hungry, wild flicker that bathed the room in purple shadows.
The stone responded.
The walls vibrated, first gently, then more strongly, a deep rumbling that was more felt than heard, until small stones trickled from the ceiling. The air became denser, heavier, as if it wanted to turn to stone itself. The chamber began to throb as if it were a giant heart, an ancient organism awakening from its slumber. With each beat, the light seemed to pulse, shadows danced on the walls.
Marn backed away, his eyes wide with fear and something else. Something Greyfinger recognized, a spark of understanding in a sea of confusion. "What are you doing?" His voice sounded thin, fragile, and cutting at the same time.
Greyfinger smiled weakly, a crack in a mask of pain and determination. Fine lines of violet light ran across his face. "I'm doing what they never dared to do." The envoy slowly shook his head, his movement that of a man facing a madman. But in his eyes there was something Greyfinger had seen many times before—real fear, pure and unadulterated. "You fool," he whispered, his voice now without its former control, raw like freshly broken stone. "Do you know what you're unleashing?" Greyfinger's smile widened, revealing teeth that glinted in the purple light like polished bone quartz. But his gaze remained hard, unyielding. "Better than you, Veylan. I've carried it in my bones for thirty years."
Everything broke at once.
The walls splintered with a sound that sounded like the world itself was tearing apart—a sound so deep and powerful that it was not only heard but felt in every fiber of the body. Black cracks rippled across the floor, opening chasms that seemed to grow upward as if gravity itself were reversing. The envoy shouted a command, his voice stripped of its cool control for the first time, shrill as breaking ice over a lake too deep to see. But the stone no longer listened to him. To anyone. The currents themselves seemed to reverse, to twist.
The Iz'kar awoke.
They crawled out of the cracks, out of the veins themselves, as if they had been waiting for this signal. Crystal-covered bodies detached themselves from the stone, with limbs more like blades than arms—created not from flesh, but from living Zarharnil, every movement a song of crystal and pain. Their "faces," if they could be called that, were nothing but smooth surfaces with cracks from which a violet glow emanated—wounds that would never heal.
Greyfinger grabbed Marn and pulled him behind him with a strength that could not have been his alone. The smell of burnt flesh and something older, more alien – ozone after a lightning strike, time flowing backwards – filled the air. The pain in his arms was now an inferno, as if his flesh were burning from within.
"Now you understand," he growled through clenched teeth, his voice sounding like stones grinding in a mill. "The stone never sleeps. It waits. And today... it awakens."
The guards were quick, moving with the precision of years of training, but not quick enough for something that had never been seen before. The Iz'kar descended upon them, tearing flesh and metal with crystalline claws that cut through armor. The sound was terrible—not the expected clang of metal on metal, but a high-pitched singing, as if glass were shattering, mixed with the dull sound of tearing flesh.
The envoy screamed, a sound more animal than human, a primal cry from a time before language was born. But the stone swallowed his voice.
Marn pulled on Greyfinger's arm, his face a mixture of horror and wild amazement. His knuckles were white with tension, and his voice trembled. "We have to flee!" Greyfinger turned slowly toward him. There was a strange calm in his eyes, as if he had finally made peace with something that had haunted him all his life. "No, boy. You go. I'll stay." The crystal in his arms pulsed more strongly, a second heart beating in competition with his own.
Marn's eyes widened and he shook his head violently. His gaze was pure panic. "No! I... I can't do this alone!" His voice broke, and for a moment Greyfinger did not see the budding leader, but only a frightened boy who had seen too much.
Greyfinger smiled sadly. His hand, now more crystal than flesh, stroked Marn's cheek—a fatherly gesture he had never allowed himself before, rough as sandpaper on young skin. "Yes. You are further than I ever was." His voice was gentle, almost loving, a contrast to the chaos around them. "And you won't repeat my mistakes."
He pushed the boy aside, letting his hands glow until the veins beneath his skin flared. The quartz broke through his skin—not slowly and painfully like it had all those years before, but in an explosive release, forming thorns and shards that stabbed outward. The smell of blood and something older, more mineral, filled the air—freshly broken stone, the depths of the earth itself.
The whisper of the stone was now a roar in his ears, an orchestra of rage and desire that consumed every other thought. The temperatures in the chamber fluctuated wildly—one moment freezing cold, the next scorching hot, as if the boundaries between the elements themselves were blurring.
"Run!" he yelled, no longer quite human, his voice a chorus of a thousand broken crystals.
Marn hesitated a moment too long, caught between horror and a strange fascination. But then, as one of the Iz'kar creatures turned toward him, its crystalline limbs emitting a high-pitched singing sound, he obeyed. He ran, stumbling up the corridor they had come from, his footsteps a desperate rhythm against the chaos behind him. Greyfinger turned toward the core, which was now pulsing like a mad heartbeat, each beat a blow against the very boundaries of reality itself. He could hear the voices, the whispers, the pleas—clearer now than ever before, a melody that you finally hear correctly after humming it wrong your whole life. They weren't just noises. They were words. Memories. Lives trapped here, swallowed by stone over centuries.
They weren't begging for power, not with the greedy desperation of the living. Not for control, not with the cold calculation of the rulers. They begged for freedom. With the quiet dignity of those who have suffered too long.
He stepped into the center of the chamber, each step a battle against the pain that threatened to tear his body apart. The air around him seemed to burn, to shimmer. He raised both arms, letting the quartz sing within him—no longer against the stone, but with it, an instrument finally being played correctly. For the first time in decades, he did not fight against the whispering. He became one with it, merging with the rhythm that was older than humanity itself. The Iz'kar paused. Their movements, previously fluid, slowed, almost hesitant. They saw him. Hundreds of glowing cracks aimed at him. And he saw them. Saw through them, to what they had once been before the stone took them, before the currents were twisted—faces trapped in crystal.
"No longer possessions," he whispered, and his voice was the crunch of crystal on crystal. "Nai xor'mir." The words sank into the silence. His voice was clear, despite the blood that moistened his lips, red as the setting sun on polished quartz. "Only the end." He slammed both fists into the ground.
The core broke.
It was not a simple breaking, a splintering. It was a tearing apart of reality itself, as if a curtain had been torn away, revealing another, older world waiting behind it. A sound rang out, so deep that it could not be heard, only felt—in the bones, in the soul, the last echo of a forgotten god.
The pit collapsed.
A tremor shook Kareth'Zal, causing the scaffolding to groan and the tunnels to collapse. The noise was indescribable—not just the crashing of stone and wood, but a deeper, stranger sound, as if the world itself were crying out in pain.
The sky itself seemed to shake, as if responding to the earth's cry. The air vibrated, becoming denser, as if the currents themselves were rearranging themselves.
The workers who were close enough to see but far enough away to survive later spoke of a light that burst from the depths—not like fire, wild and consuming, but like a black star that for a moment dispelled the night itself, an anti-light that revealed more by concealing. They spoke of a sound that could not be heard but only felt—a tone so deep that it vibrated in the bones and touched the mind.
And yet, from the broken shafts, from the quivering ruins, where dust still danced in the rising sun... A boy appeared.
Marn stood at the edge of the destroyed pit, his face marked by dust and tears. The wind that came from the depths carried the smell of freshly broken stone, of strange energies and – strangely enough – of something reminiscent of fresh rain, of a new beginning.
He was breathing heavily, his skin scorched by the hot wind that had come from the depths, his eyes wide and full of things no human being should ever see – and yet had to see in order to understand. His clothes were torn, his body marked by small cuts and bruises, evidence of an escape through collapsing tunnels.
But he was alive. And in his hands...
the last spark of quartz still glowed. Not wild and hungry as before, but pulsing gently, in rhythm with his own heartbeat. Not as a shackle or a curse, a tool of control and a promise that decay would come, but as a reminder of something greater than all of them – a fragment of a truth that was still waiting to be fully understood.
The zarharnil in his hand no longer shimmered a menacing purple, but a soft, almost peaceful blue, as if it had rediscovered its true nature. He did not look back as he turned away from the pit. His face, once soft and young, had now hardened, marked by experiences that had aged him. In his eyes lay a knowledge older than himself—and a determination that would become law in the days to come, unyielding.
He turned and walked away, each step cautious yet resolute, a man setting out on a new path that he knew was dangerous but necessary.
Not as a tool, shaped by foreign hands. Not as a legacy, burdened by old debts. But as the beginning of something greater than anything Kareth'Zal had ever known – a new chapter in a story older than humanity itself. His step was sure, his posture that of a man no longer afraid of what lay ahead. The quartz in his hand glowed softly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat—not as a parasite, but as a companion, not as a ruler, but as a witness.
When the guards found him later, their faces gray with dust and fear, they were too frightened to stop him. They saw something in his eyes that made them retreat—something that wasn't just the power they were familiar with, but a truth they feared.
And deep underground, hidden in the ashes of the old chamber where nothing was supposed to exist anymore, it continued to beat.
And in Kareth'Zal, everyone knew: the stone never truly sleeps.
Chapter 4: Child of the Chain
Chapter Text
Date: Late Lutharis (winter and 12th month of the year, 35 a.C)
Location: Bonewatch, Bonefields
Characters: a young boy and his father
In Bonewatch, the wind sounded like abandoned chains. Like chains that no one wore anymore. It swept through broken bows and over empty graves, dragging itself along the remnants of past battles, as if it wanted not only to warn, but to punish. Between the crunching stones stood a boy—without a coat, without a name, with the eyes of a child who understood that no one would return. His father left in silence. Every step was a judgment. The boy counted: forty-two since the last glance back. That glance had been the only thing that lasted longer than the farewell.
The night before, the man had explained what was to come. His voice was rough as stone against stone: "The test will make you strong or take you away. For generations, the children of our line have walked these fields alone." He looked away. For a moment, the boy saw something in that face—an old shadow. "Your grandfather didn't survive. I came back. My brother was brought here too." A pause. Too long to be a coincidence. "He didn't come back." His father's hand trembled—only briefly, but it revealed more than any words could have. "This is how we separate the worthy from the weak."
Now the path led to that place. Bonewatch lay in a depression of black rock – too flat for a valley, too deep to be forgotten. It was said that decisions rested here – not the ones you make, but the ones you survive. Broken pillars rose up across the field, some sunken, others standing upright like accusing fingers. Everywhere: chains. Rusty ones hung limply between steles. Others stretched taut, moving in the wind with a clanking sound that was too rhythmic for mere weather. The boy felt a strange connection to these metallic vibrations—as if they awakened something in him that he had never known before.
What his father didn't tell him was that Bonewatch had once been a field of judgment for the Rune Judges. Here, three judges had combined their powers to use sound-magic to pass judgment on those who were too dangerous for a simple execution. The knowledge of those rune masters still lived on in the chains—encrypted magical protocols, fragments of lost judgments.
His father wore his sword visibly. Not drawn, not aimed – but present. A reminder that he would not have hesitated. And perhaps also that he regretted not being allowed to. "You're different, boy," he said finally. "And I don't know if that's a curse... or a beginning." His gaze fixed on a distant point where a lone stone stood – similar to the one where his brother had once fallen. "The chains react differently to you. You remind me of him." Then he turned away. The wind caught his cloak. The boy saw the gray seams, the cracks in the blade sheath. He counted his father's steps until the cloak grew smaller, until only the wind remained—and the clinking of chains.
He was alone. "Great," he muttered, rubbing his hands together, numb with cold. "Not only am I going to starve, but now I'm going to hear voices." His feet sank into the loose dust. No snow fell here—Bonewatch was too old for snow. The earth was hard, ash-black, and dry, even in the depths of winter. Every step left no imprint, only an echo, as if one had never existed, but the world had to reverberate nonetheless.
He didn't look for shelter—there was none. No walls, no trees, no caves. Only stone, wind, and buried names. Finally, he crouched between two broken pillars with chains still swinging from their ends. They were strangely intact—bare, metallically clean, even though wind and time should have taken them long ago. Not mere shackles, he realized, but carriers of an ancient resonance. "What's the worst that can happen?" he asked the empty air. "Except the slow, lonely death they have in store for me." He wondered who had once been chained here. For what. Why there was no longer a body—and why the chains remained.
He had no blanket, no weapon. Only his breath and the trembling in his fingers. He was ten winters old and had never been in a world without walls. The silence was too vast to comprehend, too close to escape. As the cold crept into his bones, he noticed something strange: fine, almost invisible lines on his palms that seemed to pulsate in the dim light. They formed patterns like the runes his father sometimes carved into stones. The lines connected with the stone—not through force, but through understanding. The chain did not speak to everyone. But when it did, its words flowed through these channels.
The first night passed without sleep. Not because of the cold – because of the anticipation. He believed something was coming. A test, an animal, a curse. But nothing came. Only the clinking of the chain—sometimes soft, sometimes like a deliberate blow through the dark field. He lay awake, staring at a faceless sky. No stars, no moon. Only gray on gray, as if the sky had forgotten that it had once carried light.
He didn't know how many hours had passed when hunger came. At first it was a pulling sensation, then a hole. Finally, only the dull feeling that he was made of stone and not flesh. In a rusty fire pit, he found the remains of ashes – no embers, but the smell of something that had once been warmth. He scratched at the earth with a shard. Not to make a fire, but to feel that his hands could still do something. The shard slid across the ground. Without conscious intention, his movements formed strange symbols—geometric shapes that merged into interlocking patterns. They reminded him of something he had never seen before.
On the second day, he began to count: stones, chains, steps. Over and over again. As if numbers could bring order to a world of silence.
On the third day, the chain spoke. Not with words or a voice – with sound, with patterns. The wind picked up. The chain struck a stone: three times, a pause, two strikes, a pause, one last, lonely sound. The boy froze. It was no coincidence. No wind had rhythm. He listened. Nothing more. Then he stepped to the spot where the chain had struck. It hung from an iron arch – rust-free, even though everything else had long since turned to dust. He placed his hand on the metal. It was cold – but something vibrated beneath his skin. He closed his eyes.
There was something there. Not an image, not a word – more like a shape. A premonition, a wave that didn't come from outside, but from within. As if something inside him wanted to remember. The fine lines on his palms began to glow – a faint light like chain resonance, which the ancient scholars of Vel'Arazan spoke of. He tore his hand away, stumbled backwards, fell. The ground was hard. He tasted blood. But he was no longer alone. Something was watching him – not from the shadows, but from the depths.
The next night, he did not dream of his father or of escape – of chains and an eye that would not close. When he awoke, faint runes glowed on the broken steles around him – symbols that remained invisible in the daylight. His fingers wandered across the ground, unconsciously forming a symbol in the dust: a bound chain, shaped like a rune. His thoughts were clear: "If I die here, no one will know my name. If I live... maybe this is my name."
On the fourth day, he ate moss and spat it out again. "Not even the moss wants to live here. Can you blame it?" On the fifth day, he licked stone and drank dew from a hollow in a broken gravestone. On the sixth day, he wanted to flee. The cold, the hunger, the constant fear—they gnawed at his will. He looked toward the horizon where his father had disappeared. He could just leave. Give up the test. Deny his family's legacy. One step toward the edge. One more. The chain struck—harder than ever before. A sharp sound that cut through the air. He stood still, his feet rooted to the spot. When he turned around, he saw the long chain vibrating in the center of the field as if it were alive.
An echo asked him a question—not with words, but with sound: "Do you want to be bound or to bind?" He didn't know where the question came from, but he felt its meaning in his bones. Instead of fleeing, he went deeper into the field of bones—to its very edge, where the earth broke away and the fog was so thick that the world ended. A single pillar stood there, entwined with a golden chain. Unrusted. Too smooth. Too new. He stepped closer. His feet trembled, but he forced them forward. With every movement, the sound grew louder—not in the air, but inside him. It was as if his heart had become a chain that was beating.
He placed his hand on the pedestal. The world held its breath. A light—brief, harsh, like a memory burning itself into his retina. He saw nothing, but he felt it: a scream that was not a voice, but power. Power that burst from the stone, crept into his fingertips, traveled through his bones. The runes on his palms glowed, absorbing something from the chain like water seeping into dry ground. Knowledge opened up inside him—fragmented, incomplete, but powerful. Images of libraries, ancient writings, hidden runic tablets flooded his mind. He saw visions of an earlier condemnation: three judges joining their voices in a verdict that flowed through the chain. He gasped, pulled his hand back, and fell to the ground.
This time he got up again. Slowly, uncertainly – but changed. It wasn't magic in the classical sense. It was older, rawer – like something that had forgotten how to speak and remembered only through blood. The rune magic of the bone fields, known to few and understood by even fewer. He went back to the center of the pit, sat down, and waited. But this time he wasn't waiting to be rescued—he was waiting to see what would come. Because he was no longer a child. Not because he had survived, but because he had understood: Bonewatch was not a grave. It was a mirror. And those who stayed here would eventually see not only themselves, but what they could become.
On the morning of the seventh day, the shadow returned. No sound announced its arrival. Just an outline on the ridge of the plateau – like an old debt finding its way home. The father stood still. The wind had grown stronger, the chain beating in short, hard beats. Not like a call – like a judgment. The rhythms spoke of trial, of tradition, of a line passed down through blood and bone. The boy rose. He had not slumped – he sat straight, his shoulders tense. His eyes were not defiant, but open. Too open for a child. In them lay the gray shimmer with black speckles that had once distinguished his uncle. The father descended – but it was no longer a descent. It was an entry into something that no longer belonged to him.
Bonewatch had changed. Or begun to reveal itself. Between the broken gravestones stood runes that had previously been hidden. The chains no longer shook randomly, but seemed to resist the wind, as if they wanted to speak without human language. The man stopped when the boy saw him. No hug, no greeting—just a look. He examined him: no injuries, no frostbite. But there was something in the boy's eyes that silenced him. Something old that came not only from a week of survival, but from a deeper understanding.
"You didn't die," he said, as if it were a reproach. The boy did not answer. He looked at the man calmly, then slowly bowed his head—not in submission, but by choice. "What have you learned?" "That the wind is not empty. That the chain does not remain silent. That I am more than your name." The father snorted. "Big words for someone who lived in the dirt." "In the dirt, you learn who you are." The boy's palms tingled as the binding patterns beneath his skin reacted to the proximity of the ancient magic. A heavy silence fell between them.
The man stepped into the circle of fallen stones, where a ritual site might once have been. There, in the center, rested the chain on a stone slab—long, thick, with a clasp that had never been opened. "Why didn't you run away?" "Where to? You left everything I was behind." The boy looked down at the ground, where he had drawn the rune symbol of the chain in the dust—an unconscious manifestation of the knowledge awakening within him. A gust of wind whipped through Bonewatch. The chain struck again: three blows, then silence. The father stiffened as if he had recognized something—as if the pattern confirmed his deepest fears or hopes.
"You heard the chains," he stated, not as a question. "Like the ancient scholars of Vel'Arazan. That hasn't happened in generations." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a hard bundle—tied up, rough linen. He threw it at the boy's feet. "A name." The boy stared at the bundle. "I brought it with me. If you want it, take it." The boy's fingers did not move. "And if not?" The father took a step closer. "Then you will leave as a nobody. And you will never be anybody." The chain behind the boy vibrated slightly. The wind had not picked up. He knelt down—not before his father, but before the bundle. He touched it, then pulled back. Then he stood up, took two steps back: "I have found my name. In the chain, in the wind. Not from you. Not from blood." "You speak like a madman." The boy bowed his head. "Perhaps. But I no longer speak for you."
The linen bundle remained where it was. The father stepped closer, his hand wandering to his belt, where the knife hung. Not as a threat—as a test. The boy saw it and stood still. Then, quietly, barely audible: "I didn't survive you to be afraid of you." His voice hadn't grown louder—only clearer. The father didn't reach for the knife. Instead, he knelt down, took the bundle, and untied it. Inside was a simple dark metal plaque. On it was a name. "It was the name of your uncle who died. I wanted to give it to you when you were strong enough." The boy took a step back. "Then I'm not that name." "But you need one." "No. Not from you." The father looked at him for a long time, then placed the plaque on the stone.
"You were brought here for a purpose. The test is older than our family. It calls those who can hear the chains. The runic symbols on your hands are no coincidence. You were chosen to preserve knowledge, to protect it." A pause. "Or to destroy it if it becomes too dangerous." He said nothing more. When he left, he did not take the plaque with him. The boy waited until the silhouette had disappeared. Then he went to the stone, looked at the plaque, took it in his hand—not as a gift or inheritance, but as a tool. Then he turned to the chain, touched it with both hands, and spoke only to himself: "Not because I bear your name—but because I will take it for myself."
In the days after the verdict, the silence changed. Not because the wind stopped blowing, but because he began to hear it. The sound of the chain was no longer a threat or a warning, but a pattern. His hands could now read the vibrations—the fine patterns of bonds on his palms glowed when he touched the old rhythms. He often sat at the northern edge of the fields, where the stone was softer and cracks ran through the rock like scars. That was where the oldest fragments lay: pieces of armor, broken helmets, shield buckles with symbols that no army wore anymore. He didn't dig them up—he observed them. How they trembled when the wind came. How they sometimes reacted to each other, even though no one touched them. His fingers began to trace the patterns of the vibrations – first in the dust, then on pieces of parchment he found in abandoned storage areas. These were the first records of what would later become his life's work.
The bone fields were not dead. They did not think, they did not speak – but they remembered. And he remembered with them. The chain in the center of Bonewatch was more than metal – a relic older than the village, older perhaps than the ruins themselves. It was said that it had once bound together three men who did not know each other, and that they remained connected forever, even after their bodies had rotted away. Within it lived the knowledge of the ancient rune masters—its rhythmic patterns were encrypted magical protocols, fragments of lost judgments. When he touched the chain, at first it was just pressure. Then heat. Then... structure. It reacted to him—not like a living creature, but like something that had finally been recognized again. As if a voice were saying, "You are not a stranger."
At night, he slept under the open sky. He now knew the cracks in the rock where warmth lingered. He knew which stones vibrated beneath his back as he slept—and which were as still as graves. He had learned to read time from the sound of the chain. When the wind came from the east, it sounded hollow, like broken breath. From the south, it sang: short, then long, then twice short. He called them the "broken rows." Sometimes he tried to imitate the sounds—not with his voice, but with movement. He tapped a bone against a rock, creating patterns: "I am." "I hear." "I accept you." On a colder morning, he found a new fragment near the western slope—too smooth to be natural. A broken amulet: a circle of teeth, the sign of a faction. A faction that no longer existed, whose members were supposed to lie in the bone fields of Bonewatch – the keepers of knowledge from ancient times. Next to it, a faded faction ring glinted in the dust, the Elytharian symbol in splinters.
When he touched the amulet, he flinched – not from pain, but from memory. A brief, fragmentary image: three men in a circle. One was holding a child. One was falling. One was looking away. He dropped the amulet, stared at his hands, picked it up again. From then on, he wore it on his belt—not as jewelry or a symbol, but as a reminder of something that did not belong to him, but knew him.
One day, when the sun was pale behind the clouds and the shadows seemed longer than they were, he stood on the central stone plateau. There, where rituals had once taken place, as the carved semicircles suggested. He had obtained charcoal from burnt wood under a crevice in the rock. With this charcoal, he drew on the stone. Not runes – lines, segments of chains. Always three, then a break, then two, then silence. When he was finished, he looked at the pattern and placed his hand on the center. The drawing was reminiscent of the patterns that would later adorn his hands – the runes that would one day pulsate as he translated ancient texts and deciphered forgotten magic.
For the first time, he spoke it aloud: "I am Ormaris." No echo, no proof—but the chain struck at that moment. Only once. But that was enough. He began to remember old texts—in fragments. Things his father had mentioned but never explained: "The chain is what remains when everything else breaks." "You don't just bind bodies with it. You bind will." "Those who wear chains carry a burden." He wrote these sentences on the walls of the pit, carved them into pieces of bone – not for archiving, but to give them space. To understand what it meant to be a keeper of knowledge. To protect what had to be preserved. To hide what was too dangerous to be found.
The chain was silent—at last. Not because it had fallen silent, but because it had spoken. Everything that needed to be said. The young Ormaris stood up, still dazed by what had stirred within him. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, as if his body first had to get used to the idea of having found a form. No longer nameless, no longer broken, no longer nobody. He was not free, not saved, not escaped – but he was real.
As he walked back through the field of bones, he moved with a new presence. The pale skulls no longer stared at him accusingly – they had become witnesses. Silent observers of a transformation that not all had survived. He ran his fingertips along the bent steles, feeling their rough history.
Dawn colored the horizon blood red as he reached the edge of the field of bones. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of his father—a lonely figure at the edge of the world, his gaze averted as if he had already made his decision. Ormaris stood still. No word left his lips, no step followed. Only his gaze, steady and unchanging, bridged the distance between them. He waited until the silence became so heavy that his father could no longer bear it. He waited until the man slowly turned around, as if he had sensed the change in the air. He waited until their eyes met across the gulf of generations and secrets. He waited until it was too late to look away. Then he said, "I am." There was no triumph in his voice, no defiance against years of namelessness—only truth. Pure and undeniable, like the chain around his neck.
His father, whose eyes had known only scrutiny all these years, who had remained silent because he believed silence would harden – now he saw something in those eyes that could no longer be denied. Something that could not be broken. The sun rose higher, erasing the shadows between them. In this light, Ormaris could see his father's face clearly for the first time – the furrows of worry, the scars of his own trials, and behind them, barely perceptible: relief. The chain would continue to hang around his neck. The burden would remain. But he was no longer the one who carried it – he was the one who understood it.
Many years later, Ormaris stood in the library of Vel'Arazan, high above the misty fields of Quarré. The massive shelves around him held knowledge from millennia, texts in long-forgotten languages, magic that had once nearly destroyed the world. He smiled as his fingers brushed over a particularly old tome. The runes on his palms—now grown into complex patterns covering his entire arms—glowed in rhythm with the symbols on the book cover. "Another chain unfastened," he murmured contentedly.
A young apprentice approached his table nervously. "Master Ormaris, the Council of Seven has sent for you. It concerns the disturbances in the cycle in Kael'Zara." Ormaris nodded slowly. "The political games are beginning again. They think they can use ancient magic for new power." He stood up, his movements precise. "They don't understand that chains don't just bind – they also remember." The apprentice looked at him in confusion. "Master?" Ormaris smiled knowingly. "The world exists in a balance between freedom and binding. Some things must be preserved – and some must be free to unfold." He gazed absently into the distance, and for a second it seemed as if he could see things beyond the realm of the tangible. "I was once a child without a name. Now I am the keeper of a thousand names too dangerous to speak." "Come," he said quickly to the apprentice. "Let us explain to the council why some chains should never be broken." The young man followed him through the winding corridors of the library, marveling at the authority that emanated from his master—a man who had once stood hungry and desperate in a forgotten field of bones and now guarded the most dangerous knowledge in the known world.
The chains had chosen their keeper. And the world was safer for it.
Chapter 5: A Touch of Green
Chapter Text
Date: Early morning Lutharis 24 (343 a.C)
Location: Healing Garden of Vaelarion - Inner Palace District
Character: Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir and Luaris Velyn'Elthar
The morning lay still over the healing garden, as if the world itself were still wrapped in the gentle slumber of night. Silver veils of mist drifted between the Berra blossoms, whose violet calyxes shimmered like little lanterns in the dim light, moving like whispering ghosts of days gone by through the ancient avenues. The light was soft and hesitant—an early glow that did not dare to dispel the dew that still lay like glassy breath on the velvety green ferns, transforming every blade of grass into tiny crystals. It smelled of warm, fertile earth and sharp sweetness, of the damp shadows of the moss and the open wounds of the world, which even here, in this refuge of healing, could not be completely healed.
Aeri'Vel walked quickly along the winding path of white moonstone, its surface seeming to sing softly beneath her feet. Her cloak, as immaculately folded as her thoughts were sharp and orderly, brushed the low-hanging branches of the Alyrien trees, whose silver bark grew toward the sky in spiral patterns. Bluish pollen fluttered briefly in the still air, sparkling like stardust, then vanished like unheard words in the morning breeze. Aeri'Vel sensed it, barely perceptible and yet unmistakable – as if someone were counting her steps as she walked, as if invisible eyes were upon her. No gaze she could return, no sound she could follow. Just the kind of presence that couldn't be proven, but couldn't be shaken off either, like a shadow dancing in the moonlight.
She hadn't wanted to come. She had sworn to avoid this meeting.
Not to see him. Not to expose herself once again to the possibility that her well-ordered world would be turned upside down.
The new royal healer had arrived just three days ago, with nothing but a worn travel bag and a letter from the council expressing its recommendation in flowery but vague terms. An outsider from the distant hill country, where people were still familiar with the old ways. Recommended by the Council of Elders itself. Trained in "alternative healing arts," as they had called it. A term that sounded like a poorly veiled euphemism to Aeri'Vel. To her, it meant just another man who claimed to know more about life and death than she did, having spent two decades perfecting the art of healing in these halls. Another person who would question her carefully considered decisions, doubt her methods, and undermine her authority.
Her slender fingers involuntarily brushed the three silver rings on her left wrist—artistic spirals of moon silver, each one heavier than its material would suggest. One ring for every difficult decision she had had to make when all other options had been exhausted. One ring for every life she had been unable to save, even though she had tried everything, even though she had stayed awake through nights that had nearly broken her heart. The rings jingled softly in time with her footsteps, a melancholy sound that meant nothing to anyone but her. A private symphony of regret and responsibility.
Aeri'Vel had let a stranger into her life once before – years ago, when she had been younger and more hopeful. A man from the southern expanses whose exotic healing methods had seemed like miracles at first, but ultimately brought more death than comfort when his untested concoctions proved to be poison. Back then, she had hesitated, had not trusted her instincts, had put diplomacy before wisdom. Hesitation that had cost a life, a young life, that of a girl with eyes like spring blossoms, whose faint reflection still flickered in her dreams and tore her from her sleep. Since then, she had healed faster, more decisively, more uncompromisingly. And with far less patience for enigmas in human form, for charming strangers with big promises and little proof.
And yet, when she stepped into the central grove where the heart of the healing garden beat, she stood rooted to the spot.
Not because of a word that cut through the silence. Not because of a gesture that demanded her attention. But because of the silence itself—a silence that was not empty, but filled with a presence she felt to the marrow of her bones.
He knelt beneath the old Lysbair tree, whose mighty trunk was so wide that six people could barely encircle it. An ancient plant whose spreading crown had not bloomed for weeks, whose once emerald-green leaves now hung wilted and brown from the branches like the last sighs of a dying giant. The court healers had long since declared it dead, shaking their heads and talking of incurable root diseases. But it was still there—withered, curled up, silent with a pain that only old trees knew.
The pragmatic court gardeners had long since suggested cutting it down and using the precious land for healthier plants. But Aeri'Vel had stubbornly refused. Not out of sentimentality, she told herself, but out of respect for the living history that dwelled in its trunk. The Lysbair had already outlived three royal houses, had seen wars and peace, droughts and floods. Its bark-covered skin bore the deep scars of past eras, burn marks from lightning strikes and arrows from long-forgotten battles.
Next to the majestic tree lay no shiny instruments, no precious ointments in crystal vials, no intricately engraved amulets or whispered spells such as those used by the court healers. Only a small, inconspicuous clay bowl, its earth-brown surface smoothed by years of use, filled with softened Vareth moss, an ancient carrier of plant memory that held the stories of the earth within it. Luaris had carefully dripped it over the exposed roots, slowly and almost reverently, as if performing a sacred ritual. Not as a means to an end, but as a humble question to what lay deep beneath the earth and guarded the secrets of growth.
The stranger touched the ancient bark with his bare hand, with nothing between him and the suffering tree. No magic flickered in the air, no glowing circle surrounded him, no mystical artifact enhanced his powers. Only his warm, living fingers on the rough, painful bark, like an unspoken promise that it was not too late, that life always found a way.
She watched his hands. They wore no sparkling rings of power, no protective gloves made of enchanted leather, nothing to shield him from direct contact with suffering and disease. An old, faded scar ran across the back of his left hand, jagged and irregular like a forgotten story written on his skin. His fingers were strong but not coarse, marked by honest work rather than privilege.
"You're tired, aren't you?" he whispered, his words little more than a gentle breath mingling with the morning breeze.
But the tree vibrated softly, as if an invisible string had begun to vibrate within it. A shimmering, almost transparent light slowly spread from the point of contact. Pale and delicate as the last glow of embers in the ashes. And then, like a small miracle, a single leaf unfolded, fresh and green as a new glimmer of hope.
Aeri'Vel's clear voice cut through the reverent silence like a fine blade through precious velvet, sharp and precise, but not without a hidden curiosity.
"Do you often talk to trees, Master Veyar?"
He slowly raised his head, as if he had all the time in the world, and looked at her as if he had known she would come—perhaps not today, perhaps not at this hour, but eventually, as inevitable as the changing of the seasons.
His eyes were gray like the morning mist dancing over still lakes, but with an unexpected glimmer of green in them, as if something plant-like, something earthy, was woven into his gaze. A stranger who looked like he belonged here, as if he had grown out of the soil of this garden. A living contradiction that irritated her in a way she couldn't name.
His gaze was neither demanding nor submissive, neither challenging nor yielding. It was... calm. A calmness that did not stem from indifference, but from a deep certainty that she found both attractive and unsettling.
"Only with the smarter beings around me," he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. "You seem to be a better listener than most."
An involuntary twitch played around her otherwise controlled lips—the beginning of a smile that she quickly tried to suppress.
"And what do they tell you?"
His eyes sparkled with a mixture of wisdom and mischievous courage.
"That you're too proud to let anyone help you today."
The silence stretched between them like a taut bow, loaded with unspoken words and unexpected truths.
Then she laughed—softly and surprised, like someone who catches themselves marveling at themselves, like someone who discovers a hidden side of themselves.
"You're bold," she said, but there was more admiration than reproach in her voice.
"No," he said with a smile that was not meant to please or impress, but simply understood what she had not said.
"I'm honest. That's different."
Aeri'Vel stepped closer, her footsteps almost silent on the dew-covered moonstone path, her searching gaze fixed on him, but her eyes were more feeling than seeing, looking for weaknesses, for signs of deception or arrogance that she had found in so many before him. The cool dew on the emerald grass slowly dampened the precious hem of her azure silk robe woven with moon silver threads. A minor inconvenience she would never have allowed otherwise, one she could normally have prevented with a simple spell. But today, her attention seemed to be entirely elsewhere.
He was so completely different from what she had expected that it confused her. Younger than the gray strands in his dark brown hair would suggest—perhaps in his mid-thirties, with the kind of face that carried both youth and age. Gentler than his strong hands and the weather-beaten skin of his arms suggested. Not soft—his features were too distinctive, his posture too upright for that—but quiet in a way that deeply unsettled her. His aura, which she had learned to read with her sharpened senses, was not one that sought to impose itself or impress, as was the case with most men in his position. And it was precisely this unobtrusive calm, this natural self-assurance, that made her alert and watchful.
He stood up slowly, his movements possessing an effortless grace reminiscent of a dancer or a swordsman, leaving his hand resting on the gnarled bark a moment longer than was strictly necessary. The way he detached himself from the suffering tree was like a tender farewell between old friends. As if he had to learn anew each time to be alone, as if letting go was harder for him than touching.
"The Lysbair had good reasons for his silence," he murmured as he brushed the dirt from his knees, his voice carrying a warmth reminiscent of the crackling of a fireplace. "Most true healing begins with patient listening. Not with hasty intervention."
She crossed her arms over her chest, a gesture that had become second nature, and felt the morning chill tingle through the thin, airy fabric of her sleeve. "And what heals faster—ancient moss or a tried-and-true method?"
His eyes took on a thoughtful gleam, as if he were looking into a distance only he could see. "It depends on whether you want to save the body. Or the soul."
"And what if listening isn't enough?" she asked more sharply than she had intended. "When time is running out and life is hanging in the balance?"
"Then maybe you've been asking the wrong questions," he replied with a gentleness that did not match her sharpness, but absorbed it like a still lake. "Or maybe you haven't learned to hear the right answers yet."
He looked at her calmly, with a gaze that went far beyond the surface, and something in his gray eyes with green flecks seemed to see far more than just the royal healer before him. As if he could read the scars that bore her heart, the fears she so carefully hid. "What exactly would you like to hear from me today, Aeri'Vel Thir?"
Her heart began to beat faster, an uneasy rhythm beyond her control, though she couldn't identify the cause. He had spoken her full name, without the reverential title she was entitled to. And yet it did not sound disrespectful or challenging. Rather... familiar, intimate, as if he had whispered it a hundred times before, in nighttime conversations that had never taken place, in dreams he might have dreamed.
She lifted her chin slightly, a movement that came automatically, not because she had consciously decided to do so, but because she suddenly realized she was doing it. An old, deep-rooted habit from days long past, when she still had to prove herself every day, when her word was not yet final and irrevocable, when she still had to fight for every inch of respect.
"Nothing special," she said, but her voice didn't sound as indifferent as she had hoped. "I'm just here to see if you're more than just another healer with big words and small, fleeting successes."
He tilted his head slightly to the side—not mockingly or condescendingly, but in agreement, almost gratefully. As if he knew exactly what disappointments and betrayals in her life had sown the deep mistrust that she now wore like a protective armor. "Then you'll have to observe me for a while."
"Hardly," she replied with renewed sharpness. "I will give you specific tasks. Tests. Then we will see if your philosophy holds up in practice."
"That is also good and fair," he said, without a trace of reluctance or fear in his voice. "But believe me, Aeri'Vel..."
His voice grew quieter, sinking to a whisper that mingled with the gentle breeze—like the morning wind that makes plants whisper mysteriously, moving their leaves into a song without words. "I don't heal to prove myself to others or to earn recognition. I heal because I cannot bear to see something beautiful, something precious, pass away without anyone touching it, without anyone trying to save it."
She did not know why this simple sentence struck her heart so suddenly, like an arrow finding its target. She only knew that it remained, lodged itself in her. Like a thorn in the warm sunlight. Like a long-buried truth that had been avoided for years and was now suddenly pushing its way back to the surface.
An unexpected gust of wind made the leaves above them flutter in a silvery dance. The morning light broke into a thousand different shades of green and gold, dancing playfully across his even features and, for a fraction of a moment, revealing something in his face that seemed older and wiser than himself—as if he were carrying the weight of memories that were not his own.
In the distance, a Lyvan bird sang its melancholy song – rare at this early hour, a song that most people only heard at dusk. A song that was inextricably linked in her memory with death, with final farewells and irreversible losses. With a failure she had never forgotten and that still haunted her on sleepless nights.
And for a tiny, precious moment, the world stood still. Not completely, not entirely. But enough to touch something inside her that she had long believed to be dead.
Aeri'Vel finally turned away without another word, her movement abrupt and decisive. Her steps were firm and purposeful, but no longer as hard and relentless as at the beginning of her unwanted visit. The wind played with the folds of her flowing cloak, and for a long breath, it seemed as if nature itself was holding her back, as if she had to see or understand something important that she was in danger of overlooking.
Luaris watched her silently, without calling her name or following her. He did nothing but stand quietly and watch her disappear between the ancient trees. His patient silence held a calmness that did not come from yielding or resignation, but from a deep certainty that some things needed their own time. Like a tree that grows and flourishes. Like a wound that slowly heals. Like a heart that learns to trust again.
When she finally disappeared around a bend in the winding path and only the rustling of her footsteps could be heard, he slowly lowered his shoulders, breathed deeply of the spicy morning air, and looked up again at the majestic tree. The Lysbair had turned its first new leaf toward the warming sun—delicate and semi-transparent like a glimmer of hope, but undoubtedly alive. A sign as fleeting as it was significant. A gentle reminder that the transitory is no less precious and valuable than the permanent.
He knelt down again in the soft, mossy grass, placed both hands flat on the fertile soil, and whispered almost inaudibly: "One of many, isn't it? Another soul to heal."
The earth beneath his fingertips vibrated softly—barely perceptible to anyone who had not learned to pay attention to such signs. But it answered him, as it always did for those who knew how to listen. A silent conversation between him and life itself.
A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying the beguiling scent of medicinal flowers up to the ornately carved marble balconies of the palace, where someone had been watching the entire conversation for some time without showing themselves. A slender, shrouded figure whose hidden intentions lay like dark shadows between the white columns and whose interest in this meeting went far beyond mere curiosity.
Down in the fragrant garden, however, lay the delicate beginnings of something that neither Aeri'Vel nor Luaris fully understood. Not a beginning that could be immediately recognized or named. Not a promise that was spoken aloud. But a silent, invisible bond that had formed between them—between two souls who may not have consciously sought each other out, but had nevertheless been inevitably found.
And somewhere, deep in the tangled roots of the ancient medicinal plants, the first mysterious whisper of a connection stirred that would be more than mere coincidence or a fleeting encounter. A connection that Aeri'Vel did not yet suspect, that she perhaps even feared. The Luaris may have sensed it, but did not dare to name it. Fate, however, already knew and was weaving it, thread by thread, into the great pattern of life.
A quiet, fateful, beautiful beginning – like a golden glimmer of light in the silver morning dew, promising that nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter 6: The Call of the Silent Voices
Chapter Text
Date: Early Veydris, Shadow Month (347 a.C)
Location: Thal'Vareth
Characters: Order refugee & Saren Vaal'Shir
Arkanis remembered him, as only cities can remember: silent, cold, with the patience of eons. Not the kind of cold that penetrates flesh and can be overcome with wool and fire. But the other kind – the kind that seeps from the pores of the walls, creeps out of mortar joints, rises from the weight of accumulated knowledge. A coldness that chills thoughts to skin temperature until even the heart begins to hesitate. Not winter frost, but mental rigidity. A silence that wanders through the corridors with the dust of forgotten archives, as if every volume in them were a sealed breath of dead scholars.
Varyn knew this cold like an old lover—intimate and painful. He had missed it for five years, not with longing, but with the gnawing weight of an unpaid debt. And it had never really left him, not even when he turned his back on Arkanis. It lived on inside him, creeping through his veins like diluted wine.
The cathedrals of knowledge still towered above him—majestic and unimpressed by the time that was eating away at their foundations. Towers whose spires did not humbly reach for the sky, but pierced it like stone spears. Silent, defiant, like frozen hymns on forgotten lips. Erected not to be heard, but to forbid speech itself. Between their arches nested shadows that did not wander, but waited. And light that did not warm, but watched – like the unblinking eyes of an ancient presence that forgets nothing and forgives everything except forgetting itself.
Magical lanterns glowed in silver light along the vaulted ceilings. Never flickering, never wavering, their glow as constant as the heartbeat of a sleeping deity. Not created for orientation, but as a permanent reminder: You are not alone. Here, knowledge itself sees you.
The floor beneath his boots was smooth, not from craftsmanship, but from the silent footsteps of countless members of the order, pilgrims of thought who had left their mark on the stone over centuries. The walls were covered with so-called breath reliefs – inhalation panels. Tiny, almost invisible, like pockmarks in the masonry. Carved into them were Ikaril script – concepts: incorporation, perceptual rupture, second hearing. Words that were not spoken but inhaled, left to linger in the room like incense in an intellectual liturgy.
Arkanis had not been built. It had been lifted up – layer by layer, peeled from the bowels of the mountains, like a fossilized memory undergoing its own resurrection. The walls had a memory for everyone who had walked through them. And they remembered especially well those who should never have returned.
Varyn moved deliberately through the corridors. Every step was composed, calculated. He wanted to look like someone who remembered what it felt like to belong, like an actor reprising a forgotten role. But even the silence seemed to sense that something was wrong, like a discordant instrument in an otherwise perfect orchestra.
He had been gone for five years. Not condemned. Not hunted. But erased from the record like an embarrassing mistake in a transcript. The Oath of the Silent Voices he had once sworn had not been torn up like a contract—but like a melody deliberately played wrong. Not loud enough to hurt the ears, but clear enough for those who could read the score of silence. In this world, that didn't just mean deviation. It meant dissonance in the cosmic choir.
He had left back then because he believed that silence had been perverted—abused like a sacred tool in profane hands. Now he was back. Not out of remorse that tasted like sour milk. Not out of defiance that burned like fire. But because something had called him.
Not a letter with a familiar seal. Not a messenger with a familiar face. Something deeper. A vibration in that fragment he had never been able to throw away— a remnant of a banishing scroll, charred, almost reduced to ashes like the dreams of his youth. And yet, on that one night, it had begun to flicker—not glowing like coal, but flickering like memories on the threshold between dream and wakefulness. As if it remembered what it had once been. And Varyn had obeyed like a dog obeys its master.
He had walked through tunnels that should have been sealed long ago, past guards who did not stop him. Not because they overlooked him, but because they recognized him as a lost member of their family. No words were exchanged. No nods were exchanged. Only this quiet evasion, as if his return had not broken any law, but fulfilled one older than any written rule.
Now he stood there. In front of that wall known only to the initiated, just a surface of pale, damp insignificance. And yet... breathing. Not visible, but palpable like a pulse beneath the skin. Like a scar in ancient stone that had never healed properly. Those who could truly read—those who deciphered the deep writing of reality—could see it: it was not made of stone, but of crystallized meaning. No runes, no obvious signs, but deep writing—interwoven and layered like the rings of an ancient tree.
Varyn placed his fingertips on the cold material. No ritual greeting. No whispered spell. No complicated formula. Just a thought, clear as mountain water: I am ready.
The wall did not open. It receded with the silent grace of an idea finally understood, like a breath held too long.
The room beyond was small, but larger than any memory. The Chamber of Dampened Teachings. It was not designed for observation. But for transformation. Not for sitting, not for talking. Only for understanding on a level where words become crude tools.
The walls were made of marble, but not light and inviting. Dark, streaked with fine veins of violet and black that pulsed like blood vessels in translucent flesh. There was no decoration in them – only condensation. Thoughts preserved as lines like insects in amber. Magic without glamour. Structure without visible formulas.
In the center: a platform of obsidian-black mass, polished so smooth that it swallowed every ray of light—a circle of obliteration, not presentation. No dust had ever settled on it. No sound echoed from it. No furniture. No invitation. Only purpose, reduced to its mathematical essence.
The ceiling arched in a simple curve. No frescoes, no inscriptions, no artistry. Only a single golden ring ran along its innermost line like a halo without a saint. No jewelry but a sound damper, an ancient artifact to calm the room itself. Once, there had probably been singing here. Now even the echo had fallen silent, as if ashamed to death.
And there she was. Saren Vaal'Shir.
Varyn held his breath, as if breathing would scare her away. She hadn't aged—not visibly, anyway. But something was different, like a song sung in a different key. Her posture was no longer that of a human being, but the form of an idea that had taken flesh. She stood like a thought that had manifested itself and now no longer knew whether it was material or metaphysical.
Her cloak was deep dark, almost light-absorbing – "silence fabric," woven from sediment dust and the silk of spiders that had never seen sunlight. A fabric that absorbed sounds like dry earth absorbs rain. Her lips were blackened – not tattooed, but repainted daily with ink from burned books. A ritual. A silent confession: I have spoken. And decided never to do so again.
She had once been his closest ally. Perhaps more, perhaps less—among the silent voices, affection did not mean closeness, but synchronization. And breaks were not heard through volume, but through shifts in the harmony of silence.
She spoke. "You think you've come back." Her voice was like splinters in old wood, not broken, but cracked, ready to split open at any moment.
Half a step toward him. Movement without sound, like a shadow that had forgotten its substance. And yet she had weight, a presence like a drop in pressure before a storm. "But we came for you."
Varyn did not answer. Not yet. His fingers slipped into his coat pocket and pulled out the fragment. The edges were burnt, corroded as if by acid or time. But the lines—the ancient, web-like symbols—pulsed faintly like a dying heartbeat. Like memories that refused to fade, even though their context had long been lost.
Saren did not see the fragment. She saw him—through him, as if he were cut from glass. In her eyes: no anger that could explode. No surprise that could frighten. Only duty. An ancient echo of her role, played like a melody she could hum in her sleep.
"You're too late," she said with the finality of a gravestone. "Or just in time," Varyn whispered like a prayer.
She closed her eyes—just for a moment, for a heartbeat. A breath, as if she were drawing something inside her that concerned him, a memory or instruction from the collective memory of the Order. Then she stepped aside. No command, no invitation. Just space.
The platform was empty. But what waited here had never been stone. Varyn knew this with the certainty of a drowning man losing the ground beneath his feet. He stepped onto the surface.
There was no transition, no change in the light, nothing perceptible. But something began to shift—not around him, but within him, like sediment rearranging itself in still water. A slow pulling. Like a thought finally allowed to emerge after years of remaining unspoken. The air grew thicker, sharper—not from smell, but from memory forming like breath on cold glass.
He stood – and yet he sank. Not physically, but in layers of consciousness. From the surface of wakefulness down into deeper zones where thoughts had not yet solidified into words. Layer by layer, thought by thought, until language became meaningless and meaning began to speak. Not to him. But with him, in him, through him.
He felt no presence, no being, no voice from the beyond. But something heard him—or had heard him long ago, years ago, when he still believed he was alone with his doubts. And now, it answered at last. Not with sentences that could have been misunderstood, but with the structure of decision itself.
First came images. Distorted like reflections in broken glass. Cut up like a shadow in moving water. Recognizable, but never tangible. Not in chronological order, but arranged according to emotional weight.
The messenger in Elythara. The man's face—peaceful in sleep, unaware. Varyn's hand on the sealed scroll, the seals still unbroken. But his gaze was no longer neutral, no longer that of an impartial messenger. He already knew what the message contained, not because he had read it, but because he wanted to know, with a greed that bordered on sin.
Then—no fire, no spectacular act of destruction. Only determination, cold as steel. A will to erase the text before it could cause any harm. A thought sharper than any blade ever forged. The network of voices had seen this moment—not because it was physically present, but because it continued everywhere like a neural system that registered every thought strong enough to leave a trace.
Then Deyvara came. But not as Varyn knew it, not the orderly city of his memory. Not the ambassador in his official residence. But the woman who cried when her son did not come home. The merchant who fell silent because contracts were suddenly no longer honored. The boy who fled, though he did not know from what. The guard who did not search—because no one knew whom to trust in a world where messages disappeared before they arrived.
Then Saren arrived. Not hidden behind veils and masks. Not mystically detached. But at the edge of a hall, silent as a statue. Her gaze fixed on him—not empty, not soft, not even reproachful. Just alert. Always alert.
Her thoughts did not come as a voice, but as pressure in his chest, as weight on his lungs: I covered for you.
He had never heard that, never known it. But now he knew it was true, with the certainty of a falling stone. Because now he could feel it—the net that had carried him, even when he thought he was alone and lost.
He wasn't in a room. He was in a memory. A collective, silent archive, not a place of judgment or punishment. A place of connections, where every thought was interwoven with every other like threads in a cosmic tapestry.
You wanted to be heard—not understood.
This sentence was not a rebuke meant to hurt. It was a junction, a realization. Not born of morality or justice, but from the naked observation of cause and effect.
He saw himself – not as an enemy of the order, not as a traitor. But as a weak point in the system, a crack in the structure. Not born of malice, but of impatience, of the desire to be understood before he himself had learned to understand.
The silent voices had never rejected him. They had carried him forward, even in his absence, in the silence where every echo remains—even if it was never loud enough to be heard.
Now he was where meaning no longer needed to be explained, where words did not need to convince. Just to be understood—or not.
A final wave washed over him, not visually, but emotionally. No image, just a feeling: the shadow month. The beginning of the rift between the worlds. Not as a single moment, but as the consequence of a long chain of decisions. And he had been part of it. Not the trigger—a catalyst. A drop that made the bucket overflow.
A voice spoke—not loud, not his own, but from the network itself, from the collective consciousness of the silent voices: You cannot make amends. But you can carry.
Something peeled away from his mind like a snake shedding its old skin. A new thought that was not his own and yet was born from him. Not a task in the traditional sense. Not a role he had to play. Just a blank sheet, not made of parchment or papyrus, but of crystallized silence.
Something took shape in his hand: the new scroll. No physical material, no ink made of soot and bile. Just a trace, potential. Begun within him, to be continued through him, but not determined by him alone.
The test was over. But it had never really begun. For it had not been a test, not a challenge that could be passed or failed. It had been a statement waiting for a response—not in words that could be lied, but in attitude, in the way a person lives their life.
Varyn stood on the platform again, his feet firmly planted on black obsidian. His breath was calm like a sleeping lake. His knees ached slightly—not from kneeling, which he hadn't done, but from carrying a weight he didn't know.
He looked up. Saren was still there, still in the shadows, but different. Not as a guardian who had to punish. Not as an executioner who had a sentence to carry out. Not as a former confidante who could have healed or deepened old wounds. But as part of the same network, as a node in the same structure.
"Well?" she asked. Her voice was a veil over a gravestone—not dead, but beyond life as she knew it.
Varyn did not answer with words. But he lifted the scroll and showed it to her—the way one does not speak an oath, but keeps it without words.
She nodded. A millimeter of movement, nothing more. "Then you are one of us again."
He knew what that meant. Not forgiveness, which would have presupposed guilt. Not homecoming, which would have confirmed absence. Just belonging. Belonging again.
The chamber did not breathe a sigh of relief—stones have no lungs. It did not change visibly. But something had shifted, like a puzzle getting a missing piece back. Not visible to the eyes. Not nameable by the tongue. Like a sentence that had never been read aloud but was finally understood.
Varyn lowered the scroll and left the room—without a door opening, without a stone moving. The fog between the walls receded—not through magic, but through respect. Through recognition.
Three days passed like the breaths of a sleeping giant. Arkanis did not speak of him. The upper halls lay as always in sluggish indifference, broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment, the echo of scattered footsteps, the breath between the corridors. No cry for justice. No outcry of indignation. No record of his return.
And yet, something had shifted. Not loudly, not visibly. Like a pressure in the air just before a storm begins—one that is unsure whether it will come or pass, whether it will bring destruction or purification.
Varyn lived between floors, in corridors that were too rarely used to attract attention. No quarters were assigned to him. No bed awaited him. No sense of time structured his days. He had not arrived, not really. He had not stayed, not in the conventional sense. He was just there. Present like a shadow that had lost its body.
The scroll slept with him—not physically, for it had no substance that could rest, but in his memory. He did not carry it like an object. He led it like a blind companion.
On the third day, at the time of the first shadow light—that strange twilight when the sky over Thal'Vareth breaks and blooms like a flower of light and darkness—he ascended to the highest hall of the magisters.
The path was stony, winding like a train of thought, permeated by a hint of iron and old paper, as if the books themselves were breathing. The wind that swept through the corridors carried no sound. Only direction, only purpose.
The assembly hall was as quiet as only places can be where much is spoken but little is said. It was not ornate—ornamentation would have distracted from its function. It was functional, but with a dignity that was not bought, but earned.
In the center stood a sixteen-sided table—as wide as a map of a borderland, carved from a single tree older than most cities. Surrounded by pulpits made of smoked glass, each occupied by guild leaders, voices of the zones of influence, particles of a machine that was not power but the administration of effect.
Varyn did not enter the hall—he had no right to, not yet. He stepped up to the frosted glass pane, a wall for those who could not or should not speak. No protection from violence, no filter against truth. Only perspective, a frame for observation.
The guild leaders met with clockwork efficiency. Words flowed—precise, measured, sharpened like blades of the finest steel. Diplomacy was played like a game of chess. Economics was treated like science. The security situation at the border crossings was analyzed like a medical problem. The weather nodes in Vaedh-Tirn showed anomalies—possibly the result of overloaded circulation veins, possibly something worse, something that could not be summarized in reports.
A navigation master spoke of increased transit rates between smuggling routes. An older man with yellow hair and tired eyes, who looked as if he had seen too much and forgotten too little, reported nine new routes where smugglers had found paths that were not marked on any map.
Varyn heard nothing really new. But he listened differently than he used to, with ears attuned to undertones. The sentences were cleanly constructed, grammatically perfect. But they veered away like shy animals. No one openly named what had long been in the air like smoke from a distant fire: that too many systems were no longer responding as they should, that networks once synchronized like a beehive were now stuttering like machines without maintenance.
He placed the scroll on the glass. No dramatic gesture, no magical symbol. Just a connection, a flow—not of information that could be misunderstood, but of memory that went deeper than words.
The scroll did not move, did not change. And yet – on the table, in the middle of the mapped land of wood and ivory, a single sentence appeared. Not written with ink, not spoken with a voice. It appeared like dew in the morning, as if it had always been there, just waiting to be seen: "What is not said still determines the conversation."
It did not flicker like a candle flame. It did not call for attention like a market crier. It was simply there, inevitable as gravity. Like a mirror that had never been used, but had also never been removed.
Silence followed—not the ordinary silence of a pause, but the deep silence of realization. Then—movement, slow as the awakening from a long dream.
An old man rose from his chair. His hair was gray like the winter sky, his eyes blind like frosted glass, but his ears listened for meaning, not sound. His coat bore the sign of the Ormathi—a chamber that no longer officially existed. An archivist. Retired. Or never quite.
The man did not look up at Varyn. His eyes rested on the worn stone tiles as if reading stories known only to him. But his shoulders straightened—an imperceptible movement that echoed through the room like the first drop before a storm.
He bowed. Not to the sentence. But to the fact that it had finally been said. "The silent advisors have awakened," he said, his voice sounding like old parchment rustling between his fingers.
Then he sat down again, the movement as deliberate as if he were placing a precious vessel on the floor. And the rest spoke more quietly. Not out of fear. But because they remembered that silence is not a vacuum—it is structure. A foundation on which truths rest.
He had said nothing. But the sentence he had carried—like a stone in his stomach, like a thorn under his skin—moved more than any vote in the last few weeks.
Outside, in the upper courtyard, the wind greeted him—not like a friend. But like someone who knew him and had no time for pleasantries. It tugged at his coat, whipped cold fingers around his ankles, carried the taste of iron and distant rain with it. Varyn took a deep breath and felt the air fill his lungs. Sharp, alive, relentless.
The sky above Arkanis was metallic. Like molten lead that refused to take shape. Indecisive. Heavy. The shadow month had reached its zenith. The light fell differently—not weaker, but denser, as if it had to fight its way through invisible layers. And in the distance, almost invisible, just a whisper on the horizon, the clouds stretched across Kael'Zara, as if following ancient lines that had long since disappeared from the maps. Paths that only the winds knew.
Varyn stepped to the edge of the wall. The stone beneath his palms was cold and rough, marked by centuries. He felt the depth beneath him—not just the physical emptiness, but something greater. An abyss that stared back at him.
In his hand: the ancient fragment. The thing he had once burned—and then kept after all. A contradiction that had haunted him for years. The ink was faded, almost gone. But he knew every loop, every shaky stroke. Not as language anymore. But as guilt. As a reminder of the moment he had first understood what power really meant.
Between two supporting stones – where the rainwater flowed when the mountains breathed – he found a niche. Small, hidden, as if created for this purpose. He pushed the fragment inside, his fingers trembling slightly. Not like a sacrifice. But like a placeholder. Something waiting until someone new is ready to interpret it. Until the time is right for another story.
Then – a sound. No. Not a noise. Just movement, detected by the sixth sense of those who have lived too long in danger. Recognized by experience. A shadow that detached itself, a breath that was not the wind.
He didn't turn around. He knew who was there. The taste of iron intensified, and something tingled in the back of his neck—the primitive warning of the body of the inevitable.
"You did what you had to do," Saren said. Her voice cut through the air like a blade through silk. Clear as glass about to shatter.
He said nothing. What was there left to say? The words were all behind him, spoken or lost forever.
"But that's not enough." Her voice carried no mercy, no judgment. Only necessity. A sentence coming to an end. The period at the end of a story that had gone on too long.
He closed his eyes. The wind died down as if the world were holding its breath.
The cut was quick. Precise. Professional. No pain. Just a pause—a soft crack in the center of his being, as if an invisible thread had been severed.
He didn't fall. He disappeared—not in a physical sense, but in a way that went deeper. His presence dissolved like ink in water and his energy was sucked into the cycle. His body slumped, like a decision that had been carried for too long. Like a book finally being closed.
Saren stood still, a statue of flesh and blood. She did not wipe the knife. She did not speak another word. There was nothing left to clean, nothing left to explain.
At the foot of the wall—where the fragment rested in its stone niche—something vibrated. Meaning. Pure, undiluted meaning that spread through the air like rings on water. A whisper returned to the world. And this time it stayed. As a structure. As a new foundation for what was to come.
The wind picked up again, carrying the whisper away over the rooftops of Arkanis, over the distant mountains, into the waiting darkness.
Chapter 7: Nai xor'mir - More than just a phrase
Notes:
⚠️ Content Warning / Trigger Warning:
This story contains sensitive topics such as violence against children, state executions, abuse of power, magical torture, cultural oppression, and psychological distress. Please only continue reading if you feel emotionally safe.
It's about courage, loss, rebellion—and the silent weight of a sentence.
"Nai xor'mir – no longer owned."
Chapter Text
Date: 28 Sylvaris – the height of the Festival of Blossoming_, a culturally significant event for the Syl'Quen. (300 a.C)
Characters: Kaelenya, an old scribe, Erisen Tal'Quen, Selvarin & King Ivarion Thir'Vael
Location: A forest clearing near Eldoria, close to an ancient Aesthyr tree
The forest of Eldoria knew no silence – it breathed with the heartbeat of the world. On ordinary days, it hummed quiet melodies between its roots, whispered ancient secrets through its leaves, or simply listened to the dreams of its inhabitants. But today, on the twenty-eighth day of Sylvaris, every fiber of its being vibrated with life. The blossoming had begun, and with it awoke a magic older than the first cities of mankind. Moist petals danced everywhere on velvety moss. Water droplets sparkled like liquid diamonds on woven foliage. Ceremonial ribbons dangled from the upper branches of the venerable Aesthyr trees, glowing like captured stars in the subdued light. Runes of shimmering watercolor pulsed gently in the ancient bark—some healing, some praising, some simply there to bear witness that life existed and rejoiced in itself.
The spirits were present. Invisible as moonlight, intangible as mist, yet as real as the dew that gathered on everything. Ancient legends claimed that the twenty-eighth Sylvaris was the only day of the year when the trees themselves held court – when roots decided who owned the land and who would be denied its mercy. Today, however, their whispers seemed to have fallen silent, as if they were waiting for something specific. Perhaps for courage. Perhaps for grief. Perhaps for those lost souls who had left without ever really setting out.
At the foot of a clearing in the roots, a girl crouched with bare, earth-crusted feet. Her expression did not match the cheerful celebration around her. Her dark curls clung stubbornly to her forehead, as if they had long since given up trying to look festive. The green patches on her elbows betrayed two failed attempts to move elegantly. Her name was Kaelenya—which in the old language meant "leaf that never falls"—but today she felt more like a particularly bored fern that had been left in the sun too long.
Her family was respected enough to be invited to the celebrations, but not influential enough to be asked what they thought. Root healer, some said with respect in their voices. Gentle lines with a strong current, murmured others. For Kaelenya, this meant one thing above all else: always follow, but never decide. Always part of the celebration, but never part of the voices that counted.
The elders sang their ancient songs. The younger ones whirled around in complicated dances. The spirits—if you believed in them—whispered through the annual rings of the trees. And Kaelenya? A tiny ball of light bounced over a spiral snail shell. The snail ignored her completely. Kaelenya grinned and made the light swirl again. Here, no one told her how to use her gift. No stamp, no supervisor, no duty. Just pure, innocent play. The magic followed her breath like an obedient puppy. It followed her whims instead of any instructions.
Somewhere deep inside her, a fleeting thought stirred—as foreign as an unfamiliar scent in the wind: that there had been times when children had shaped light because it was required of them. Because someone wanted to possess the flickering in their hands like a precious gem.
"If you explode from boredom, it's your own fault," she muttered to the snail.
It showed no reaction. Presumably it came from an old line of root spirits – or was simply remarkably stoic.
Kaelenya glanced over to the main clearing. Another one of those endless blessing songs. She knew them by heart by now.
„Elyka velquor ar
Sylkael mirzorin atem
Thalka ka ely
Vel'thor ka velkaen
Sylvaris tharmir lorin
Elythar zoriel ar
Zor'kael thalzar
Thalzar velquor ka
Elyka velquor ar"
With a theatrical sigh, she rolled backwards down the mossy slope. The movement was definitely anything but dignified. She landed on her back between two shimmering fern crowns. Above her, the light caught like glowing dust between the intersecting branches. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the warm embrace of the forest. Perhaps she would just lie there until someone poured a ceremonial drink directly into her mouth.
Then something rumbled. Quietly. Gently. Like a heartbeat that suddenly found a different rhythm.
Beneath her. Deep in the ground.
She raised her head and listened. "I really didn't break anything," she whispered cautiously into the silence.
A tingling sensation ran through her. In her skin. In her gums. Under her feet. As if the earth itself had decided to speak to her.
She sat up and dug her fingers deep into the velvety moss. Her magic flowed—only slightly, a delicate glimmer without any fixed form. Her gift was neither powerful nor precise, but she possessed a sensitivity that sometimes allowed her to sense things that remained hidden to others. And right now, she sensed something unusual. It felt different from a root. Different from water. It was like a stream of pure energy—swirls, condensed, as if something ancient was trying to reassemble itself.
Carefully, she crawled deeper into the undergrowth. There, the branches intertwined to form a green roof. The ground suddenly smelled of venerability. Not musty or damp—but sublime. As if something had once burned here that should never have been allowed to burn.
The magic inside her tingled more intensely.
Something was waiting under a thickly encrusted root. Half hidden between weathered stone fragments. Kaelenya blinked. No – it wasn't waiting. It was calling.
She hesitantly placed her hand over it, hesitated for a heartbeat. Then she closed her fingers around it. It was cold. Heavy. And somehow... filled with infinite sadness.
A broken dagger. But no ordinary blade. The material was zarharnil—bone quartz that grew only in the cursed ravines of Kael'Zara.
Its surface shimmered pale as burnt ivory. Tiny, needle-like veins ran through the material, flickering even in the dim light. Kaelenya instinctively sensed that this was not a material that should be touched. Nevertheless, she held it tightly. The dagger felt cool, but not dead. It was as if it had pushed the magic around it aside to make room for something more powerful: pure, unadulterated history.
Perhaps time had taken away its poison. Or maybe it recognized her. The splinter itself might have been harmless—but whatever it had once been was certainly not. Zarharnil was considered forbidden. A material that bound magical currents and directed them into twisted, unnatural paths. Only fools, fanatics, or the desperate had ever forged weapons from it. And now a piece of it lay in her trembling hand.
A word was carved into the surface—or rather, a fragment of it.
"...mir."
She held it for a long time without saying a word. Her magic flickered like nervous fireflies. The splinter was more than an object. It was a decision waiting to be made.
"You shouldn't have found this here."
The voice rose from the silence like an old, tired breath. Not directly threatening—but anything but harmless.
Kaelenya spun around. An old man sat a few steps away. He was half merged with the shadow of a huge tree arch. A cloak hung around his stooped figure—it seemed to be made more of history than fabric. His eyes were gray like the winter sky, but by no means dull. Alert. Far too alert for someone who seemed as motionless as part of the forest itself.
"Have you been here all this time?" she asked. Her voice sounded shrill. "No," the man said slowly. "I was just... not gone." "Who are you?"
"Someone who no longer celebrates."
"Why not?"
He nodded meaningfully at the dagger fragment in her hand. "Because some things are not to be celebrated."
She lowered her gaze. The fragment was insignificant. And yet it felt like a question waiting for a very personal answer. "Do you know what that is?" she asked. "I know what it once was." "And what was it?"
The old man placed his hands thoughtfully in his lap. He spoke softly, but with a clarity that left no room for doubt.
"A promise. A betrayal. An echo. A word that was never quiet again, even though no one dared to speak it." "Will you tell me?"
He looked at her for a long time, as if searching for something specific in her eyes. Then he said:
"It used to be shown differently. People said it, yes—but they also showed it." He raised two fingers to his forehead. Then he brought them down to the ground in a slow, ceremonial movement. He held them there for a breath and let them go as if dropping an invisible thread.
"This is how we showed it: I belong to myself. Neither to you nor to your order. Not even to fear." He looked at a point between them—perhaps at a place she couldn't see yet. "I'll tell you."
The forest seemed to hold its breath as the old man began to speak. Each word filled the space like mist slowly settling between the trees. Kaelenya sat in the soft moss. The dagger fragment lay firmly in her hand. She felt her own thoughts begin to listen. "It was on the fifth day of Kaelmaris, during the Blood Tournament," said the old man. His voice carried the weight of decades. "A celebration of honor, war, and tradition—that's what they called it back then. An ancient Vaelari custom. And when Ivarion Thir'Vael, the Storm Lord himself, announced his participation, the entire world was thrown into turmoil." Kaelenya's eyes widened. "The king of Vaelarion? He was there?" The man nodded heavily. "He was the reason everything fell apart." He leaned on his knee as if to brace himself against the weight of his words.
"I was a chronicler in the middle protocol office—where stories are preserved, but above all, where it is decided which version of the truth is allowed to exist. Everything else was locked away. Or officially forgotten. We were tasked with recording the course of the tournaments. The reason was less curiosity than control. What was not recorded had never happened. And what the archives approved became irrefutable truth." His voice grew darker, like shadows falling over a clearing. "That year, Ivarion demanded something no king before him had ever dared: that all tournaments on that day be fought to the death. No more symbolic honor fights. No retreat. No surrender. Not even for the youngest."
Kaelenya frowned. "But why?"
"Because he believed that only through death could true order be achieved. That courage could only be proven in the face of the ultimate frontier. And because he..." The man paused, as if fighting invisible chains. "Because he fundamentally distrusted the Syl'Quen."
A gust of wind swept across the clearing, as if the forest itself were confirming this.
"We always had our own rites," he continued. "Competitions in the sacred circle. Movement, magic, honor. No killing, no victors. Only shared history. But this time... we too had to provide fighters. And we provided two." Kaelenya forgot to breathe. "One was Erisen Tal'Quen – guardian of the Third Root, messenger between the Council of Elders and the outer people. Not a warrior in the traditional sense. But someone with roots. Weight. A voice that mattered." "And the other...?" she whispered.
"A child. They called him Selvarin. He was eleven years old. Just old enough to participate in the ritual—usually a game, a step, a dance into adulthood. But on that day... the dance became a deadly duty." The old man closed his eyes as if he could still see what had happened.
"No one had deliberately chosen him. It was planned as a dance of honor—so it was written on the sacred tablets. The names of the children had long been submitted, the games prepared, the runes bound. And then... the order came."
"A decree from Ivarion's own hands, delivered on the morning of the tournament: No more rituals. No games. Only combat. Only death. The tablets could not be rewritten—the participants were set in stone. It was as if someone had decided to rewrite a song after it had already been sung." The old man looked up. There was no sparkle in his eyes, no comfort. "I remember the sound when he entered the ring. No cheering. No shouting. Just murmuring. The murmuring that comes when everyone hopes that someone else will have the courage to intervene." He looked through Kaelenya as if he could still see the scene before him.
"The battlefield was circular, lined with stone seats and ancient banner arches. The air was heavy—not just from the smoke of the fire pits, but from an expectation that seemed to suck all life out of the room. King Ivarion sat on the storm chair, his traveling throne—with golden stitching that supposedly traced the lightning pattern of a real sky storm. He didn't say a word. But his mere presence made everyone's throats tighten."
"And Erisen?"
"He entered the arena. As always. Without anger. Without armor. Only his old blade. No magic. No shield. Just an upright posture." The old man closed his eyes briefly, as if he could see the scene right in front of him—or rather, inside him. "The order was given. The gong sounded. The child stood there. He trembled, but remained upright. His little fingers clenched a wooden practice sword that suddenly seemed much too heavy for his thin arms. And Erisen... lowered his weapon. He laid it on the ground." A long, heavy silence.
Then he spoke—neither loudly nor defiantly:
"Nai xor'mir. No more possessions.
I am no longer a tool. I am no longer part of your game."
"It was not a cry. Not a protest. Just a sentence, spoken like a last thought before eternal sleep. But that sentence echoed. Like magic. Like irrefutable truth."
Kaelenya got goose bumps. A shiver ran down her arms. The fine hairs stood on end. The splinter in her hand vibrated as if it had recognized the sentence.
"Ivarion Thir'Vael did not move. No outburst. No flash. Just a look colder than winter ice. Then he said, 'Tal'varan. So be it.' An ancient saying from Vaelari law, so rarely heard that most had forgotten its meaning. It meant: Mercy is withdrawn, the end shall have meaning. Only a king was allowed to speak it—and only when no revision was possible. A single word. As silent as a storm that has not yet decided where it will strike."
"Some say the order did not spring from anger. But from a desire to see how far the silence could be pushed." The old man swallowed hard. His voice grew more fragile.
"At first there was silence. A silence that felt like the air before a thunderstorm. Then the murmuring began. 'Perhaps,' everyone thought, 'perhaps the king would show mercy. Perhaps that was enough. A sign of submission.'
Selvarin dropped his wooden sword and ran to Erisen. The big man caught him. For a tiny, hopeful moment, it looked like the end of a bad dream. The child buried his face in Erisen's chest. The guard wrapped his arms protectively around him. "It's over," someone whispered behind me. "The king can't possibly..." But Ivarion Thir'Vael stood up. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator taking its time because it knows its prey can't run anywhere. His golden robes rustled in the silence like dry leaves. Every step echoed across the square, even though he wore leather soles. He stopped directly in front of Erisen and the child. So close that he could have whispered. But he spoke loudly enough that everyone within earshot could hear him.
"You refused to participate in the tournament," he said to Erisen. His voice was calm. Almost friendly. "You refused the honor of your people. You refused me."
Erisen raised his head, still holding the child in his arms. "I refuse to murder an innocent man."
"Murder?" Ivarion smiled. It was the coldest smile I had ever seen. "This is not murder. This is justice. This is the natural consequence of disobedience."
He turned to the crowd. "Do you see? This is how rebellion begins. With a man who believes he can decide which orders to obey and which to disobey. With a man who puts his own rules above those of a king." The military judges hesitated. Even they, trained to obey, seemed to waver.
"Your Majesty," one of them dared to say, "the child is still..." "The child," Ivarion interrupted sharply, "is part of the tournament. He was duly entered. He participated. And he lost."
He pointed to Selvarin, who was clinging even more tightly to Erisen. "Look at it. It's hiding. It's crying. Is this the courage you teach your children? Is this the honor of the Syl'Quen?" Murmurs rose from the crowd. Some nodded. The king spoke skillfully—he made the child a weakling and Erisen a traitor.
"But perhaps," said Ivarion, his voice almost gentle, "perhaps there is a way. Erisen Tal'Quen, Guardian of the Third Root, you can save this child's life."
Hope flickered in Erisen's eyes. I saw it. We all saw it.
"Kneel," said the king. "Swear eternal loyalty to me. Renounce your Root rights. Become my vassal, and the child shall live."
The silence was deafening. Erisen looked down at Selvarin, then up at the king. The boy looked up at him with eyes full of trust. He didn't understand what was happening, but he trusted Erisen to protect him.
"I..." Erisen began. "Yes?" Ivarion smiled again. "You will kneel?"
Erisen bowed his head. His knees began to bend. And then... he paused.
He looked down at the boy. At that trusting face. And then he looked directly into Ivarion's eyes. "Nai xor'mir."
The smile disappeared from Ivarion's face like water from a broken jug.
"So be it," he said. His voice was now ice. "Tal'varan."
What happened next... The war judges moved as if caught in a bad dream. Selvarin didn't understand until the hands reached for him. He screamed. Not in pain—in confusion. In betrayal. "Erisen!" he cried. "Erisen, help me!"
But Erisen was held down by four men. Blood ran from his mouth, where he had bitten his tongue to keep from screaming. They chained them both to the same stake. So close that their foreheads almost touched. Selvarin trembled with fear. His eyes kept searching for Erisen's gaze—as if that eye contact could somehow save him. This was Ivarion's final, perfidious cruelty: forcing Erisen to watch as his principles cost an innocent life.
"Look at him," the king whispered coldly in Erisen's ear. His fingers dug into his shoulder. "See how he hopes for you. You could save him, Erisen. Just kneel, and he can live."
When the sentence was pronounced, two shadow judges stepped forward—silent, cloaked in gray. Their hands wore the ritual gloves. The gloves of the shadow judges were made of black leather—runes were burned into them from Zarharnil dust. According to later archives, the runes were considered the first application of the binding rituals. At that time, no one understood that these runes not only killed – they enslaved. I only realized this detail years later, when the same symbols were burned into the skin of captured Syl'Quen.
"No," Selvarin whispered suddenly when he saw the dagger. His voice broke. "Please, no..."
The first cut hit the boy – but only superficially. Blood ran down his throat, but he was still alive. The Shadow Judge had worked precisely: enough to bleed, not enough to die quickly.
Erisen had to watch as Selvarin's warm blood dripped onto his own bound hands. The boy gasped. His eyes widened in panic as he felt his life slowly seeping out of him. "You could have...," Selvarin choked out. Pink foam stained his lips. "The king... he would have..."
Then the stakes began their real work. The Zarharnil shards came to life and bored invisibly into their bodies. Not only was their blood drained from them—their very life force was slowly sucked out. Selvarin twitched uncontrollably. His little fingers clawed at the shackles as if trying to hold on to his own life.
Erisen could only watch. Watch as the child slowly faded away, as his skin turned gray, as his eyes lost their color. The second cut to his own throat came almost as a relief – but he too died slowly, while the child still gasped for breath.
Selvarin's last breath was a soft whimper. His gaze sought Erisen's until the end—not reproachful, but full of a terrible, childlike forgiveness.
Thus ended not only their lives, but their place in the order.
That was the moment something inside me broke. The moment I stopped believing in order. When I understood that some rules are nothing but sanctified madness."
Kaelenya flinched. Not visibly – not to anyone watching her. But something trembled inside her. Her breath caught, and the fine mist that had been dancing on her fingertips burst into tiny shards of light. Her fingers clenched the splinter so tightly that fine cracks formed in her skin, inconspicuous but burning like an unspoken promise. The dagger was cold, but her hand was damp with heat. No cry escaped her, no word—only the sudden realization that grief existed even when there were no tears.
The old man was silent for a long time. Tears ran down his face.
"The king stayed until the end. He watched. And when it was over, he said, 'Thus dies the rebellion.' But he was wrong. In that moment, it was born. It was no ordinary execution. No criminal's death. It was... a ritual. One of those ancient punishments that are only carried out when someone breaks more than just rules – when they shatter principles. They cut through more than just bodies. They cut through the very energy of a person."
Kaelenya felt her stomach tighten.
"And no one screamed?" "The Syl'Quen in the audience cried. Some shouted. Others simply left. Even as the sentence was being pronounced, two pairs of elders left the gathering place without a word. Their runes began to fade. That was... the end of voluntary allegiance." He was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I wrote it down. In the public register, of course—I should never have done that. I engraved it on a tablet. Deep beneath the archives of Sil'varan, among the sealed texts. To this day, I don't know if it still exists."
"But the fragment...?" Kaelenya asked quietly.
"When the king pronounced the sentence, the square shook. No lightning struck the earth—but something invisible broke. The current itself collapsed." "And Nai xor'mir...?"
"It became a shadow. From then on, no one spoke of him, either aloud or in whispers. But sometimes... when a child refused to raise the stick, or when a guard refused to obey an order—then someone whispered, 'He carries the word in his heart.'" He looked directly at her. "And now you hold it in your hand."
"It was by no means the only fragment," he said quietly. "Some may still lie hidden in the river rocks. Others... in hands that have learned to be silent. What began that day was not just a blood judgment. It was the first step in a new order—an order in which it was believed that magic could be tamed if only it was bound tightly enough. A sentence became a law. "Nai xor'mir" became a warning signal. And a people became tools."
Kaelenya was silent for a long time. The splinter in her hand had grown cold, but it was by no means silent. She sensed that it knew more than was ever engraved on its surface. Between the fine grooves—barely deeper than breaths—something pulsed that she could not name, even with the best will in the world. It was not magic. It was history. Not written history, but lost history. The kind that whispers when you stare too long into the shadows of old roots. The old man still did not look directly at her. His eyes rested on a spot between the fern and the root wood, as if the earth had left something there that he could never let go of.
"Why did you remain silent?" she finally asked.
He didn't answer for a long time. And when he spoke, it sounded like pure exhaustion. "Because I was afraid that no one would hear it—or that no one would survive to hear it." "But you're alive."
"Breathing and living are two different things."
Kaelenya lowered her gaze. Her fingers traced the sharp edge of the blade. She had heard countless stories in her life. Of heroes who slew dragons. Of ghosts who sang songs until they became rivers. Of blood messengers who could kill with a single glance. But none of it had felt like this. This was not a story. It was a decision that was still taking root.
"Why didn't anyone do anything?" she asked. "When they bound Erisen and Selvarin. When the king..."
The old man raised an eyebrow. There was no irony in it. Only bitter truth. "You do little when you believe that what is right is in order."
She breathed in the cool forest air. The scent of moss and flowering root umbels mingled with the bitterness behind his words.
"I wasn't a Whitehorn," he said thoughtfully, "but I knew their signs. Scratched lines on the underside of old root scales. Counting patterns in broken leaf edges. They were quiet. But those who wanted to read could understand what was being said. I was a chronicler, yes—but never fully part of their history. Just someone who read between the lines, because there was no truth left in the official statements."
"And what about you?" She looked him straight in the face. "Did you just... write it down too, in the end?"
A painful twitch ran across his cheek. He was hurt, but not offended. "I failed. Just like everyone else. Only... less visibly." He stood up slowly. His movements were neither frail nor uncertain, but cautious—like someone who knew that even the forest judges you if you walk too hastily. "I'm here because I survived. And that alone is no achievement."
She looked up at him. The Aesthyr tree behind him leaned ever so slightly. Or was she imagining it?
"And why are you telling me this now?"
He didn't answer for a long time. Then: "Because you asked. Because you found the blade and recognized it. And because you didn't seek it out or keep it for yourself." She looked at the splinter. And then, very quietly: "I want to know what to do with it.
A gentle smile crossed his face. Not a happy one. But one that appreciated the value of this confession. "The word has no instruction. It is not a weapon. It is... a refusal to be a tool." She felt something stir deep inside her. Not fire. Not anger. Something deeper. Like roots rearranging themselves.
"I'm nobody," she said. "Not a scholar. Not a guardian."
"Erisen was too. He was just someone who decided that a child shouldn't die just because someone else ordered it."
She clenched her hand tighter around the quartz. "I want to write it down." The old man blinked in surprise. Then he nodded slowly. "Write it on bark. On water. In hands. In eyes. In your silence when others are too loud."
She stood up. It was not a decision. Not a vow. Just a step. The wind had changed direction. The lights in the clearing had moved on—but the forest remained.
"Will you stay?" she asked. The old man looked around. "I am the shadow at the root. I leave when the light stays too long." She smiled. Not happily. But honestly. "Then I hope you stay until my silence is loud enough." He looked at her with genuine respect for the first time. "Perhaps you are not one who asks, but one who answers."
She stepped back onto the path. The splinter in her hand felt heavy. Not because it hurt, but because it weighed heavily. Every word that had ever been spoken but never heard was concentrated in that little piece. And as she walked away, she knew: she was not carrying a sword in her hand. She was carrying a no. A silent, unyielding no to a world that believes it can demand anything as long as it paints it with rules.
"Nai xor'mir," she whispered. Not a spell. A soliloquy. And the forest listened. Perhaps it was the first time in a long time that someone had done so.
A gentle wind blew through the branches. Behind her, a single leaf detached itself from the Aesthyr. No coincidence. Not autumn. It fell – it had made its decision. It floated in a slow spiral to the ground and landed with its underside facing up at her feet. A rune was burned into it – finer than any paint, strange in its shape. None from the teachings, none from the books. Just a circle, open on one side, like a mouth that had decided to break the silence.
Kaelenya stared at the leaf for a long time. It was not a sign from the gods. It was an echo. And sometimes, she thought as she clasped the fragment more tightly, change did not begin with a cry or a sword – but with a quiet, unyielding "no" that refused to be silenced.
She picked up the leaf and placed it next to the dagger fragment in her palm. Two fragments of a story yet to be written. The wind carried the scent of moss and new blossoms to her, mixed with something she was only now beginning to understand: the smell of hope.
As she left the clearing, the whispering of the trees followed her. Not as a warning or a prophecy, but as a silent promise. The forest would remember. It would remember Erisen. It would remember Selvarin. It would remember the words that had been spoken when everyone else was silent. And maybe, just maybe, it would also remember a girl who, on a day of blossoming, had decided that some stories were too important to be forgotten—even if it was dangerous to tell them.
The old man remained behind, blending into the shadows of the roots, as still as a gravestone. But his eyes followed her until she disappeared between the trees. There was something in his gaze that had not been there for a long time: the cautious glow of a hope that did not yet dare to burn.
Kaelenya walked on, the splinter clenched in one hand, the leaf in the other. Behind her, the forest came to life again, as if her decision had brought something ancient back to breathe. Before her lay the path back to civilization, to the people who celebrated and laughed and forgot. But she would not forget. And perhaps, if she was brave enough, she would make sure that others remembered too.
Nai xor'mir. The wind whispered the words, carrying them from tree to tree, from root to root, until they settled like seeds in the fertile soil of truth. Some seeds, Kaelenya thought as she walked between light and shadow, took a long time to germinate. But once they did, no one could stop them.
The dagger fragment in her hand pulsed once, very softly, like a heartbeat. Like a promise.
Chapter 8: Verdanthollow
Chapter Text
Date: 20 Sylvaris (349 a.C)
Location: Verdanthollow
Characters: a wanderer
The boat glided silently through the morning mist. Only the gentle lapping of the water against the wood betrayed its movement. Ancient trees rose up on both sides, their roots reaching deep into the darkness, and between them the first lamps glimmered. It was a sign that she was almost there.
Verdanthollow appeared as it always had—quiet and full of life at the same time.
When the boat stopped at a low platform, she stood up. The planks beneath her feet were damp but firm. No welcome call, no sign, no guard. Just a jetty that slowly disappeared between the reeds. The boatman—a man with weather-brown skin and hands like roots—nodded to her. "First visit?" he asked quietly. She shook her head. "Second then," he said and smiled. "The first one never really counts."
The sun had almost completely dispelled the fog, but a few wisps still lingered in the corners between the stilt houses. The light played on the water, running along the damp wooden planks, and every time the wanderer stepped onto one of the floating footbridges, it felt as if the river was carrying her briefly. The settlement seemed awake but still quiet. Wood creaked in its own rhythm. The windows were open, steam drifting out of some, voices through others—quiet conversations, laughter, the clattering of dishes.
She had seen many places. Too much movement, too little staying. But today... today she wanted to have a nice day.
A boy came toward her, balancing on a narrow board that he steered with a long pole. His feet were bare, his pants rolled up to his knees. "Good morning," he called cheerfully, waving with his free hand. "What a beautiful day to arrive!" Then he pushed off and glided on, humming a song that sounded like water over stones.
The air smelled of herbal steam, warm resin, and the damp scent of fresh leaves. The smell of cooked root vegetables and sweet leaf tea wafted from an open kitchen. A wind chime struck a branch horn that bobbed in time with the gentle breeze. Two children balanced on a bridge made of interwoven vines that looked as if it had grown overnight. The branches were still glistening with dew. One of the children—a girl with straw-blond braids—leaned forward and whispered something toward the water. An old woman in a rocking chair on a nearby porch smiled at them. "Don't scare the fish," she called out good-naturedly.
The water flowed wide and leisurely beneath the children, with a fine shimmer that lay over the surface like wafer-thin glass. A stone skimmed across it with a small splash of light. The other child laughed brightly. Between the jetties floated a bowl made of bast, containing a flower with bright veins that glowed briefly with every movement of the water.
She liked this place. There was no rush here. The paths between the houses were walkways made of light wood or woven reeds, connected by floating bridges that spanned small pools and quiet passages. Some bridges were solid, others moved gently underfoot. There were hardly any sounds that indicated haste. A cat lay curled up on a rope between two posts, basking in the morning sun. Its paws dangled in rhythm with the gentle movement.
A middle-aged woman leaned against a window, combing her long gray hair. She hummed a melody that intertwined with the lapping of the water. When she noticed the wanderer, she raised her hand briefly in greeting without interrupting her combing.
Behind a stall, a merchant was unrolling a long cloth on which small bamboo vessels glistened. An elderly woman poured water onto hot stones, from which the scent of spice bark immediately rose. A small dog with shaggy fur sniffed along the stalls, being shooed away here with a pat, rewarded there with a treat. Its tail wagged tirelessly.
Many merchants were still rolling out their blankets, tying bowls in place, or filling jars with herbs using only their bare hands. A man with a reddish beard arranged small wooden figures—carved birds, fish, leaves—on a piece of velvet. Each figure was different, and he arranged them so that they seemed to be talking to each other. A woman in a blue robe sorted dried berries by color, and the pattern that emerged looked like a rainbow on her table.
It was the quiet awakening of the morning, and soon everything would be full of life, like a river picking up speed again overnight.
The market stretched across several platforms, connected by rope railings and flat walkways that seemed to rest on the water. Merchants squatted on soft bast mats or stood behind low counters made of bark panels. Carefully stacked roots, hand-wrapped ointments, and pickled fruits in glass balls lay on large leaves. A young woman with freckles was trying an amber-colored paste and grimaced with a smile. "Spicy," she said to her companion. "But good spicy."
People moved leisurely between the stalls, many carrying baskets, some barefoot, others wearing heavy boots that scraped softly against the wood. An old man with a walking stick made of polished root wood stopped at every other stall and chatted with the traders as if they were old friends. Perhaps they were. A calm, warm smell hung in the air: damp earth, fermented flowers, a hint of smoke from herb ovens.
At a stall standing a little apart, her gaze fell on a flat stone that was heated from below—not by fire, but by recessed heating grooves made of dark wood, which had taken on a faint sheen. Several flatbreads rested on top of it, round, with a dark, slightly cracked crust. Purple flowers were embedded in the surface, and fine green veins ran through the dough like little rivers. The scent was strong and mossy, with a hint of sweetness reminiscent of honey and wild berries.
Behind the stand sat a woman with a weather-beaten face, her skin marked by the sun and the river. Her eyes were bright as morning dew, and she looked at the flatbreads as if they were listening to her. When the wanderer approached, the woman spoke softly. "Silor'Thyn," she said simply. The name sounded like an ancient formula, like something that meant more than just a name. But it was one of the most popular foods in all of Sylvara. A flatbread made from grated roots, herbs, and often mushrooms baked into it, but the ingredient that made it special were the flowers that were kneaded into the dough. They grew high up in the mountains and were cultivated especially for this purpose. Eaten raw, they brought back fond memories of beautiful places you had visited. Baked in the flatbread, however, they were milder and gave you back the happy feeling you had had when you were in a beautiful place.
She didn't answer, just nodded and pulled two coins out of a small bag. One was smooth, made of a light metal alloy, the other slightly transparent. The woman took them, checked them briefly with practiced fingers, and handed her a flatbread. It was warm in her hand and smelled of forests that never quite dry out.
A few steps further on, she found a place at the edge of a jetty, dangled her legs over the water, and took a bite. The dough was dense but not heavy. The herbs inside unfolded first with an earthy depth, then something soft and floral. A taste that did not impose itself but lingered and slowly spread to every corner of her mouth. She chewed slowly, closing her eyes for just a moment.
Even as she chewed, something formed inside her—not sharply defined, but warm and vast, like a memory that reveals itself not in words but in feelings.
And suddenly, the village around her was not just a place—it was an echo.
The flatbread had carried more than just flavor. It had been interwoven with a place—perhaps even many places. And now, as it dissolved inside her, so did the place. Reeds in the wind, bending and straightening again. Bast boats gently bumping against each other, a rhythm like a slow heartbeat. The warmth of sand under bare feet, still warm from the day's sun. Voices carried across the water, laughing, calling, singing.
It wasn't just a memory. It was as if her body remembered before her mind could follow. Muscles that knew what it was like to walk across swaying footbridges. Skin that remembered the moisture in the air. Lungs that craved the smell of water plants and fermenting flowers.
She smiled and felt something relax in her chest that she hadn't even noticed.
The warmth of the flatbread lingered as she ate the last piece. A vein of herbs stuck to her thumb, thin as ink, and she rubbed it off on the hem of her jacket without looking. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a merchant on one of the neighboring platforms stack small wooden discs on top of each other, each painted with tiny symbols. Two girls stood next to him, holding up colorful cloths in which they were apparently tying sayings. Every time the wind blew through the fabric, it sounded like someone was whispering—just loud enough to hear the words above the sound of the water.
A little boy with a cage full of buzzing beetles came by. "Lucky beetles," he explained to her seriously. "If you make a wish and then let them go, your wish will come true." His eyes shone with conviction. A woman, apparently his mother, followed him with an indulgent smile. "Excuse me," she said. "He's very... entrepreneurial today." The boy beamed at her as if it were the greatest compliment in the world.
She rose slowly, almost regretfully. The walkways sprang slightly under her feet as she started moving again. The village was now much more awake than it had been half an hour ago. Two men rolled a platform made of woven bast over the water, laden with a hodgepodge of boxes, jugs, and lengths of fabric. A few children followed them, floating not in the water but on small, round wooden dishes that they propelled with poles. The dishes were laden with fruit, flowers, and handmade tools. The scene was as ordinary as it was peaceful.
At the intersection of two footbridges, a man played a flute made of reeds. The melody was simple but beautiful, and matched the gentle lapping of the water. A few coins lay in a hat in front of him, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were closed, and he swayed slightly to the rhythm of the music.
In a corner, near a swaying platform covered with hand-sewn fabrics, two merchants stood talking. One was rolling out a linen cloth while the other sorted the boxes next to him. Their voices carried across the water.
"Did you hear? They want to reject the new market association in Eldoria," said one without looking up.
"Sylvara is just being stubborn," replied the other with a grin. "Everything should grow in the river, nothing should cross the bridges."
"But direct trade with Vaelarion would be good for the whole valley. Their crystals for our herbs – that would be a fair deal."
The first shrugged. "When they see how we live here—quiet, peaceful, connected—they'll understand eventually. No hustle and bustle. No overexploitation. Our way has worked for generations."
A brief silence. Then a dry laugh.
"And if they don't, so much the better for us. Besides, we have Elythara right above us and are even connected by the river, so they can continue trading whatever they want. We prefer to trade what grows. I just hope their consciences are better packaged than their goods."
Both laughed softly as the wind blew through the fabric panels and they began to dance above their heads. A piece of red silk fabric came loose and sailed across the water, landing on a water lily and being sniffed curiously by a frog.
Just a few steps further on, her gaze was caught by a small, almost overloaded stall. Dried herbs, twisted pieces of bark, and small vials stood side by side, carefully laid out on bast mats. The merchant—a wiry man with a clay-colored scarf and hands that smelled of spices—was holding out a tiny sample bowl to an elderly couple. The couple discussed the effects of various tinctures in hushed tones, and the merchant patiently explained the differences.
When he noticed her, he nodded to her. "New here, huh? Try this—it's for exhaustion from long journeys." He handed her a small, flat wooden container. Inside were fine, amber-colored strips that smelled of smoke, citrus, and a hint of mint. It looked like liquid gold in the sunlight.
She tried it. It was warm, clear, and left a cool aftertaste that spread pleasantly in her throat. "Not bad," she murmured, feeling a slight freshness spread through her limbs.
"Verdanthollow doesn't mix for the market," said the merchant with a proud smile. "We mix for the river. For the people who travel on it and live in it."
She smiled back. It was more than just a business philosophy—it was a way of life.
Later, she took two small packets and a bottle of the golden potion with her. The merchant wrapped everything carefully in leaves and tied it together with a string of woven grass.
Further back, almost at the edge of the visible settlement, the river narrowed and divided into several narrow channels. Between them lay gardens – not on solid ground, but in shallow wooden frames floating on the water. Herbs, spore ferns, and mossy leafy plants grew in them. A woman in a pale, water-colored robe dipped a small bowl into one of the basins and drank. There was no hurry, no hesitation in her movements. Her hair was silver-gray and tied in a loose knot, from which individual strands fell out and danced in the wind.
A child—perhaps her grandson—sat next to her on a cushion and fed small fish with crumbs. The fish jumped for the morsels, and the child giggled each time. The woman smiled and stroked his head.
The wanderer paused briefly and watched. Then she continued on, deeper into the village, where the fog never completely disappeared. It lay in thin layers over the water, turning everything into soft outlines. Some of the houses were built higher, their roofs overgrown with climbing plants. Flowers of all colors hung over the edges of the roofs—red, yellow, deep purple. A delicate scent rose from an opening—heavier than the one from the market. It was a mixture of dried wood, damp earth, and something reminiscent of fine smoke. Perhaps a healer?
A little later, she found one of the narrower passages leading out of the village. There was no gate or sign, just a footbridge winding its way between two overhanging trees. A piece of weather-beaten cloth hung from one of the branches, with a rune on it that looked like a stylized drop of water. Moss and algae had gathered underneath it. The plants looked well tended. Someone had deliberately let them grow there, as living decoration or perhaps as protection, no one knew.
She could have stopped. Maybe even stayed. But she only did so for a moment.
She breathed in the damp air and looked around one last time. The village lay silent behind her, the water glistening in the sun, and shadows moved on the jetties—people, animals, perhaps both. In a hut on the edge, a curtain fluttered that looked like fog woven into fabric. The wind chimes there sounded deeper than the others, as if they were striking a different time, a different rhythm.
A bird circled above the water and called melodiously, like a farewell. Somewhere a child laughed, and the laughter mingled with the lapping of the water to form a song without words.
Then she walked on.
The footbridge beneath her feet had become narrower, the planks darker, smoothed by the water. On both sides, roots protruded over the riverbank, thick as branches, some dotted with small pale flowers that opened and closed again in the light breeze like sleeping eyes. Dragonflies danced over the water, sluggish, as if they too were in no hurry. Their wings shimmered turquoise and gold in the sunlight. The fog was thicker here, allowing only a few rays of sunlight to filter through, lying in slanted paths between the trees like golden curtains. The sounds of the village—voices, clinking, laughter—had long since faded away, replaced by the gentle murmur of the water and the whispering of the leaves.
Between two bends, a boat glided past, steered by a child with a long pole. The vessel was little more than a floating platform, laden with clay jugs and leaf baskets. The child—a girl with brown curls—did not look at them. She hummed softly to herself, a melody she did not know, but which sounded familiar nonetheless. The boat disappeared behind a narrow belt of willows, and the melody slowly faded away in the sound of the water.
A light wind blew through the leaves, bringing with it the scent of old resin and wet stone. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang—just a few notes, but so pure and clear that they spread through her to her bones.
The wanderer stopped. The river lay calm, but you could sense that something was flowing beneath the surface—not just water, but life itself. A hint of the taste still lingered on her tongue. The flatbread she had eaten barely two hours ago had not simply filled her. It had opened something. A place had returned—not as a vision, not as an image, but as a feeling anchored in her body, in her muscles, in her skin, in her breath.
She knew this mechanism. Some foods, some scents, some places carried more than themselves. They were doors, bridges, memories in solid form. And sometimes, when you were ready, they opened and let you slip briefly into another time, another place.
But whatever had come back – it demanded nothing. It asked no questions, made no accusations, expected no answers. It was there, like a touch that was too long ago to still be painful, but close enough to still be warm.
She walked on, turning where the footbridge joined another. A bird shot through the branches, silvery on its belly, with a call that sounded like a single note of glass. In the distance, light shimmered on another platform—a kind of border post, perhaps, or just a gathering place for travelers. There stood a woman with a long staff, a few river feathers tied to its tip. She greeted her curtly and let the wanderer pass without asking her name or destination.
"Have a good journey," she said simply, her voice sounding like the water itself—calm, deep, full of stories.
Shortly thereafter, the footbridge ended. The transition to solid ground was barely noticeable. The ground beneath her feet was mossy but dry. Small stones crunched under her boots—a new sound after the long, soft glide over wood and water. The trees stood further apart, the light fell more broadly. The fog lifted, dissolving into individual veils that danced between the trunks. Further ahead, the forest opened up, the treetops bending back as if to make room for what was coming.
She didn't look back. It wasn't necessary. Verdanthollow would stay where it was—by the river, in the fog, in the time between morning and day. And she would take it with her wherever she went.
For a while, she followed the path that no map knew. There were few traces to be seen—a half-trampled blade of grass, an imprint in the damp ground, little more than a shadow. She let herself drift, but it was not aimless wandering. Her steps had a direction, even if the path did not yet reveal it.
Morning turned into a quiet noon. Birds sang, but never loudly. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, falling in soft dots on the path. Butterflies fluttered among the flowers—blue, yellow, one with wings like stained glass. Once she came to a small stream, so clear that she could see the grain of the stones at the bottom. A frog jumped in, leaving only a few rings on the surface that slowly spread out and then disappeared.
A bee buzzed past, heavily laden with pollen. Somewhere there was a scent of wild roses and honey. The air was warm but not oppressive—perfect for a day like this.
As she passed a half-ruined archway made of root wood, she paused briefly. The wood was smooth, no tool had shaped it. The roots had intertwined to form this arch on their own, perhaps over years or decades. In the bend sat a small lizard, bright green, its head tilted slightly to one side. Its eyes were like tiny gems, and it seemed to be studying the wanderer, as if evaluating her. For a moment, they looked at each other—the woman and the little reptile, both travelers in their own way. Then the lizard blinked slowly and disappeared between the roots.
She wouldn't return. Not here. Not soon. But she would carry this day with her, like a warm stone in her pocket. And when it was in her hand again – sometime, somewhere else, in a different light – she would remember. She would remember the taste of the flatbread, the laughter of the children, the old man with moss in his beard. She would remember the way the water carried the light and the voices that carried across the water like songs.
Maybe that was the whole secret. Not holding on, but taking it with you. Not staying, but carrying moments that stay warm, even when you've long since moved on.
Chapter 9: A dark hope - Escape from Kareth'Zal
Chapter Text
Date: 11. Ignisaris (Third month of the year, 350 a.C)
Location: Kareth'Zal, eastern border region
Characters: Kaelis Veydris, Mylaen
Kareth'Zal smelled of hot stone – and of blood that had dried before it was allowed to flow. The sky, if you could see it at all, was not a promise but a threat: motionless, gray-blue, a scarred eye above a place that even maps avoided. The pit was not a place where people lived. It was an absence. Of time. Of breath. Of meaning. Everything was taken there. Especially the things that were believed to be invisible: thoughts. Desires. Self-loathing.
Mylaen lifted the chunk of quartz with both hands. The dust stuck to her skin like a second, dead layer. Her fingers no longer trembled. They had forgotten how to beg. To hope. To curse. They moved only to the rhythm of compulsion. Zone Four. "The Maw", as they all called this section of the pit, because no screams could be heard there. The shaft was too deep, the rock too dense. Only silence crept out of the cracks. And sometimes, very rarely, the smell of something older than anything else—something like a burnt promise.
The slaves of Zone Four slept in stone niches or under tarpaulins in the side corridors—never safe, tolerated more than anything else, like cattle. No one guarded them directly; escape seemed impossible. Mylaen's sleeping place was a crevice in the rock, barely large enough for her emaciated body. The overseers considered those in "The Naw" too worthless to waste resources on proper confinement. They were forgotten workers, expected to die in the darkness.
Bodies toiled around her. They were no longer human. Children with glassy eyes, old people with dust-encrusted cheeks, broken backs that could no longer straighten. Mylaen had once been a voice. Her mother had carried her through the fields of the Eternal Grove, whispering Quen chants that tasted like wind. Now she was a beat. Lift. Separate. Splinter.
The quartz they mined contained residual magic. Memories. Pain. Every blow against it echoed like a broken bone that had been broken for too long. In Kareth'Zal, these echoes were harvested. She sometimes heard it humming.
On the eleventh day of Ignisaris, he came. Kaelis Veydris.
He wore no title, no chains, no sign of the old orders—just a gray-blue cloak with intact hems, as if he came from a world that did not want to remember. The guards called him "the Gray One." The workers avoided his gaze. He was the one who carried the water.
No one knew why such a large, muscular man carried only water, but rumors flourished. Mylaen didn't listen—she thought about survival. That was all there was. Thinking about the future was pointless.
Kaelis moved with a kind of quiet self-assurance—upright but not proud, controlled but not cold. His face was narrow, marked by distant lines that did not come from age. The gray eyes under his hood seemed to see everything without looking. When he spoke—which was rare—it was quietly, firmly, like a command that the air itself understood.
Mylaen had noticed him when he first appeared in Zone Four three days ago. Unlike other water carriers, he did not regard the workers as tools. His gaze lingered too long on some faces, his movements were too deliberate, too precise. He was watching. He was waiting.
She hadn't known that he was watching her too.
The first time, he set the bowl down next to her—deliberately and without a second glance. The second time, he met her gaze, scrutinizing her like a stone awaiting inspection for processing. The third time, their fingers brushed against each other. Kaelis withdrew his immediately, without haste. No hesitation.
In Kareth'Zal, that meant more than any words could say.
But his eyes had given him away. A flicker, barely perceptible, like the last twitch of a dying flame. In Kareth'Zal, that meant more than any words could say.
That night, she dreamed of a tree. Black. Twisted. Roots in stone. It bent upward as if trying to escape existence. No symbol. No vision. Just a pain that wanted to grow.
In the morning, there was a cloth under her blanket. Inside it: a dagger.
It was pale, almost transparent. No metal, no stone, and yet heavy in her hand. Shimmering like old fog. Bone quartz. She knew it immediately, even though no one had ever told her about it. Perhaps you recognize things that recognize you. Bone quartz did not cut through flesh, but through bone as if it were water.
More than a weapon. The quartz shimmered with a kind of silent pulse, like a heart that had forgotten how to beat. Those who carried it with them were seen differently by others—not invisible, but unimportant. Eyes would glide over them, thoughts would forget them before they were fully grasped. The dagger was not a tool of violence, but a veil. A protection.
On the blade: an engraving. Nai xor'mir.
Not "freedom." Not "salvation." No longer a possession.
She didn't shed any tears. She couldn't afford such luxuries anymore.
The next day, a boy died next to her. He just collapsed. The guards dragged him away without looking, as if he were just a bucket with no bottom. That night, she named him Shael. Not because that was his name, but because it was the only one she knew and had kept. A name she had once shared with a friend. A face she had grown accustomed to. That way, she would not forget him either.
The escape did not begin with a plan, but with a gap. The gap was no accident. Three days earlier, Kaelis had slipped something into the water of the chief guard of the northern section—not a regular nightcap, but extract from crypt flower roots. His time as a blood envoy had taught him that poison didn't have to kill. The guard hadn't died—he had forgotten why he should stay. He had left as if he had heard a call, a childhood command more important than his duty.
Crypt flowers grow only in the lowest shafts, where even light fears to tread. Their extract can overlay memories—not erase them, but... blur them. Kaelis knew this. And he knew how much it took before the self broke.
A guard disappeared. Then a second. Kaelis had made sure that a tunnel in the northern mines partially collapsed. Not a deadly collapse – enough to attract attention, sow panic, divert resources. He had touched the third guard with that silent magic that few could sense. The old orders called it touch pain. The gift of breaking will with a touch of the finger—not through violence, but by awakening buried desires. No words were needed—the air itself carried the change. Like a storm that had been quiet for too long. She moved with quiet alertness.
Kaelis waited by the cargo sleds. Silent. Not like someone who was planning, but like someone who already knew what was going to happen. He handed her a coat. The fabric was rough and almost too light for the cold, but it was clean. No words accompanied the gesture.
Perfectly planned. The tunnel collapse had lured most of the guards to the northern section. The few remaining in Zone Four were confused by touch-pain magic or crypt flower extract. In the chaos of dust and panic, they had five minutes before anyone would notice a missing slave—especially one from "The Maw", where workers were barely considered human.
"They'll follow us," Kaelis whispered, his voice barely audible above the distant shouts. "Not right away. But they'll come."
Mylaen nodded. She had never imagined escaping—such thoughts were dangerous luxuries in Kareth'Zal. But here she was, following this stranger into a darkness that promised something other than death. She looked into his ice-gray eyes and wondered why he was helping her. He was no friend, no ally, so he had no reason to help her, and she had no reason to trust him. And yet there they were.
They left Kareth'Zal through an old supply tunnel. One that no one knew if it still led anywhere or had long since collapsed. The walls were carved. Not with ancient runes – with nails. Fingers. Teeth. Kaelis didn't know the tunnel by chance; he had left nothing to chance. He had worked at night for three months, clearing away dust and rock with the patience of a man who understood that some things could not be forced. The tunnel had once been a drainage canal—ancient, forgotten, not marked on any map. But Kaelis' eyes saw differently. They saw what once was, not what is. A gift that had served him well as a blood envoy and now, for the first time, served another purpose.
"You're not using signs," she whispered.
"I'm using what remains."
His voice carried the weight of his gaze—a quiet certainty that everything that was happening was inevitable. No relief, no joy—just the knowledge that this path had to be taken. They encountered no one. But the darkness remembered. It remembered others. Of earlier ones. Of those who had tried to walk through the same corridors and had remained there. They walked neither quickly nor slowly – in silence. Under his gaze, which was not intrusive but did not forget anything.
On the third day, they found a lifeless body. A guard, still young. His face in the moss, as if something had gently laid him there. No blood, no wounds—just emptiness. As if someone had washed out what he was and left not enough to fill him. Kaelis stood still for a moment. Not as if he were checking, but as if he were comparing something. Then he moved on.
Mylaen followed him.
"Was that you?"
"No."
He said nothing more. The way he didn't look away said more than any oath.
That night, as they sat around the campfire and the forest lay in deep silence, she asked him the real reason he had come to Kareth'Zal.
Kaelis stared into the flames for a long time. The fire cast dancing shadows on his angular face, making the scar above his left eyebrow appear deeper. "The Blood Envoys sent me to fulfill a mission. I was supposed to find someone and kill them."
Mylaen's heart skipped a beat. "Me?"
He nodded slowly. There was no apology in his movement.
"Why don't you do it?" "I don't know." The words came slowly, as if each one were a question in itself. "Perhaps because I have seen life taken for too long. Perhaps because I saw something in you that is too precious to lose."
He looked up from the flames. His eyes were cold, yet not empty—like a frozen lake with life still existing beneath the surface. "Or maybe I'm starting to understand that not everything I'm told to do is right."
They both swallowed the meaning of those words. For a blood envoy, disobeying orders was tantamount to death. He had already decided not to kill her when he received his assignment.
They fought their way through the thicket behind Kareth'Zal's eastern edge—a scar across the land. The vegetation was not a forest, but rather a remnant of what the war had not burned down. Vines hung heavily over stone arches, trees grew crooked as if they had forgotten what up meant. A place without song. Even the animals were silent.
The path was well-trodden, well-used. Someone had been here. At some point.
The nights grew colder the further they traveled from Kareth'Zal. Kaelis shared his blanket with her—out of necessity, not affection. His body radiated warmth that contrasted with his cool demeanor. At night, when sleep took control of him, he muttered names. Places. Orders. Once he startled awake, one hand already on the hilt of his hidden blade, his eyes wild and strange. He only relaxed when he recognized her, when reality regained its hold on him.
"Who did you lose?"
He was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer.
"My sister. She was killed when I was young. I only recently learned that my own troops were responsible for her death."
More words than he had ever spoken to her in one go. In them lay an echo of something deeper than pain—a desperate understanding that the world produced cruelty for no reason.
She rubbed her forehead absentmindedly, where the mark had been burned into her skin long ago—a mark of dishonor, of dispossession. Unlike more valuable slaves, she wore no binding rune. The overseers of Kareth'Zal had not deemed the workers in Zone Four worthy of the magical resources required for a bond. They were forgotten property, expected to work until they died, never considered worthy of the magic that would prevent them from escaping.
"Is that why you chose me? Because I don't have a binding rune?"
Kaelis' eyes narrowed slightly. "I chose you because you still have something they couldn't take from you. Something worth saving."
She didn't ask what that something was. Part of her was afraid to find out.
On the seventh day, they reached the edge of the Blood River—named after a battle whose scale had turned the river red for several days. The river flowed through a valley, hidden beneath ancient root arches so wide they could have supported entire farms. Its water was clear—not clean, but transparent like old glass. You could see what lay beneath: runic plates, broken seals, the skeleton of an ancient passageway.
The river was not dead. It was waiting.
Mylaen sank down to the bank. The dagger lay in her open palm—not grasped, but simply present, like a thought that could not be suppressed.
"I don't know who I am. Without that."
She meant more than Kareth'Zal. The fields of the eternal grove that crumbled to dust in her memory. Her mother's voice, long faded to a whisper. The belief that she had a place in the world—one that belonged to her. She had buried hope when she was still a child. She had never believed she would stand here and think about tomorrow. But now she was, and she felt like a vessel that was overflowing and empty at the same time. She wanted to scream and cry and keep going, all at the same time, and didn't know where to start.
Kaelis didn't answer right away. He stood behind her, in the shadow of a dead tree. His figure seemed like part of the forest—neither foreign nor familiar. Present.
"Then find out." He spoke as if finding wasn't a goal, but a movement. One that knew no hurry.
She looked at her hands. The lines in them seemed deeper in this light. Sharper. Like questions carved into them, questions she no longer wanted answers to, but only wanted to fade away.
They waited until nightfall before crossing the river at a suitable spot. Kaelis led the way, finding his way through the shallow spots as if he could see in the dark. Perhaps he could. The water cut coldly around her ankles, then her knees, and finally up to her hips. It wasn't the depth that was dangerous, but the old stones beneath the surface, which sometimes gave way under her weight, sometimes glowed with a silent, hungry light—together with the current, they wanted nothing more than to drag her down with them. The cold didn't help, but it reminded Mylaen that she was alive. Feeling water on her skin after so long was liberating, even if that freedom could be deadly.
Once, Mylaen slipped, and Kaelis's hand shot out, wrapping her wrist in an iron grip. Not rough. Not tender. Just secure. As he pulled her back to her feet, she felt the rough scars on his palm, reminders of battles he could not forget.
Later, in the borderlands between the forgotten provinces, they encountered a woman. Or what had once been a woman. Her skin was weathered by wind and salt, her eyes cloudy like mirrors of ash, but her voice smelled of sage and pepper flower.
She took Mylaen's hand as if it were an old friend. No coercion, no magic. "Vel'lor ka zar," she whispered. Mylaen didn't understand a word. But the intention was positive.
Later, as they left, Kaelis said, "No magic."
And she nodded. Because it was true. And because it was enough.
They slept in a cave whose ceiling was covered with symbols—carved, burned, perhaps with blood, perhaps with hope. They didn't pulsate, but they held your gaze if you looked too long.
"My mother told me not to fight, but to remember. That dignity doesn't have to be loud, but steadfast. She was wrong."
Kaelis was silent for a long time. Then: "You haven't lost your voice—you suppressed it to protect yourself. Start using it." He said it like someone who knew how hard it was to carry what others had left behind.
The night had grown cold, and she moved closer to the small fire he had lit. His movements were sparse, precise, as if every gesture had a price.
"How long were you one of them? The Blood Envoys."
He didn't look up. "Too long."
"Why did you serve them?" The shadow of a bitter smile flitted across his face. "Because I believed I could be nothing but a sword."
On the tenth day, they found traces. Two men, purposeful, determined, no flag, no insignia. Mylaen looked at Kaelis, and he nodded silently. Not like someone giving orders, but like someone who knew what had to be done.
They didn't come like hunters—more like men who believed they had a right to something.
Mylaen looked at Kaelis. And she nodded. Not a command—agreement.
Kaelis retreated into the shadows, becoming almost invisible despite his massive frame. It wasn't physical hiding—something about him seemed to fade, as if he were merging with the darkness. Shadow magic—the rare art of bending perception.
She saw his outline become blurred, smeared, barely visible. Not invisibility—the ability to influence the perceptions of others. An art mastered by few.
When the first man was close enough, she moved. Not driven, but determined to prevent the outcome. She did not attack silently, but with precision. The bone quartz dagger in her hand moved quickly, not hitting exactly, but where it hurt. The man staggered back, surprised, confused.
The second man instinctively raised a hand – perhaps magic, perhaps a weapon. Kaelis stepped between them. He didn't speak, didn't touch him visibly, and yet something happened. The man's eyes lost focus, suddenly seeing through Kaelis, back to something far away.
"What did you do?" Mylaen asked, her eyes wide as both men finally turned wordlessly and disappeared into the forest. "I reminded him." "Reminded him of what?" "That he belongs somewhere else. That he had no business here."
It was more than a trick. She could feel it. Kaelis had looked inside the man, found a truth there, and twisted it like a knife. It was a skill he had surely used often to kill—and now he was using it to spare a life.
Mylaen watched him closely. This power was more dangerous than brute force, but also more human. She didn't ask any further questions because she knew she wouldn't get an answer.
On the twelfth day, they reached Bonewatch. It was not a village, not a fortress, not even a real place. Just a field of broken pillars and half-open graves that no one had ever closed. In Kareth'Zal, this place was called "the chain in the wind" — for here rested decisions, nameless ones whose echoes should have long since faded away. Bonewatch was a place for those whose magic had turned against them. Here rested seers whose minds had seen too much. Envoys who had reached too far. Some said the stone itself had spat out their names.
They stood on a hill. Below them: splinters, dust, ancient silence.
"Why here?" she asked, arms outstretched, a confused look on her face. "Of all places?!"
"Because they won't look here. The Blood Envoys avoid this place. Too many of us have... stayed here."
She sighed and understood the unspoken words. Too many had died here. On a mission. For the Order. For orders that perhaps made as little sense as killing her.
Mylaen stopped. "I don't know what to do with all this."
Kaelis replied quietly. "You don't have to do anything. Don't try to go back."
"I thought escape meant running. Screaming and fighting."
"That's escape. But this... is leaving."
She nodded. For the first time, the weight in her chest wasn't empty, but open.
They climbed the last steps. The stone beneath their feet splintered as if it couldn't bear any more weight.
Kaelis led the way—not like someone guiding the way, but like a shadow that never leaves your field of vision.
That evening, as the sun set and the broken pillars cast long shadows across the land, he spoke more than he had in all the days before.
"In another life, I would have been your executioner," he said. It didn't sound like an apology. Just a statement. "And now?"
"Now I am... nothing. Nobody. And perhaps free for the first time."
He looked toward the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight were fading. "The Blood Envoys will send another. They do not forget. They do not forgive." "Then stay with me." As a request and as a possibility. He shook his head. "I cannot. I would put you in greater danger. My path leads elsewhere." She understood. Not with her head, but with her heart. He was a man who had lived in the shadows for too long to simply step into the light.
Mylaen stepped onto a flat stone slab. Perhaps it had once been a pedestal. Perhaps a place where someone had waited. She sat down. The dagger lay beside her.
Kaelis stepped toward her. He picked up the dagger and handed it back to her.
"There used to be many of them. Not anymore. Keep it. You'll know when it's needed."
She took it back. "Bone quartz remembers what others want to forget."
Kaelis looked at her. Without judgment, without comfort. "What have I forgotten?"
She looked him straight in the eyes. "That you are alive and feel." They sat there for a while. In silence. And Bonewatch breathed beneath them—or perhaps it was them. Finally breathing again.
When Mylaen stood up, nothing felt lighter. But it felt right.
"What now?"
"Now you go on."
"And you?"
"I'm not your destination—I'm a point on your journey." He said it quietly. Like a sentence he wasn't saying for the first time.
That last night, Kaelis stayed awake while she slept. She could feel his gaze on her—not lustful, not possessive, but watchful. Protective. Like a man who had done wrong and was now trying to make up for at least a small part of it.
At dawn, he packed his few belongings. He left her provisions, a rough map, and a small purse with coins—enough to start over.
She turned and walked a few steps. Then she paused and looked back. Kaelis was already gone. No trace, no shadow, no sound—just wind. And the echo of a sentence remained, like a new engraving under her skin:
"I am a sentence in your story."
For the first time, she believed that she was allowed to write the rest.
A voice that had never completely disappeared, but had become quieter. Never erased, waiting and perhaps soon to be loud and clear again.
She looked up at the sky, which no longer threatened, but was simply there. Open. Empty. Possible. The bone quartz dagger at her side glimmered in the early light—no longer a weapon, but a promise. Nai xor'mir. No longer property.
She set off, heading northeast, where the sun was rising and the shadows were getting smaller. Somewhere out there, a life that belonged to her was waiting. Hers alone. And maybe, one day, she would help someone else, just as she had been helped.
On that day, she would not forget the name Kaelis Veydris. Not because he was a hero – but because he had chosen to be something other than what he had been made to be.
A sword that had decided to be a shield.
Chapter 10: Fire Under the Bones - Uprising in Kareth'Zal
Chapter Text
Date: 25 Thalmaris (fifth month of the year and approx. 10 weeks after Mylaen's escape)
Location: Kareth'Zal, Zone 3
Characters: Liraen & Shael
Zone Three had never been silent, but in the days after the eleventh Ignisaris, it breathed with a strange rhythm, every cry echoing longer, every tool singing a different tune, and the stone suddenly seemed to be listening. The Ashen Cheek—that wide, shadowless section between the tongue of light from the upper mines and the poison-filled throats below—was as rough as ever, but the humming in the rock sounded like a question finally demanding attention.
Liraen felt it first in the mat, when her skin found no warmth in the fabric, as if the fabric had forgotten what body heat meant. The sleeping places in Zone Three rotated like a greedy breath—two and a half hours here, then gone, then back again when the numbers allowed. No one slept long, and those who tried were kicked or marked, but in the nights between shifts there was sometimes room for two.
She and Saari had shared a piece of fabric. No ribbon bearing names, but a knowledge of boundaries, where the other ended and when not to move so that sleep would remain. Sometimes, when the world forgot to press for a moment, Mylaen would also lie there—the one with the silent gaze, who never bowed to anyone and left without asking or answering questions.
Now she was gone, and with her something Liraen couldn't name. The mat was empty, even though it had been occupied – warm, but lifeless. Above it, a sign was emblazoned in greasy stone dust: Δ-17. Vacant. The inscription said nothing about the missing person, only that her place was available again.
The work continued like water in the upper tunnels, unstoppable, often foul, sometimes boiling hot, while chain changes determined the hours. Those who fell into the rhythm lost their voices, and those who withdrew were "used up" on the spot. Liraen spoke little, because words were exhausting, and too many of them meant cuts elsewhere.
Since the day Mylaen's mat had remained cold, she had been watching the walls. No attempt to escape, no rebellion – just a look that asked questions without expecting answers. The stone did not answer, but it changed.
In the third shift after Zone Four fell silent, Liraen felt it for the first time as her fingers rested on the edge of the pit wall, where the fine dust vibrated. It wasn't gas—that would have smelled and stung. This was quieter, deeper, like an impression that never quite formed.
The others called it imagination, but many still whispered in the washroom as the stale water trickled down that Zone Four had fallen silent, that one had escaped—the one from the throat, the one with the voice that had never spoken. And a man, neither guard nor prisoner, who had carried water and asked no questions. No one spoke openly about it, but everyone had heard.
Liraen said nothing, but she thought of the look and how her own silence had weighed heavier on her ever since.
On the sixth Vaelaris, the wall began to break when shaft 17, an old side arm under the ash cheek, caved in—not completely, just enough for the dust to clear and light to flood in where it didn't belong. The shift was just changing when it happened, and a boy, barely old enough to work, stumbled over a loose fragment while sweeping. His tool—an ore spade with a worn edge—bounced off, slipped, and hit one of the oil lanterns.
The fire was silent but greedy – no bang, just a hiss that was lost in the fabric strips and consumed everything in its path before flickering light, then wind, then shouts followed.
A supervisor yelled and a whip stepped forward, but the chaos did not respond with obedience. Saari struck first, her movements pure instinct as her probe found the knee of the man who kicked her. He did not fall immediately, but he fell, and as he fell, someone else kicked him, then another. What began as a reflex became a pattern.
Liraen stood there, hands open but ready—she didn't tremble, didn't buckle, but she didn't move. She knew that something had begun out of necessity, not planning.
Fire caught the dust, a second lantern tipped over, and bone quartz—hidden between a worker's teeth and gums—glowed. The air shifted, a spark became something that could no longer be extinguished.
The response did not come immediately, but it came with the force of a rockfall. Two hours later, the zone was sealed off by black-clad guards with smooth masks and the calmness of machines. The whips hissed like the tongue of a creature that didn't need to speak to give orders, while one of the guards wore an infix—a pale, shimmering, segmented instrument that was conducted rather than wielded. With a single gesture, he fanned it out; it cut through the air, drawing a pattern, the impulse burning into skin and mind. And those who did not fall from the pain were marked.
Liraen was not marked and stood where she could stand without disappearing. Three workers died before the recount, and Saari was among them. Their hands, burned, stuck to the handle of their probe, while their gaze—empty but not dead—rested on the mat that had once belonged to them.
Liraen did not sleep that night. Although her body forced her into a lying position from exhaustion, she remained awake, even when her eyes sometimes closed. Her skin was pale from the dust, her stomach empty, but something burned inside her that was not hunger.
She thought of Mylaen and how she had once spoken—not with words, but with a look that had long since left what she had seen behind. Now Liraen understood what that meant: leaving was a choice, but those left behind burned for that choice.
The next day, the zone was quieter than usual as the administration responded with iron severity. Work shifts were doubled, supervisors were flown in from neighboring provinces, because what was supposed to be dismissed as an isolated incident must not be allowed to set a precedent. But despite increased surveillance, unrest ate through the tunnels like acid through ore. Work continued, but the sound of ore grinding in the chutes sounded like fresh flesh under a blade, and the air tasted like ash—not from the long-extinguished fire, but from what was left behind when something that had never been named was burned.
The guards were doubled up – two in each throat, four on the rounds. They hardly spoke, but their whips no longer rested on their hips and held them loosely like hunters hold their knives – ready, but silent. Anyone who disobeyed was punished, but the punishment was light compared to what they could do to them if they wanted to.
The survivors were transferred, names were exchanged like scarce meals, and each new place meant: You belong somewhere else now. Saari was no longer there, no one spoke her name, not even Liraen, but she heard another take her place—a younger girl who smelled of blood and fear.
Liraen only said to her: "Turn your back to the cold." It was enough, because more would have meant that she felt too much.
Four days after the fire, ten were taken away for interrogation – silently, without ceremony. Their mats remained empty, unmarked. One came back without hands, without eyes. He sat at the edge of the pit, his back to the stone, rocking back and forth. No one asked what he had seen, no one wanted to know where his hands had gone.
On the sixth day, Liraen sensed again that something was wrong, but this time it was the people. She saw it in Shael's gait, which had always been straight but now seemed bent like twisted metal, in the way Rhem, the old miner, drew spirals in the dust with the tip of a tool, and in the boy with the shaved back of his head, whose chains were much too loose—carelessness or intention.
The cracks were not in the rock, but in the order. An old saying ran through her mind: Order is what you don't question. Chaos begins with doubt. She no longer knew who had said it – perhaps she herself, perhaps the stone, it didn't matter.
The days stumbled on, while the shift schedule became more and more inaccurate – three hours of rest instead of two, sometimes none at all. The guards shouted more, but hit less, their voices becoming hollow – loud, but meaningless.
On the eighth day, a new instrument was introduced – a claw ring that concentrated the flow in the throat. A steel collar with a screw mechanism at the back of the neck that held a tensioned spring. At the front, directly above the larynx, was a claw—curved like a dragon's talon, made of black metal. The moment the vocal cords were used, it sprang forward, hooked under the throat, and tore it out in one movement. The collar remained. The voice did not. Only a curved mass of flesh, trembling at the gaping tip. Words were not suppressed – they were made impossible. Only three in the zone wore it at first: one died when he put it on, one fell completely silent, and one began to sing in his sleep, and in the morning the claw lay next to him, along with his throat.
The mats moved closer together, no longer forming layers where one could be alone. Even in the silence, one had to lie next to each other without moving, because the air had become too thin—not for breathing, but for silence.
Liraen began to hear the stone again—different from before, not a whisper drawing her into the shaft, but a hammering, dull and regular like a heartbeat through the earth. From below, only at night, only when she was lying down. Saari would have called it a hallucination, Mylaen would have remained silent, Liraen was silent too—but she heard it.
She began to count the walls – stones, patterns, cracks. No escape plan, just a rhythm, something that told her body: You still exist.
In the fourteenth shift, the first whipper was found dead – it was anything but spectacular. His throat had been slit, but there was no weapon. They said he had fallen, his whip had caught on something, he had killed himself. A lie, but no one asked questions. The zone was not cordoned off, water was rationed for two days.
Liraen began to dream of light – not the light above the pit, but the light below it. Of something that did not burn, but glowed like quartz under skin, like something alive without a voice. She woke up with the taste of iron in her mouth, even though she hadn't smelled any blood.
On the evening of her twenty-third shift, she spoke to the wall for the first time in days—a single word, no name, no call, just: "Now."
The stone did not answer, but something inside her knew: it had been listening.
After her shift, she returned from the pit with a broken thumb and still did not speak. She had crushed it, and years of malnutrition and labor had made her bones brittle. Someone had seen it, someone had not—that was never important in Kareth'Zal. The pain offered no answers, only silence. Liraen didn't bite, didn't cry, just paused for a moment too long until the guard with the crooked helmet muttered something no one understood and moved on.
Her thumb swelled and throbbed in time with the hammering deep beneath her skin that had been vibrating for days—perhaps by chance, perhaps not. Since Mylaen's escape, Liraen no longer believed in coincidence, because the stone had little whims, remembered everything, and sometimes spoke.
Shael touched her at night—no gesture, no touch, just his fingertips on her shoulder, for a breath, just long enough for her to know it was him. She would have hit him before, but now she was just tired. He said, "You count too, don't you?" She didn't understand at first, but then she did. She didn't nod, he didn't wait for an answer—it was enough.
The chains were getting shorter—not in length, but in space. The corridor beds were now staggered, three mats on top of each other, no air between them, while the bodies slid into each other like ore in a chute, with the same dull weight. No more dreams, only fragments that remained like splinters in her skull—colors, lights, noises from inside a crusher.
In the twenty-fourth shift, it happened again – a crack in a previously stable tunnel. Five dead, two missing. One reappeared later without legs, but with a smile – not a good smile, as if he had understood something too big for words. Liraen encountered him when she had to fetch water in Zone 2. His eyes were open but empty, and as she passed him, he whispered, "It's coming back." She stopped, not looking at him. He repeated it three times.
Since then, she had heard it during the day too – not the hammering, but something else, something in the stone or in the blood.
The shift changes became irregular – three day cycles without rest, then four with, then none. One of the newcomers – black gums, slit earlobes – was led away by a squad of guards because he had continued working during the rest period. Whether out of compulsion or fear, no one knew. His chains did not clank as he left, and afterwards three others carved the same symbols they had seen in his blood into their foreheads.
Liraen no longer slept – her body fell, her mind plummeted, and in between was the stone as a view, as something she saw, not from the depths, but from within herself.
Shael spoke again—two words: "Zone four." Liraen understood. That was where it had begun, where Mylaen's escape had broken out. No one spoke the name, but everyone thought it. The uprising had not counted, only the escape. What remained was the echo—like held breath when you don't know if air will come after.
On the morning of the twenty-eighth shift, she found blood in the supply chute—old, black, clotted blood that no longer flowed but was not dry. Something had kept it alive, something without temperature. She dipped her fingertip into it and smelled it—not human, but not entirely unfamiliar, like the traces of a creature that lives deep beneath the world but sometimes shimmers upward.
The zone began to whisper—not with voices, but with glances, with signs on the skin, with small movements that no one commanded. A bucket passed more slowly, a chain not immediately pulled tight, a stone passed instead of lifted.
Liraen was not a leader – there were none. Only those who sensed first when something changed and then acted, because otherwise the silence would have swallowed everything.
She began to speak – little, never openly, but on the edges, in the aisle beds, at the water's edge. "They're afraid." Or: "The stone doesn't forget." Or: "The zone is older than the order." Quietly, never twice in the same place.
Some nodded, some listened further, one cried. Liraen knew: the curse ran deep, but it could be broken.
The tunnels began to change—not visibly, not suddenly, but anyone who had worked there long enough could feel it. The air vibrated more strongly, the dust settled faster, tools rusted without moisture, and sometimes, if you looked into a shaft for too long, you felt a pulling sensation—like a foreign muscle that was still moving.
During the thirty-second shift, the upper supply arm failed – four hours without water. No one screamed and no one demanded anything; they knew: this was a test, not a malfunction, a way of measuring.
Then came the supervisor, who did not speak – no sign, no name, just a mask, smooth as ore, no eye openings, only grooves in which light shimmered from nowhere. And a cloak, too clean for this place. He walked down the rows – slowly, scrutinizing, as if he knew that no one dared to contradict him. When he stood in front of Liraen, he paused. She saw nothing, but she felt that he saw her – not through the mask.
He said nothing, but when he moved on, the stone beneath her was cold—not in her body, but in her blood.
Later, she heard whispers that he had been a blood envoy of the third level of binding—which meant he was either a spy or an assassin. Whether that was true was unclear; to her, he remained the Cold One, and she knew that he had seen her face.
The next day, Shael disappeared. No one said anything, but his hairband lay on the mat and there were three notches on the wall – no words, no names, just three lines carved where no one would look. Liraen touched them and knew that it had begun.
Night fell early in that shift, as if the sky itself had turned away from Kareth'Zal—no torches, no light through the shafts, only the dull pulsing of the warm lamps in the slopes, flickering like tired breath. It smelled of ozone and slag—a smell you only smelled before the stone fought back.
No one slept that night—not out of fear, but out of vigilance, like hunters who sense their prey turning. Liraen lay there, knees drawn up, eyes open, counting the whispers—how often they came, how often they fell silent, and when they began to speak in a new language. One that belonged to movements – warmth in the limbs, burning in the throat, cold in the spine.
Then she stood up – not alone, five others with her. Nameless like her, shadows among shadows, without signs, without a name. Only the stone vibrating at their feet like a second heart telling them: "Now."
They knew it wasn't enough – not yet. But it was the first step – not a rebellion, not an uprising, just a step against the weight of the system.
They drew no weapons, spoke no words. They stood.
And somewhere, deep in Zone One, something old awoke—not the core, not yet, but an eye, a glance, and the knowledge: the sleep had been too long.
Five bodies, five shadows, five breaths in a darkness without beginning or end, while the mats beneath them were empty, the zone behind them silent, and before them lay everything or nothing. Liraen did not look at the others—she did not need to, for she knew who they were. No leaders, no dreamers, just those who had lived too long to believe that things could go on like this.
No plans, no weapons, no names that carried weight—just their bodies, scarred by years in the dust, their hands that knew how to touch stone without being crushed by it, and the certainty that the next step was no longer a question of survival.
The corridor they stood in was older than the others. Too deep for daylight, too far for the guards to control, and yet not abandoned. The walls breathed, the floor was warm, and somewhere behind them—beneath them, above them, within them—something that had been waiting for a long time lurked.
They began to walk, Liraen hearing only their footsteps—no whispers this time, no commands, only her own breath like a heartbeat in her throat. The corridor was narrow, then wide, then narrow again, as if it had changed and adapted over the years. It didn't look like a place built by humans, more like something that had grown naturally.
At one point, they found old tools made of bone, fossilized remnants of a creature that had once breathed beneath the Zone. A pit, half filled with quartz sand, next to it a crack in the wall from which a soft singing sound emanated. One of the others—Rhes, the one with the scarred neck—stopped, tilted his head, and formed words with his lips, but did not speak. He looked at Liraen, then they continued on.
Deeper. The air became heavy and thick. Each step pulled threads from their bodies, as if they had to pay a price for entering this place. Liraen's scars burned, and the mark on her back—the thin line that had been burned into her years ago when she refused to speak—began to throb.
She knew they weren't the first to be here, and they wouldn't be the last.
The corridor led them into a chamber too large to be natural, too irregular to be man-made. All over the walls were grooves, spirals, patterns that made no sense but belonged to something. In the center was a stone. Not a shrine, just a stone, black, smooth, perfect. No one touched it.
Rhes stepped closer, his hands trembling and breathing heavily. As his fingers glided over the surface, the room twitched like a breath or a pulse. The others backed away, but Liraen remained, something vibrating inside her, and even if she wanted to, her body would not obey her.
The stone opened, pulling small and large deep cracks and collapsing in on itself. It became less, and from it emerged a light, a crack through which something else could be seen. Energy, collected and bundled over all the ages. Pain, cries that were never uttered, chains that never fell off, and lives that were never seen. Liraen closed her eyes and saw.
She saw Zone Four before it burned, saw Mylaen running, barefoot, her skin scraped, her face smeared with blood, as she wounded someone with a dagger, and behind her a shadow. She saw the others—those who had stayed, those who had screamed, those who had remained silent. And she saw herself on the mat, holding her breath as chaos raged outside.
She understood: the escape was not a betrayal, it was a crack through which the truth seeped.
The stone contracted back into its perfect shape, as if the particles were returning to their exact places. Rhes sank to the ground, his face blank, and one of the others—Talen, the one with the broken hands—stepped forward and placed a hand on his forehead. Then she straightened up, her gaze clear.
"It's ready," she said. No one asked what she meant.
They began to speak, and what was born in the depths slowly rose to the surface.
In the days that followed, the tools began to fail—hammers broke, torches flickered without wind, the machines in Zone Three suddenly stood still without command, without defect. The guards shouted, but their voices echoed into the void.
The chains began to break – not all of them, only some. No one knew why, but those to whom it happened said nothing. They only looked with eyes that had seen something deeper than pain.
Liraen waited no longer. She left – not alone, not armed, but with knowledge and with a gaze that could cut through the tunnel itself. The others followed—not because they had to, but because they could.
On the tenth day after the standstill, the Cold One reappeared. His mask was different, cracks ran through it, light flickered erratically, and his gait was no longer silent. The stone beneath his feet resisted him. When he saw Liraen, he stopped.
"You are not her," he said, his voice sounding false, too old and from a time that no longer fit the body.
"But you are no longer you either," she replied.
He raised his hand as if to summon something, but the stone did not respond.
Then the zone broke – instead of another collapse, there was an awakening. The walls breathed like lungs after a long suffocation, the floor vibrated, and no fire emerged from the cracks, but light—iron cold, seeing. And from the light: shadows, shapes, figures that had once been human but were now part of the stone.
They did not attack, not yet, but sang a song beyond the ears—for blood, for bones, for the marrow in the bones.
The guards fled—not all of them. Some froze, others screamed, some laughed like madmen, and one knelt down and wept like a child.
Liraen stood in the center, the core. She was no longer a spark, but the heart of the rift itself, what remained when everything else crumbled to dust.
She raised her hand. The stone fell silent. Then it continued to breathe.
The air in the zone changed. It wasn't the temperature or taste, but its quality, as if it truly existed for the first time. Liraen felt something relax within her that she had never perceived as tense, while around her the others began to breathe more deeply, as if they had been living with half a lung for years.
"The foundation will break."
"The foundation is already broken," Liraen replied. "We're just clearing away the debris."
The Cold One took a final step back as the darkness behind his shattered mask contracted like a healing wound. Then the shadows engulfed him—something older lurking in the forgotten shafts beneath Zone Four. His echo faded like a final, broken command before the ancient depths closed around him forever.
The shadows around them moved closer—not threatening, like water finally allowed to flow. Liraen recognized some of the shapes: faces she had known, hands that had once worked beside hers, eyes that had been closed before they could see the end.
Saari was among them—her fingers no longer burned, her eyes no longer empty. She smiled—not the smile Liraen had known, tired and closed, but a new one, as if she had finally understood what she had died for.
"You knew," Liraen said to her. "All along."
Saari nodded. "But knowing isn't the same as being ready."
The stone beneath her feet began to sing, with a rhythm older than Kareth'Zal, older than the people who had built it. The machines in the upper zones began to fail.
Liraen turned to the others—the living. Rhes, who was still staring at the stone in the chamber, Talen, whose broken hands suddenly seemed straight, the others whose names she had never learned but whose pain she shared.
"What now?" one of them asked.
"Now we go up," Liraen said. "And we're taking everyone with us."
She didn't just mean the living. The shadows nodded, the song of the stone grew louder, and from the depths of the zone, from shafts that had been sealed for years, from chambers that had never been marked on the maps, they came – the forgotten, the lost, those who had died without ever living.
The ascent began, a flood of the dead. The corridors filled with movement, with light that cast no shadows, with voices that did not speak but could still be heard. The few guards who were still there saw them coming and laid down their weapons; there was no point in fighting, even though some tried with all their might. Some knelt, some wept. Everyone knew: this was no longer a fight. It was an end and a beginning.
When they reached Zone Two, the air was already different—clearer. The workers there stood among their tools and watched them come. Some joined them, others stood and watched, but no one tried to stop them.
Zone One was silent—not the silence of oppression, but the silence of waiting. The machines stood still, the torches no longer burned. Only the light coming from below illuminated the walls.
Liraen stopped in front of the large door—the exit. Behind it lay the world she had almost forgotten: sky, stars, wind that didn't taste of dust and despair. She placed her hand on the metal. It was warm from the sun and the heat of those inside, warm from years of unfulfilled longing.
The door opened. It swung open as if it had been waiting for someone to ask the right question. Almost disappointingly undramatic for the moment.
The light that flooded in was not the same light they had left behind – it was different, older, more golden. And within it, figures moved: people who had come to see, to understand, to help. Maylen was among them. She looked stronger, healthier, her shoulders straighter, as if she had laid down a burden she had been carrying for years. Her eyes were the same, but they now held something they hadn't had before: hope and life. And when she saw Liraen, she smiled—a smile that bore scars and tears and yet still shone.
"You made it," she said, her voice breaking on the last words.
"We made it," Liraen replied, turning to look at the others—the living and the shadows, the forgotten and those who had remembered. "All of us." The stone beneath Kareth'Zal continued to sing, but it was no longer a sad song.
And above it all, in the air that was finally free, a word floated – not spoken, not shouted, just there: Freedom.
Liraen stepped into the light, followed by the others. Before her lay a world she had to learn anew, but that was okay. She had time, they all had time. And they had each other.
But no one cheered.
The people in the camp did not move. Some held tools like weapons, others cowered in the shadows as if they could disappear there. Children hid behind their mothers' legs, small fists clenched in tattered skirts. Men stood with their shoulders hunched, as if waiting for the next command, the next blow. Their eyes were those of hunted animals sensing a trap.
They were free—but it didn't feel like it. Not yet. Freedom was a word they had heard too often as a lie.
The army outside had not drawn their weapons. Their ranks seemed disorderly, almost peaceful, but they wore uniforms. Colors. Symbols. And for those who had spent their lives in chains, uniforms meant only one thing: control. A whisper ran through the ranks like wind through dry grass. "Is this a trap? Will we be driven back if we go out? How many have already died for this dream?"
Liraen could feel it—the trembling in the movements, the silence like a second skin. Then she saw eyes turn to something behind her.
Maylen.
She stepped forward cautiously, hands open, unarmed, her face half-blinded by the sun. But her gaze was clear. Hard, but not against the people here, but against everything that had been done to them. Her gait carried the memory of chains, but also the determination never to wear them again.
"Many of you know me," she said in a rough voice marked by years of silence. "I have worked with you, eaten with you, suffered with you. I fled, and I have returned. I wanted to give up, but I couldn't give up on you."
A soft murmur, no applause or cries of triumph. But one of the younger men lowered his clenched fist. A woman began to cry—quietly, as if she still feared being heard. No one stopped her.
Then Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir stepped forward. Her armor was simple, but her cloak bore the broken seal of Vaelarion—pierced by a golden circle: a new symbol, not yet known to all.
She raised her voice, and every word sounded like a hammer striking metal. "Your tormentor, the man who owned you, is dead."
A tremor ran through the crowd like an earthquake.
"The King of Vaelarion fell by our swords—mine Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir and my brother Aerion Vael'Thir's. We will reorganize the empire. And with this place..." She pointed to the open gates, the dark corridors, and the smoking chimneys. "...we have begun."
She took a deep breath, and her voice grew louder, more piercing, as if she had to reach every corner of the camp. "But that is not enough. Not for what has been done to you. Not for the years that were stolen from you. Not for the names you had to forget, and not for the dreams that were taken from you."
Her fists clenched and her voice trembled with anger—not against them, but for them. "You were never slaves. You were human beings who were put in chains. You were never property. You were sons and daughters, mothers and fathers who were robbed of your dignity. And today—today you will get back what has always belonged to you."
She slowly scanned the crowd, looking as many people as possible in the eyes. "I am not just declaring your freedom. I am declaring your right to live as you wish. Your right to go where you wish. Your right to call your own name as loud as you can. Your right to cry, to laugh, to love, to dream—everything that has been denied you."
Her voice softened, but not one bit less forceful. "You owe no one gratitude for what is yours. You owe no one obedience for what is your birthright. And you owe no one forgiveness for what is unforgivable."
She took a step forward, her words echoing off the stone walls. "From this day forward, anyone who lays a hand on you is a criminal. Anyone who forces you to do work you don't want to do is breaking the law. Anyone who treats you as less than human will answer to me. I swear it on my crown, on my sword, on my life."
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her voice remained strong. "And if you are afraid—if freedom seems too big, too bright, too strange—that's okay. You don't have to leave today. You don't have to decide tomorrow. You have time. All the time you need. Because time is yours. Your life is yours. Your future is yours."
Silence. A silence heavier than any chains, but also full of possibilities.
Then someone asked, barely audibly: "Really? For how long?"
Maylen answered before Aeri'Vel could, her voice carrying the certainty of someone who knows the struggle from within. "As long as we live. And if we fall, others will follow. No chain will ever be forged again without resistance."
An old man fell to his knees because his legs were shaking and could no longer support him. A girl stepped out of the line and tugged at Liraen's cloak with fingers too small for the hardship they had endured. "Can I... go out?"
Liraen knelt down beside her, and for the first time in months, she felt her heart expand. "Yes," she said.
The child hesitated and then left. Slowly. Step by step through the open gate. Outside, she blinked in the light, and her dried tears sparkled like diamonds in the warm sun.
Another followed. Then two. Then dozens. Some turned back, overwhelmed by the vastness. Others remained standing in the gate, as if wanting to touch both worlds.
And somewhere, far back in Zone Three, someone began to sing. It was not a song of joy – but one of remembrance. A song that everyone knew, but no one had dared to sing anymore. A song for those who were no longer there to see this day.
The army stepped back, making room, their movements full of respect.
Aeri'Vel bowed her head. Not as queen, but as a human being before other human beings.
Maylen looked at Liraen, and this time she said nothing. She didn't need to. Outside, a world that had not forgiven was waiting—but perhaps it was ready to begin.
Hours later, as the first fires were lit and people slowly began to find their voices, Aeri'Vel watched silently as more and more passed through the gate. Some hesitant, others with determined steps. All carried the invisible scars of their captivity with them like a second skin.
She turned to Maylen. "You know I can't stay."
Maylen nodded. She had known before Aeri'Vel had spoken. "Vaelarion needs his queen."
"Not yet." Aeri'Vel shook her head, and there was a weariness in her eyes that went deeper than exhaustion. "I have postponed the coronation. The empire can wait, but these people cannot." She placed a hand on Maylen's shoulder. "But they need someone who understands. Someone they can trust."
The words hung between them, unspoken but understood.
"I am offering you an official place at my side," Aeri'Vel continued. "As an advisor for the liberation of the labor camps. You know their language, their fears, their hopes. The troops will listen to you, and so will those you free."
Maylen looked at the people still standing hesitantly in the shadows of the gates. She knew some of them by name. She had shared bread with others, endured beatings, cried in the darkness.
"It won't be easy," she said quietly.
"Nothing important is easy." Aeri'Vel's voice was warm but firm. "But you don't have to do it alone. Never again."
Maylen nodded slowly, and for the first time in years, she didn't feel like a survivor, but like someone who was allowed to live. "Then I guess I'll take you up on that," she said with a gentle smile.
They embraced—not as queen and subject, but as sisters in Battle.
Liraen had listened silently. Now she stepped closer, her gaze resting on Maylen with a mixture of admiration and confusion that she couldn't hide.
"How did you manage all this?" she finally asked. "How are you... how are you still so strong after everything that's happened?"
Maylen smiled—the first genuine smile Liraen had seen from her in a long time. It was tired but warm, and it bore the traces of everything she had been through.
"Let's clean up this mess first," she said, gesturing to the crowd that was slowly forming, to the soldiers who needed instructions, to the hundreds of details that still needed to be sorted out. "And then we'll find somewhere quiet to sit down, eat a proper meal, and talk. Really talk. I owe you more than just an answer."
Liraen nodded and felt something loosen in her chest—a knot of fear and worry that was finally beginning to unravel. "I'd like that."
Around them, the first day of freedom began—chaotic, uncertain, but full of possibilities. And they would master it together, as they had mastered everything else: step by step, with bloody feet and heads held high, until freedom was no longer just a word, but a breath that lived in their lungs.
Chapter 11: Fire under the bones - Road to Arkanis
Chapter Text
Date: 26 Thalmaris (fifth month of the year and approx. 10 weeks after Mylaen's escape)
Location: Kareth'Zal
Characters: Maylen, Aeri'Vel, Luaris, Liraen
The ruins of Kareth'Zal lay scattered across the barren land like the bleached bones of a long-fallen giant. Between the half-collapsed walls, where proud towers once stretched toward the sky, the survivors now huddled around flickering fires. The wind carried the taste of ash and broken dreams, while the air hung heavy with smoke and the faint murmur of exhausted voices.
Maylen sat in the shadow of a collapsed pillar, its surface still bearing the faded runes of times long past. She had wrapped her coarse cloak—a patchwork of scraps of fabric she had collected during her escape—tightly around herself, her knees pulled close to her body as if she could hide from what lurked in her mind. But the monsters she feared were not creatures from nightmares, but people of flesh and blood.
The warmth of the fire in front of her didn't seem to reach her skin. The cold was too deep in her bones, the shadows haunting her mind too dark. Ten weeks. Ten weeks since she had fled, and she still woke up at night with the taste of blood in her mouth and the echo of chains in her ears.
Footsteps approached, but not the heavy boots of the guards who still haunted her dreams, but the soft scraping of sandals on stone. Maylen looked up and saw Luaris moving through the shadows. His dark robe shimmered in the firelight like the wings of a raven, and his eyes—those strangely knowing eyes—rested on her with a gentleness she didn't think she deserved.
Without a word, he set a wooden bowl down beside her. It smelled spicy and unfamiliar, with the heavy aroma of something that had been roasted for a long time. Her stomach instinctively tightened.
"Kel'Nirra," he said softly, his voice like a warm breeze in the cold night. When she looked up questioningly, he smiled wistfully. "It's a dish from the borderlands. It tastes... bitter, with a hint of smoke. But it will nourish you, and that's what you need right now."
Maylen looked at the bowl, frowning. Pieces of white meat were skewered on a simple wooden stick, their surface golden brown and crispy. A thick, dark brown spice paste clung to them, interspersed with dried herbs that glistened like little emeralds. She took a cautious bite.
The bitterness filled her mouth, but it wasn't unpleasant. Behind it, a tapestry of flavors unfolded: roasted roots, wild salt, the echo of smoke. She closed her eyes and forced herself to chew slowly, even though her stomach protested. Months and years of deprivation had taught her body to fear food. Stretching a shrunken stomach was like rekindling a fire that had almost gone out. It was a painful but necessary process.
"Slowly," Luaris murmured sympathetically. "A tree does not bear fruit after a day, and a body does not heal in a day."
Aeri'Vel watched the scene from the opposite end of the fire. The crown princess of Vaelarion sat on a simple field stone. Her posture was upright, dignified, but without any trace of the pomp that was her birthright. She had exchanged the magnificent silk, armor, and gold of her homeland for simple traveling clothes made of sturdy linen. It was a conscious decision that revealed more about her character than any words could.
Her golden eyes wandered over the faces of the people around her. Survivors, all of them. Scarred by years of oppression, hopelessness, fear. She saw the curiosity in their eyes, the uncertainty, the longing for answers. Many kept glancing furtively at Maylen, as if she were a mystery to be solved.
Aeri'Vel understood their confusion. Here sat a woman who had escaped from a place that officially did not exist. A woman who could tell stories too terrible to be true, and yet they were. Her mere presence was an attack on the carefully constructed reality that the Kingdom of Vaelarion presented to its citizens and the world.
The queen, for at that moment she was more queen than she had ever been in her life, hesitated for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but every word carried the weight of a crown:
"Maylen." The name hung in the air like a prayer. "Many here wonder what happened after you escaped. I know..." She swallowed hard. "I know how heavy these memories weigh. How they tug at your soul, like chains of shadow and pain, pulling you deep into the darkness."
She waited until Maylen looked up before continuing: "I know these situations are difficult, Maylen. No one but you decides whether you want to talk about it. But when you're ready..." Her voice grew firmer. "Would you like to tell them what you went through? Not for my sake. For Liraen. For all those who suffered in the mines and camps while you were out there fighting for their freedom."
Maylen was silent for a long time. The fire crackled, sparks dancing toward the sky like tiny souls finally free. When she finally looked into the faces around her, into the eyes of the survivors who doubted whether their freedom would truly last, she began to speak in a rough voice.
"The sun beat down mercilessly on the borderland between Vaelarion and Thal'Vareth, every movement a torment. I remember every detail of that day as if it were burned into my soul. The earth was hard and dusty, strewn with undergrowth and low, gnarled bushes that looked like the fingers of corpses. I staggered forward, my feet so bloody and sore that every step was one too many. My lips were cracked from thirst, my tongue felt like leather."
The camp had fallen completely silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"I couldn't see properly anymore. Everything blurred before my eyes. Then I stumbled over an invisible stone and fell. I tried to get up, but my arms... they wouldn't obey me. So I lay there staring at the dry grass, waiting for the darkness to take me."
Maylen closed her eyes as if to shield herself from the pain of the memory.
"But then... then I heard them. Hooves. The creaking of a wagon. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode. Panic rose within me like a black tide. But I had no strength left to run. I had no choice but to lie there and wait. I couldn't fight anymore. The creaking stopped. Heavy boots approached—not the boots of the guards, but others. Someone knelt down beside me and a voice spoke. Calm. Gentle. Firm.
Maylen looked at Luaris, who stood motionless in the shadows.
"I won't hurt you," he said. And something in his voice... I believed him. I opened my eyes and saw the face of a man with dark, intelligent eyes. It was a face that could tell stories—of suffering and healing, of loss and rare victories. Behind him stood a wooden wagon pulled by two horses that looked as if they had already traveled many miles. The wagon was loaded with herbs whose scent was comforting even in my half-dead state."
"Can you drink?" he asked, holding out a bottle. The water was cold and burned my dry throat like fire, but it was the best fire I had ever felt. "I am Luaris," he said. "I am traveling to Arkanis. If you want, you can come with me." No questions. No accusations. Just an offer. I nodded. What else could I do? He lifted me up as if I were a wounded child and laid me on a soft blanket in his wagon. Then he drove off without another word."
Maylen stared into the flames as if she could see images from her past there.
"The days blurred together like colors in a rainbow. Wide plains and rolling hills passed by, but the horizon remained the same, barren and unforgiving. Luaris spoke little, but he treated my wounds with a care I had never known. Cool compresses made of herbs that smelled clean and pleasant. Ointments that eased the pain, not only in my body but also in my soul, but these did not always smell good." A small smile spread through the crowd. "And never—not once—did he ask my name or my story."
"On the evening of the fifth day—perhaps it was the sixth—we sat together by the fire for the first time. The flames cast long shadows on the dry grass, and the stars began to shine. He handed me a bowl of warm soup. It smelled of roots, wild herbs, and earth. Then he looked at me, and I knew that the time of silence was over. 'Where are you from?' he asked."
"I hesitated, for obvious reasons. Then I said, 'From a place that supposedly doesn't exist. Kareth'Zal.' He froze. For a moment, I saw something in his eyes—deep pain, understanding, anger? I don't know, at that point I had no way of knowing if I was really safe. But he didn't ask any more questions."
Maylen raised her head and glanced around at her audience before continuing.
"On the tenth day, we reached Arkaniss. The capital of Thal'Vareth lay before us like a dream of stone and light. White towers rose into the sky, their tips glistening like diamonds in the evening light. Mighty walls promised protection, and in the streets I saw people who did not look as if they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. It was huge! You cannot imagine how scared I was."
"Luaris took me to simple quarters and made sure I was cared for. 'Rest,' he said. 'Tomorrow everything will be different.' I didn't believe him. How could I? But that same night, when I finally began to fall asleep, Luaris left the quarters. I heard his footsteps in the hallway, soft and hurried. I didn't know where he was going. But I knew the quiet night was over, because I could see him from the small window."
"He hurried through the quiet streets to a small garden near the large inn. Someone was waiting for him among the flowering bushes and fragrant night flowers. A woman in simple traveling clothes, but her posture revealed that she was more than she appeared to be. You know what I mean, that innate self-confidence that you either have or you don't."
"But when Luaris returned, he led me wordlessly through the dark alleys. No explanations, no preparation. Just the feeling that my fate was being decided in those moments. And then I stood before her. A young woman with golden eyes that seemed older than her face. Long blonde hair that looked almost white in the darkness, tied back in a braid. She looked me over for a long time, and then she spoke in a voice that was soft and strong at the same time: 'Please, speak. Tell me what you saw.'"
Maylen fell silent for a moment, gathering her strength for what was to come.
"And I spoke. I told her about the cold nights, about the merciless work that broke bodies and souls. I spoke of the screams that no one wanted to hear, of children without hope and old people without names. I spoke of the darkness that was not only around us, but also within us. She listened silently, her face growing paler with every word. Her hands clenched into fists, tears welling up in her eyes. When I had finished, when I had no more words, she stepped toward me, placed her hands on my shoulders, and leaned close to my ear."
"I swear to you," she whispered with a trembling voice, "this suffering will end with you. From today on, your voice will have more power than all the chains that have ever been forged." I looked at her and felt something like hope for the first time in a long time. But I didn't even know who I was entrusting my life to. "Who are you anyway?" I asked. 'I trust you blindly because I have no other choice. Either I'm right and you'll help us, or I'm wrong and it ends here.'"
"She returned my gaze calmly, took a step back, and spoke in a firm voice: 'I am Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir, Crown Princess of Vaelarion and daughter of the man responsible for your suffering. But that is precisely why I am the one who can and must end it.' She hesitated for a moment, then added: 'I will do everything in my power not to betray your trust. Not because you have no other choice, but because I have decided that I am the right person for this task.'"
Maylen fell silent. The words hung in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate. All around, there was a silence deeper than any night. Many of the listeners had tears in their eyes, others had fixed, bitter expressions. But now they all understood why they were here.
Liraen stood slightly apart, her posture proud and unbroken. Her eyes showed deep understanding and a gratitude that words could not express. But beneath that lay anger, infinite anger.
Aeri'Vel rose slowly, reached for a chalice of dark wine, and stepped forward to Maylen. The chalice was simple, carved from polished wood, but at that moment it looked like a treasure.
"You are not alone," she said in a voice that could be heard throughout the camp. "Your pain is our pain. Your courage is our courage. Today our silence ends, and a new era begins."
Maylen took the cup and looked into Aeri'Vel's determined face. Then she raised it to the sky, where the stars sparkled like diamonds.
"To those we have lost," she whispered, and her voice carried farther than any cry. "And to those we can save."
The fire continued to burn, the sparks rising into the clear night sky like prayers that would finally be heard. No one cheered, but for the first time in a long time, there was not only hope in the silence between them, but also strength.
This was no longer the silence of the oppressed, but the calm before a storm that would change everything. The calm before a new beginning that would be bought with blood and tears – but also with the unshakeable certainty that truth always prevails in the end.
And in the distance, beyond the ruins and shadows, the first birds began to sing, as if they knew that a new day was dawning.
Chapter 12: Fire under the bones - Returning home to a poisoned house
Chapter Text
Date: 26 Thalmaris (fifth month of the year and approx. 10 weeks after Mylaen's escape)
Location: Kareth'Zal
Characters: Mira Neth'Quor, Luaris Velyn Elthar, Ivarion Thir'Vael, Aerion Vael'Thir, Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir
No one wanted to sleep, even though the sky was already growing lighter. The faint glow of the approaching morning settled like dew on the exhausted faces. In the middle of the half-erected camp, the last campfires flickered. The smell of charred root bread and hearty broth still hung in the air, mixed with smoke, metal, and small sprouts of grass, a strange picture of new beginnings amid the ruins.
"And... what happened then?" The question came from the crowd, hesitant but with a childlike urgency that could not be ignored.
Maylen had finished. Her story now lay open like a wound that had begun to heal—raw, painful, but finally seen. People no longer listened with just their ears, but with bodies that had been denied listening for so long.
Aeri'Vel, who had remained mostly silent until then, slowly stood up. She looked at the crowd, then at Maylen. The young woman nodded, barely visible, but determined. Aeri'Vel knew what that meant: Now it's your turn.
She stepped up to the fire. Her shadows danced across the tent flaps, across faces, across every painful memory. When she spoke, her voice was calm, too calm. "We had three days." A soft murmur rippled through the group. Liraen raised her head. Luaris did not move. "Three days to set the empire ablaze—without anyone seeing the flames."
The flames of the campfire reflected on Aeri'Vel's skin. No one spoke. No one moved. "I knew that it wouldn't be enough to remove him from power. Not publicly, not honorably, and certainly not symbolically." She paused. The words came harder than she expected. "Because he wasn't just a king. He was the center of a web of guilt, loyalty, and fear. When we pulled on one thread, the web only tightened. We had to tear it apart, all at once, so that no roots remained."
She looked into the faces of the people around the fire. Survivors. Witnesses. Allies. And those who would become allies. "So we made a plan. No attack, no army. Just four people. And a fifth who could talk." A barely visible nod went to Maylen. Then her voice grew quieter. "But it didn't start with us. It started with a rune."
"Mira sat deep beneath the academy, where only dust and forgotten magic lived. I found her hunched over a parchment that looked as if it had spent centuries in a seal. No ornamentation, no gold. Just lines. Fractals, curved bands, a circle—broken. Incomplete."
Aeri'Vel glanced into the fire as if she could see the memory there. "'This structure is older than the Rune Law itself,' she said to me without looking up. 'Perhaps even older than Vaelarion.' Luaris stood next to her, studying the projection above the parchment as if it were a puzzle he wanted to solve. 'A system bond. Neither individual nor familial, but... collective.'"
She took a deep breath. The memory was sharp and painfully precise. "I asked Mira if she could do it. If she could break what was holding him up. She pushed the parchment aside and pulled out a second layer. On it: seven points connected by fine lines. Rune branches. Knots."
Aeri'Vel raised her hand as if tracing the points in the air. "'This configuration is what stabilized the seal in Kareth'Zal,' she explained to me. 'And not just there. There are at least a dozen camps with identical signatures—invisible from the outside, but clearly linked on an energetic level.'"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whispered, "A dozen..."
"Luaris understood immediately. 'So it's not a local network, but a node in the foundation of Ikaril.' And Mira nodded. Her voice was hoarse from the sudden free use of it when she said, 'This rune here—the heart. If we trigger it simultaneously with the seven nodes in the capital, a reversal field will be created. Bonds will be broken. Magical contracts will implode. Everything that was controlled by the rune architecture will fall."
Aeri'Vel was silent for a moment. Then she said more quietly, "I asked her what would happen to the people who were connected to it. She looked at me, and I knew she knew the answer before I asked."
She took a sip from her cup as if to gain time. "'They lose power. Not life, but control. Possessions. Influence. And those bound to the runes—by oaths, seals, or inheritance contracts—they become... free.' That was the word she used. Free."
Aeri'Vel turned to the crowd. "Luaris pointed to a spot in the west of the city. 'That's the lower storehouse of the 7th Legion.' Mira nodded. 'Rune keys for all supply lists. An old node connected to the supply system of the eastern camps.'"
She traced a line in the air with her finger as if drawing a map. "'And this one?' I asked, pointing to the southernmost point. 'The Trade Council's archives. That's where the original contracts for the slave transports are kept, encrypted using gold shares.' Seven points. And one center. Everything had to happen within an eight-minute window. Otherwise, the network would reconstruct itself. Then it would know it was under attack and it would contract."
Aeri'Vels clasped her hands behind her back. The memory made her uneasy. "'Few know where the points are," Mira said. "Even fewer know how they work. And only I can activate the central rune. Because I recreated it—with the fragment from Kareth'Zal." She looked at me. "If we fail, the network won't just get stronger. It will sense who attacked it.'"
The silence around the fire was complete. Only the crackling of the flames and the quiet breathing of the listeners could be heard. "'So it needs all of us,' I said. 'At the same time. In the right place. And no one must know that it's happening.' Mira rolled up the parchment again. 'Then we'd better get started.'"
"But first we had to break the people who supported the system. Violence would have been too loud. So we chose the truth and the lies they had told themselves."
Aeri sat down again, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "Aerion went to Alrik Denar. Alrik was never a monster. Just a man with too many bills and too little faith. I remember his hands—clean, but his nails always cut too short. Like someone who was constantly waiting for something to bleed."
A quiet laugh, bitter but not without understanding. "Aerion met him in his private archive. No guards. No protocol. Just the light from the lamp above the desk. Aerion placed a sealed parchment on the wood. 'This comes from the transit controls of Vareth'In. It's not complete, but it should suffice.'"
Aeri'Vel imitated the movement as if she were opening a parchment herself. "Alrik opened it. His gaze wandered over the lines, and his face worked as if every word were a nerve that someone had exposed. The name was there. And the signature below it—his own."
She shook her head. "'I was young,' he said. It wasn't an excuse, but a habit. Like a cough. 'You're old enough to know what they can take from you now,' Aerion replied."
Aeri'Vel was silent for a moment. "The silence between them was not a truce, but a knife lying on the edge of the table, sharp and visible. 'What do you want?' Alrik asked. 'Access. And names. And for you to disappear.' 'And if I refuse?' Aerion looked at him for a long time. Then he simply said, 'Then you will disappear anyway.'"
A shudder ran through the crowd. "Alrik nodded slowly. He realized there was no stone left to hide under—the realization came later. As he wrote the list on a fresh parchment, his hand trembled only once, at the last name. Gorian Vel'Tyen."
"No one liked to talk about Gorian. He was neither particularly cruel nor easily understood; no one knew what he was. A broker, a puppet master, a smile behind a mask that never fell. His power did not lie in his title, but in the fact that he made no mistakes. And never left any traces."
Aeri'Vel smiled thinly. "But I had found traces. In the locked archive chambers, deep beneath the fleet archives. Records—neither sorted nor catalogued. Just stacked, as if someone had hoped they would destroy each other. They weren't orders, but runic transmissions. Deliveries. Sealed diversions. And a name that appeared too often to be a coincidence. Vel'Tyen."
She raised her hand. "We didn't take the documents with us. We left them there and sent copies. To Gorian himself? No – to those who had suffered under his regime. A military archivist whose sister was on one of the transports. A fleet officer whose daughter never returned. A council clerk who knew his brother had a score to settle with the Golden Thread and never came back."
Aeri'Vel took a sip from her cup. "Gorian's fall was quiet. His villa sealed, his account frozen. No guards, no public scandal. Just the kind of absence that wasn't questioned. Because everyone knew: those who disappeared usually did so for good reason."
She shook her head. "But it wasn't enough."
"Maris Kantar was no opponent. At least not in the sense that Gorian was. She was a relic. Someone who held power in her hands and yet had forgotten what she once wanted it for."
Aeri'Vel stood up again and walked around the fire. "But I didn't go to her as a princess or as the king's daughter, but as someone who knew what was written in the old council records. I laid the parchment down without a word. The ink had faded, but it was still legible. Three names were written underneath. Two were long dead."
She paused, her gaze fixed on the flames. "Maris's hand trembled slightly as she took the document. Her fingers traced the seal on the edge—the old one with which she had once sworn that Kareth'Zal's camp was only temporary. She didn't say a word."
Aeri'Vel took a deep breath. "When she burned it, it didn't smell like parchment. It smelled like guilt. The next day, she appeared before the council dressed in dark gray. No explanations, not a word. Just a sign. And that sign was enough. Not everyone understood, but those who did began to whisper. And whispering in Vaelarion had always been more dangerous than a call to rebellion."
"Tarell Khandros was the last to hesitate. He was no enemy, just a father who had believed the wrong truth."
Aeri'Vel sat down again, her voice softening. "Luaris went to him. He brought no evidence, only a green and purple braided hairband. And a report in which a name appeared that had never been mentioned to him before. Kareth'Zal. Zone 6.
She paused for a moment. "Tarell said nothing. But something changed in his gaze. Neither anger nor sadness—something in between, like the first crack in an old frozen lake. That evening, he spoke to the council. He did not speak against the king, but neither did he speak for him. He spoke of loss. Of disappearance. And of the things one cannot forgive oneself for."
Aeri'Vel looked up. "And everyone who listened knew: something had shifted. Quietly, but irreversibly. Vaelarion had many faces. And on that day, some of them began to turn away. But it still wasn't enough. Not yet. Because my father had eyes. And ears. And staying power. And no one knew how deep he could reach into the shadows."
"It was on the third day that I sensed he knew. Not everything, but enough to put all our lives on the line."
Aeri'Vel turned to the crowd as if looking at each one of them. "I cannot explain what it is like when your own blood betrays you. When the bond that gave you life suddenly becomes a noose. But that is how it was."
She stood up and walked back around the fire. "Mira was freezing. Not because of the cold or the darkness in the chamber she had barely left for days. She wasn't part of his line—at least not really. But old bonds leave traces, and I had shared more with her than blood could ever bind. She was freezing because of the pressure."
Aeri'Vel paused. "It wasn't pain, it wasn't a blow. Just a moment—a soft, magical touch along her spine, as if an invisible hand were reaching through her, searching for something that didn't belong to her."
She placed her hand on her chest. "I felt it too. That impulse. That... verification. He was testing us to see if we were still his children, if we could still hear him when he called."
Aeri'Vel took a deep breath. "Mira left the chamber. She ran—not fast, but with precision. And she found me. 'He knows,' she said. I nodded. No fear, no contradiction. 'Did he activate the rune?' I asked. 'Not completely. But he checked the line. Your line. And he knows you withdrew.'"
She closed her eyes. "At that moment, I knew there was no turning back. That the bond that had made me a princess was broken. And not just by magic, but by truth. By the realization that I was no longer his child, but his enemy."
"'Then we have no night left,' I said to Mira. She had the last parchment with her—the final rune. 'I can prepare the impulse now. But we have to synchronize. Immediately.'"
Aeri'Vel turned to Luaris, who sat silently by the fire. "'Aerion?' I asked. 'Already on his way,' said Luaris. He had joined us, his robe slightly open as if he had been running. But his breathing was calm. 'He checked the coordinates before dawn. The outposts are ready. The nodes can be activated via resonance – when Mira triggers the center.'"
She nodded. "Then I knew everything would happen faster than planned. No more steps, no more negotiations. 'Is the activation safe?' I asked Mira. She hesitated a little. 'No. Not safe, but it's our only chance.'"
Aeri'Vel smiled—the first time she had smiled since she began her story. "'Then that's enough,' I said. I held out my hand. Mira placed the parchment in it."
She raised her hand as if she were still holding the parchment. "'And what about him?' Luaris asked. I looked over the balustrade, down at the city where lights were already coming on. 'He has built a circle that only listens to him,' I said. 'Then he will also fall by his own hand.'"
"We split up. Mira stayed in the chamber—she was the central hub. Luaris took the academy seals. I took the court and the council chamber. Aerion took the trade archives. Four people against a system that had grown over centuries."
Aeri'Vel sat down again, her voice growing quieter. "I remember the moment I entered the courthouse. The guards knew me, greeted me. They didn't know I had come to destroy everything they protected."
She looked at the flames. "The seal was in the upper chamber. An old circle embedded in the floor. Centuries old. I knelt down in front of it and placed my hand on it. For a moment, I felt... resistance. As if the seal knew what I was about to do. As if it was fighting back."
Aeri'Vel raised her hand as if she were still touching the seal. "Then I activated the rune. There was no light or dramatic bang. Just a soft hum that ran through the walls. And suddenly... it was quiet. Quieter than before. As if the city had held its breath."
She looked up. "At the same time, throughout the city, the same thing happened. Seven points, activated simultaneously. Seven knots that came undone. And in the middle, in Mira's chamber, the center collapsed."
"I don't know how to describe it. Imagine you hear a noise your whole life—so quiet you don't notice it. And then, suddenly, it's gone. And in the silence that remains, you finally hear... everything else."
Aeri'Vel stood up and walked back to the fire. "The bonds broke. The magical ones as well as the political ones. The contracts, the oaths, the loyalties. Everything that had held the system together collapsed. Neither loud nor spectacular, just... final."
She stopped and turned to face the crowd. "And my father? He sat in his tower and felt his empire dying. The truth killed it—the realization that everything he had built was based on lies. No war was necessary, no rebellion."
Aeri'Vel took a last sip from her cup. "When the sun rose, Vaelarion was still the same city. But it no longer belonged to him. It belonged to no one. And for the first time in centuries... it belonged to everyone."
She sat back down and leaned back. "That is the story of how we overthrew a kingdom from within. Not with swords or armies. But because we realized that some chains are only as strong as the belief in them."
The fire crackled softly. The people around her sat silently, as if they were still trying to understand everything.
"And then what happened?" asked the voice from the crowd again.
Aeri'Vel looked at the fire. The flames danced, casting shadows that looked like memories. "Then," she said quietly, "we brought a city to silence. And a king to speak the truth."
The fire continued to burn. The people around her began to move—not away, but closer. Until she was ready to speak again.
Chapter 13: Fire Under the Bones - The Fall of a King
Chapter Text
Date: 27 Thalmaris (fifth month of the year and approx. 10 weeks after Mylaen's escape)
Location: Kareth'Zal
Characters: Mira Neth'Quor, Luaris Velyn Elthar, Ivarion Thir'Vael, Aerion Vael'Thir, Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir
The fire crackled softly in the night of Kareth'Zal, while the shadows of the freed stretched across the ground like dark fingers. Aeri'Vel noticed the glances – not the ones she had expected, not those full of gratitude for her liberation. No, these eyes held something heavier: a mixture of confusion and that suppressed mistrust known only to those who have been disappointed too often.
She cleared her throat, a gesture as routine as breathing, and motioned Luaris over. His hands were still bandaged, his fingers stiff from the magical burns left behind by breaking the rune seals. With the practiced precision of a healer who had tended too many wounds, she began to remove his bandages. This was familiar territory, easier to bear than the looks that asked silent questions: How could you not have known? How could you have been so blind?
"Some of you know me differently," she began as she examined Luaris' burned palms. The skin was red and cracked like dried clay, but it was healing well. "As general of the Northern Legions. As the king's daughter who fought his wars, carried out his orders, believed his lies." She looked up, searching the faces around her. "And you're all asking yourselves the same thing: How could she not have known about the camps?"
A bitter laugh escaped her—not a laugh of merriment, but that harsh, cutting sound that comes when you finally understand your own naivety. As she applied fresh ointment to Luaris' wounds, she continued: "The answer is as simple as it is shameful: Because I didn't want to look. Because I believed what was convenient to believe. Because I thought being a good soldier meant following orders, not questioning them. How foolish that sounds, doesn't it?"
A woman in the back row, her eyes empty like burnt-out candles, but her voice cutting through the night like a freshly sharpened blade: "You were his daughter. You had power. You should have known."
Aeri'Vel nodded slowly, without interrupting her work. The truth was a double-edged sword, and she would not shy away from feeling both sides. "Yes. I should have. And that guilt will follow me to my dying day like a faithful, unwanted shadow." She fixed new bandages around Luaris' hands, her movements precise despite the trembling in her fingers. "But guilt alone doesn't bring anyone back. Guilt alone doesn't set anyone free. Guilt is a luxury only the living can afford. So instead, I'll tell you how we destroyed the system. From the inside out. How we made the impossible possible."
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, an unconscious gesture that reminded her of her mother, a woman who had died too soon to see what her husband had become.
"You have to understand—what we did was not a glorious heroic deed from the old stories told by bards in warm taverns. It was a surgical intervention in a sick empire. Precise, painful, and with complications that we only understood afterwards. Some things cannot be planned. Some things you just have to dare to do."
Aeri'Vel was exhausted. Not just physically, but on that deeper level that comes from fighting your own past for too long. But she straightened up, sought out the eyes of those gathered, and took a deep breath for the hardest part of her story.
"We thought the hardest part was the planning," she said, her voice little more than a whisper in the wind, but every word carried further than a scream. "We were wrong. The moment after, the moment of truth, cut our hearts out of our bodies and forced us to go on, even though nothing in us wanted to live anymore."
The shadows around the campfire seemed to be listening, as if they themselves were witnesses to what was to come. The night held its breath.
"The darkness had not yet lifted when Mira activated the center. You must understand, it was not a dramatic spell from the legends told around the fireplace. No thunderous clap that shook the mountains, no blinding flash of light that tore through the night. Just a soft hum that slid through the ancient walls of the deep chamber like the last breath of a dying man. A sound that no one could name, but that everyone felt in the deepest core of their soul. It was the sound of a kingdom remembering how to die."
She paused, staring into the dancing fire as if she could see the past in it. Her fingers clenched involuntarily, and she could still feel the echo of that fateful moment burning in her bones.
"Eight minutes," Mira had whispered earlier, her voice thin with tension that threatened to break her words. Her lips were white with fear, her hands already marked by the coming sacrifice. 'Eight minutes during which the resonance frequency remains stable. After that, the network regenerates itself, and there is no turning back.' She already knew what it would cost her. We all knew. But sometimes knowing the price is not enough to stop you."
Aeri'Vel took a deep breath, feeling the cold night air burn her lungs. The memory was like liquid metal in her chest: hot, painful, and impossible to ignore.
"Outside, the network awoke. Slowly, like an ancient predator awakening from centuries of slumber, hungry, confused, and deadly. The ancient nodes that had glowed like sleeping eyes in the darkness began to flicker. The air around them vibrated with a metallic shimmer that made their teeth ache. A glow that was not light, an echo of power itself, becoming aware of its own mortality."
Her voice grew firmer, carried by the bitter certainty of what had to happen.
"Luaris reached the first checkpoint on the northern edge of the academy," she began, but then fell silent. Her gaze searched the circle for him: a man who had seen too much and said too little, but who had always been at her side.
Luaris sat apart from the others, his bandaged hands resting in his lap. He rarely spoke in front of strangers; his words were more precious than gold and rarer than honesty among politicians. But now he slowly raised his head, and in his eyes was a weariness older than his years.
"The rune... it knew me," he said quietly, yet his voice carried through the silence like a stone through calm water. "It didn't know my name, my face meant nothing to it. But it recognized my intention immediately. When I placed the counter-seal, I felt something looking through me. Like ice-cold fingers reaching for my deepest thoughts, searching them, evaluating them. The rune asked me a question without words: 'Are you entitled to break me? Do you have the right to destroy a system that has lasted for centuries?'"
His voice became rougher, more fragile. "My whole arm felt like it was dissolving layer by layer. Physical pain would have been easier, a clean cut, a broken bone. This was... like all the lies I had ever told were suddenly turning into burning coals in my veins. And the rune asked me silently, relentlessly: 'Do you deserve this power? Do you deserve the right to destroy?"
He didn't look up, just stared into the hypnotic flickering of the flames. "I thought of the children in the camps. Of their empty eyes, their thin arms, the way Maylen flinched when I treated her. And I answered the rune with the only thing that was true: No. I don't deserve this power." But then I thought of those who already had it, and added: "But they deserve it even less." The rune... it accepted this truth. With a pain that tore my fingernails and made the blood boil beneath my skin.
A silence spread, heavy and meaningful like the pause before a thunderstorm. Then Aeri'Vel nodded slowly. "But you did it anyway."
Luaris smiled—a grimace of pain and something that might once have been hope. "Because you asked me to. Because I trusted you. And because I couldn't stand by and watch innocent people suffer for the convenience of those who looked away."
She paused for a moment, looking at the blood still seeping through his bandages, silent proof of the price of rebellion.
At the same time, Aerion moved through the shadows of the sleeping city to the side entrance of the trade archives. The guards were there, tired from their long shift but still alert enough to be dangerous. He glided through the darkness like water through cracks in stone, his hood pulled low over his face. Every step was calculated, every breath controlled, every heartbeat too loud in his own ears. Then, the sound that all conspirators fear: footsteps. Heavy boots on stone."
His voice took on the rough, suspicious tone of the guard: "Halt! What are you doing here? Show your face, or I'll call for backup!"
"Aerion forced himself to remain calm, even though his pulse was racing like a spooked horse. 'Inventory,' he said in a voice that sounded calmer than he felt, and showed a forged document. The ink was still wet from the sweat on his palm. 'Special assignment from the Transit Administration. Confidential.'"
"The guard frowned and stepped closer. His lantern cast dancing shadows on Aerion's hooded face. 'At this hour? And since when do you wear a hood during an inventory? I don't know you, and I know everyone who's authorized to be here.'"
She shook her head, feeling the tension of that moment again, as if she herself had been standing there in the darkness.
Aerion's pulse was pounding so loudly that he was sure the guard must hear it. Cold sweat broke out under his hood. He forced himself to remain calm, keeping his voice controlled and steady. "Since you don't want to be seen. You know how sensitive some numbers are. Some names, too. Some truths.' He paused meaningfully. 'Should I report to the council that you asked curious questions?'"
"The guard looked at him for a long, searching moment, a moment that felt like an eternity. Then he lowered his hand and sighed with the weariness of a man who had seen too many secrets. 'Hurry, and don't forget: I never saw you. Understood?'"
"You should know that officially we weren't in Vaelarion that night. According to royal orders, Aerion was on a diplomatic mission in the western provinces, supposedly negotiating trade routes and customs duties. I was on an inspection tour of the northern academies, checking the loyalty of the magicians and the strength of the defensive runes. Our father had personally ensured that our absence was recorded in the official documents. His own pedantic thoroughness was his undoing."
A smile flitted across her face like shadows in candlelight.
"The tables had turned: it was precisely this carefully constructed absence that now gave us the opportunity to move in secret. No one was allowed to know that we were even in the city. We moved like shadows through our own empire, like those conspirators who had to overthrow the system before it devoured us all. And in doing so, we irrevocably transformed ourselves into what we had despised all our lives."
"Before Aerion lay the enchanted gateway to the transit administrations rune lists, anchored with an ancient seal that could theoretically be overridden with the right blood and the right voice. He whispered the ancient name, his voice cracking with tension: 'Son of the Storm.' Nothing happened. The rune remained silent as a gravestone. He tried again, louder this time, with more desperation in his voice: 'Lorin!' The rune vibrated slightly, but it did not recognize him or did not want to recognize him. Doubt crept into his mind like poison into an open wound. Was he still the son of a king who had already rejected him in his thoughts? Or had he already become something else, a traitor, a father killer, a nobody?"
Aeri'Vel's voice broke slightly, for she remembered all too well his despair at that moment, the way his shoulders shook as he told her.
"Lorin," he repeated a third time, and this time he put everything into it, the seething anger over years of lies, the deep grief for a father who had somehow ceased to exist, the years of hiding and pretending, the endless nights filled with nightmares. The rune trembled under the raw emotion of his voice. It fought against recognition, as if sensing that its answer meant a death sentence. Not just for the system, but for everything it had been created to protect. Then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, it recognized him. And withdrew with a sigh that sounded like the resignation of a dying god.
She rubbed her burning eyes, feeling the tears that wanted to come but weren't allowed to yet.
Four minutes had passed. The council chamber was silent, but this silence was not empty; it was charged like the air before a thunderstorm. I knew I would not be alone. Two figures stood at the door, guards who had seen things that should not be for too long. They saw me coming out of the darkness and stepped aside. Not out of fear or betrayal. But because they too understood: it was time. It was long overdue."
I stepped into the inner circle, where the power of the empire lay frozen in stone and metal. My hand hesitated for only a heartbeat before resting on the first sigil. It was cold, colder than ice, colder than death. And old. Older than my life, older than the lies I had grown up with, older than most dynasties. But when my palm touched the enchanted metal, a memory flooded through me. Not my own, though. It was the memory of the rune itself, its last gift before dying."
Her eyes filled with tears, for this strange memory cut deeper than anything she had ever experienced.
"A little girl sat on the lap of a man with tired but still warm eyes. 'One day,' he said, his voice soft and loving like a summer rain, 'you will understand why Daddy has to work so hard. Why he can't always be here.' His hand stroked her hair, tenderly, protectively, full of a love that was real. 'Everything I do is for you. For your future. For all of you.'"
She swallowed hard, fighting the pain that threatened to choke her voice.
"That was him, once. Before power had eaten him away piece by piece. Before he had forgotten what 'for you' really meant. Before protection became control, control became oppression, and oppression became the camps. Before he stopped seeing his own children and saw only tools."
Her voice became a whisper, fragile as old parchment. "Three minutes. I pressed against the sigil, and it resisted me with a force that was not of this world. It was as if I were fighting against the collective history of the empire itself: against every unjust order, every cruel decree, every child who had never come home. My palm began to bleed, the metal cutting into my skin like a knife. Then—a barely audible crack in the magical fabric. No sound, no glistening light. Just a tugging, deep in the fundamental structure of the world itself. As if the empire had turned slightly to the left and lost something essential in the process. The second knot had fallen."
She fell silent. The fire crackled like the voices of dead kings. No one dared to speak, no one dared to breathe.
"In the academy, the ancient system began to sway like a ship in a storm. The runes reacted to the rupture like an organism beginning to die—panicked, desperate, with the blind rage of death throes. Resonance lines flickered like candles in the wind. The control circuits began to sing in frequencies that only those bound to the system could hear. And all of Vaelarion held its breath."
"The throne room was filled with a light that was not light. Bright from the suppressed roar of thousands of runic lines that had begun to move frantically beneath the ornate mosaic floor. A buzzing tremor, as if the stone itself were whispering: Something is wrong. Something is dying. Something is being lost forever."
She paused, gathering herself for the part that threatened to tear her heart apart.
"Because of this elemental vitality, it was called the Storm Hall, but now it was silent, and this silence was not one of awe, but of abandonment. The wind had long since left it, like a faithful servant who no longer recognizes his master. Under Ivarion's rule, this place had been a fortress, a stronghold of fear, oppression, and absolute silence. Now it was just an empty room waiting for an end. The magical veins in the floor glowed faintly like sleeping memories of past power. It was as if the room itself was waiting to see if it still had a storm to command, another king to crown. But Ivarion was no longer a storm. He was just a tired man who had realized too late what he had become."
Aeri'Vel's voice became a whisper as the heaviest of all memories came back to her, the one that haunted her every night.
"Ivarion stood in the exact center of the hall, where the power of the empire had once been concentrated. His robe was simple, without pomp or ceremony. He wore no sword, no crown, no insignia of power. Only the ring of his line, that simple golden band I had once worn before I took it off and threw it into the cold ashes of an abandoned courtyard. The ring that had once stood for protection and care and had become a symbol of oppression."
"He knew we were coming. There was no surprise in his eyes, no panic. It was something much more tragic—a last, desperate attempt to understand how things could have come to this. And perhaps, just perhaps, the naive desire to see his children one more time. As what we once were before politics poisoned us all. At least, that's what I imagine. At least, that's what I hope."
"The door opened silently, like everything else in that cursed palace. Aerion entered, dressed in black, but without the solemnity of an execution. No armor, no royal emblem, no sign of power. Just a young man who had grown old too soon and whose eyes had seen things no son should ever see."
"'You alone,' said Ivarion, and it was not a judgment, not a surprise. Just the weary statement of a man who had been waiting for this moment for a long time."
"'Not yet,' replied Aerion, and his voice was calmer than I had ever heard it. The calm of a man who has finally made peace with an impossible decision."
"Their eyes met, briefly, intensely, like two mirrors reflecting each other into infinity. In that moment, they truly saw each other, perhaps for the first time in years."
"'You have been wise,' our father finally said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost like pride. 'Quiet. Calculating. Patient. You listened when everyone else was talking. You watched when everyone else was acting. Just as I taught you. Just as a king should be.'"
"'I listened to you,' Aerion replied, each word sharp as a blade. 'For too long. Far too long.'"
Aeri'Vel bowed her head, feeling the crushing weight of those simple words.
"Ivarion bowed his head slightly, and for a moment he was no longer a king, just a father who realized too late what he had lost. A memory stole into his mind, uninvited and painful: Aerion as a little boy, waiting outside his study. For hours. With a book in his hand or a picture he had drawn, something he wanted to show his father. Just to have a moment, a single precious moment of attention. When had he stopped waiting? When had Ivarion stopped coming? When had a father become a king and a son a stranger?"
"Then I entered the room, my gait calm but heavy. Heavy with the knowledge that there was no turning back, no forgiveness, no final reconciliation. In my hands: nothing. No dagger, no weapon, no magic. Just myself and the unbearable weight of all the decisions that had led us to this cursed moment."
"Ivarion saw me, and for a heartbeat there was something in his eyes, not recognition of his daughter, not a father's gaze. But perhaps understanding. The bitter realization that he had maneuvered himself into a corner from which there was no escape, no mercy, no second chance."
"'You've come,' he said, and his voice sounded almost wistful. 'Both of you. Together. Like in the old days, when you were children.' His eyes glazed over with memories. 'Do you remember, Aeri'Vel? You and your brother, you always came to me together when you had done something wrong. Always together. Never alone.'"
"No one answered. What could we have said? That we remembered? That those days were dead? That the man who raised us had long since ceased to exist?"
Her voice trembled as the hardest memories came back, the ones that haunted her every night.
"He reached out his hand toward the runes on the walls, trying to awaken them, to command them, to control them, as he had done all his life. His fingers moved in the ancient patterns of power, his lips silently forming the words that had once moved mountains and destroyed armies. Nothing happened. The runes remained silent as gravestones. Dead. Cold. As if they had never known him, as if he had never been their master."
"Ivarion clenched his fist one last time, and for a tiny moment the ground beneath our feet vibrated as if threatened by distant thunder. Hope flickered in his eyes like a candle in the wind. The mosaic above our heads flickered with a faint light, no longer warm sunlight, but the cold flicker of a dying light bulb. His eyes widened in desperate hope. But then it fizzled out again. The storm did not come. Only a faint breeze remained, like the memory of something that had once been powerful. The throne room, once his sounding board, the source of his godlike power, was silent as an empty tomb.
Despair replaced the hope in his eyes, naked and raw like an open wound. He clenched both fists, trying one last time to force the power of the runes, but they slipped through his fingers like water, like sand in a storm. He felt the world around him fall silent, forget him. He felt himself becoming nothing.
"'What have you done?' he whispered, and there was no anger left in his voice, only the sheer horror of a man who realizes too late that his world has already ended. No longer a king, just a mortal man who suddenly felt his own mortality. His voice broke like dry wood. No answer came from us. What could we have said? Behind him, the central control node flickered weakly one last time. He turned around, a sudden movement full of last hope, and saw the naked truth. The rune was broken. Destroyed by precise coordination, by knowledge of its weaknesses. The runes recognized no more blood, no voice, no authority, only the mathematical patterns we had broken. And the pattern of his power was gone forever."
She paused, gathering herself. This part of the story felt like tearing open an old wound.
"What had once been absolute order was now absolute silence. And in that silence lay a kind of freedom he had never wanted to understand—chaotic, unpredictable, human. The resonance frequency was broken. His own blood no longer answered him, no longer recognized him as its master. Slowly, like an old man suddenly feeling the weight of his years, he turned back to us. His gaze wandered from Aerion to me, searching, probing, understanding. He finally understood what we had done. And perhaps also why."
"'I should have prepared you better,' he hissed, and now there was something of the old coldness in his voice again, of that merciless hardness that had made him king. 'I should have taught you earlier what power really means: trading childish dreams of freedom and justice for bare survival. You learn to rule by breaking others before they can break you. That is the law of the world. You were my children, yes, but you were also my weapons. And you don't ask weapons if they want to fight. You sharpen them until they cut perfectly.'"
"His eyes sparkled with a fire that was no longer magical, but purely human, the last anger of a man who sees his life's work turning to ashes."
"'You gave us chains,' I said, and my gaze was as cold as winter in the mountains. It was the kind of cold you only develop when you've waited too long for someone who never came. 'Golden chains, beautiful chains, chains of love and duty, but chains nonetheless. And you taught us how to wear them without feeling them. How to smile while they cut into our skin, how to obey while our souls scream. But we felt them, every damn day. And we saw what you did.'
Her voice grew louder, filled with all the pent-up pain and anger of the years, with every suppressed truth, every ignored cry, every injustice looked away from."
"The camps, Father. The nightly deportations. The families who disappeared, who officially never existed. The children who never returned from your 're-education camps'. The lists of names that were simply erased as if these people had never lived, never laughed, never cried.' Tears ran down my face, hot and salty like blood. 'You talk about survival, but you've forgotten what you survive for. You called it order, but it was stagnation, the stagnation of death. You called it protection, but it was a prison that stretched across the entire empire. And we could no longer look away when we saw what became of the children in the camps. When we heard the survivors speak. When we realized that your God-given order was built on a foundation of bones and tears.'"
"For a heartbeat, he stood motionless, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. Understanding, perhaps, or remorse. Then his hand shot out like a snake, grabbed Aerion's wrist, and spun him around with a strength I didn't think he had left. His eyes blazed again, filled with cold anger instead of despair. 'Do you really think you're ready to be king?' he hissed, squeezing until Aerion winced in pain and the dagger almost slipped from his fingers. 'Do you think you can rule better than I? Without making the hard decisions? Without the blood on your hands that every ruler must have? You are naive, my son. The world will crush you.'"
"But I reacted instinctively, without thinking. My hand shot out, grabbed Ivarion's arm, and forced him back with force. Adrenaline gave me strength. 'We are not you,' I said quietly, but with a hardness that would have put steel to shame. 'We are not your copies, not your heirs, not your tools. We are something else. Something better. And that is exactly why we will win where you have failed.'"
"Ivarion fought against my grip, his muscles tensing like drawn bows. But the runes had left him, and with them the superhuman strength that had made him invincible for so long. No magic, no hidden traps, no divine power, only his own mortal strength against the unshakeable determination of his children. When he realized this, when the full meaning of his defeat sank in, his muscles slowly slackened and he stepped back."
She stared into the fire, her hands trembling from the intensity of the memory.
"Aerion was silent for a long time, and there was more weight in that silence than in a thousand words. Then he stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, like a man walking to the gallows. The dagger in his hand was old, plain iron, without ornamentation or magical enhancements. It was the same blade that had once hung from the belt of a simple town runner from Kareth'Zal, a man who had fought for justice when justice still had a name and a face. A reminder of simpler times, when right and wrong were still clearly distinguishable."
"'Why now?' asked the king, and for the first time in years I heard genuine confusion in his voice. The confusion of a man who no longer understands the world around him. 'After all this time, after everything we've been through together—why now?'"
Aerion lowered his gaze, staring at the blade in his hand as if he could find the answers his soul sought there. "Because we hoped too long that you would stop on your own. Because we thought you would wake up one day and see what has become of your beloved kingdom. What has become of you. But you never stopped, never paused, never looked back. And the people in the camps... they didn't have time to wait for you to come to your senses. They died while we hoped.'"
"'But why now?' Ivarion repeated, and this time his voice sounded almost pleading, like a lost child who wants to go home."
"'Because we finally looked,' I replied, my voice hoarse with unshed tears. 'Because we visited the camps even though you forbade us to. Because we saw the lists, the real lists, not the sanitized versions you presented to the council. Because we spoke to the survivors, heard their stories, saw their scars. And because you never stopped looking away, even when we laid the truth at your feet.'"
"'It wasn't about us anymore,' Aerion said quietly, almost sadly, like a man who has to put a beloved pet to sleep. 'I hoped for so long that it would end differently. I wanted you to finally see us, our faces instead of our titles, our worries instead of our duties, our humanity instead of our usefulness. But you never stopped being king. Even when we needed help, you were king. Even when we loved you, you were king. Even when we cried for you, you were king. And as king, you made decisions that I could no longer support without losing my soul.'"
"I stepped beside him, feeling his warmth, his tension, his determination. My hand rested open and empty at my side, as it had so many years ago when I had tried to give him back the crown and he had not taken it. But in my heart, a last, desperate doubt fought. Had I ever really loved him? The man behind the king? A scene flashed through my memory: I had stumbled in the rose garden, hurt my ankle, blood seeping through the torn fabric. He was the first to reach me, lifting me carefully into his strong arms, his voice gentle and concerned. Back then, I had felt his heart beating, warm and strong and human. When had I stopped hearing it beat? When had the heartbeat been drowned out by the noise of power?
Tears ran down her face, hot and unstoppable like a spring flood.
"'You didn't fall,' I finally said, each word costing me a piece of my soul. 'You stood still while the world around you went on, changed, grew. While people suffered and died and hoped. While children grew up and grew old and forgot what laughter sounded like. You stood still and stopped time as if the empire were your personal toy, belonging only to you and allowed to function only according to your rules.'"
"Ivarion looked at me, long, intensely, searching. His eyes searched my tear-stained face for something, anything. Perhaps for the little daughter he had once known, who had sat on his lap and watched him rule. Who had trusted him, loved him, thought he was the best man in the world. Then he slowly closed his eyes, and in that simple gesture there was more dignity than I would have thought him capable of in years."
He didn't say a last word. He didn't ask a last question. He didn't justify himself, beg for mercy, or curse us. He just waited. And in his waiting there was a kind of quiet acceptance that surprised me more than any outburst of anger or despair.
The silence around the campfire was so complete that you could hear the blood rushing through your veins. Every breath hurt, every heartbeat was too loud.
"Aerion raised the blade. It weighed nothing, a few ounces of iron and steel. And yet it felt like the weight of the world. His hand trembled, not with fear, but with the memory of a man who had once read stories to him from old books with yellowed pages. Who had chased away his nightmares with gentle songs and warm embraces. Who had been a loving father before he became a ruthless king. Who had taught him that power meant protecting others, not ruling them. When had that ended? When had love turned into control, protection into oppression?"
Aerion hesitated for one last heartbeat. For that one precious moment, he saw the tired man who had come home late at night and still found time for a bedtime story. The man who had carried him on his shoulders through the palace gardens, who had taught him the names of the stars, who had promised to always be there.
"Then he thought of the camps. Of the children with empty eyes who would never hear stories again. Of the families who had been deported in windowless trains. Of the lists with names crossed out. Of the future that would never come as long as this man, this king, this tyrant, continued to live. Of all those who disappeared into dark cellars and whose cries no one wanted to hear."
Aeri'Vel's voice grew firmer. She could hardly speak, every word a struggle against the tears, but it had to be said.
"And he struck. Quickly, precisely, without hesitation. No dramatic sound, no heroic struggle, no last curse. Just a short, sharp jerk, and then absolute silence. The king, our father, slowly collapsed, almost dignified, as if he deserved to have this one last moment when no one wanted anything from him, no one demanded his attention, no one needed his decisions. As if it were a release from a burden that had become too heavy to bear."
Aerion still held the bloody blade tightly in his hand, staring at it as if he couldn't believe what he had done. His fingers were stiff with shock, his eyes empty like burnt-out windows. Only when I carefully took it from his hand did he seem to come to his senses.
"'He was our father,' I said, because it had to be said."
"'No,' whispered Aerion. 'He was our king. Our father died years ago.'"
She wiped away her tears, fighting the tremors that threatened to tear her chest apart.
"As we left the storm hall, slowly, silently, like mourners after a funeral, we found Mira in the control center. Her face was chalk white, her skin almost transparent like old parchment. She had held the central node, a task that had nearly cost her her life, that had brought her to the brink of death. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, dried blood stuck to her fingertips, and her eyes had an expression I will never forget: the emptiness that remains when you have given everything and hardly know if there is enough of yourself left to go on. But she had persevered to the bitter end, carried by the unshakeable conviction that freedom had its price. And she had been willing to pay it, whatever the cost.
Her voice softened, carried by a different kind of wonder at the miracle that followed.
"The end began in the deepest rings beneath the city. There, where hardly any daylight had penetrated for centuries, where ancient runes had glowed for decades like watchful eyes that never slept. The seals began to flicker like candles in the wind. Then, a soft crackling, barely audible, followed by a first, gossamer-thin tear in the magical fabric. And everywhere the web had believed it held power, in chains and contracts, in seals and oaths, it dissolved like morning mist in the first rays of the sun."
In the camps, magical seals slipped from scarred skin like old crusts from healing wounds. The cursed neck rings of the bound burst like brittle glass with a sound that no one knew but everyone understood immediately: the crystal-clear sound of freedom. But many did not know what to do with it; they stood there like actors who had forgotten their lines. Some cried because they were overwhelmed. Others ran around aimlessly, confused and frightened like animals that had lived in cages for too long. They had existed in chains for so long that they had forgotten how to walk without them, how to think without orders, how to dream without permission. Some cowered in corners, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do next."
"In the offices and archives of power, lines of ink began to erase themselves as if they had never been written. Centuries-old contracts crumbled to gray ash. Seals burst like soap bubbles, leaving only empty air behind. And those who had controlled it all, the officials and functionaries, the councils and judges, suddenly felt a terrible, liberating truth: they were alone. Powerless. Finally, finally human again."
"A gold trader in the merchant street collapsed in the middle of counting his coins when half of his magically guaranteed income literally crumbled to dust between his fingers. A council archivist ran in panic through the empty corridors of his office building, shouting orders into the silence that no one obeyed, only to realize with growing horror why his words had suddenly become powerless, why his voice was now just air that no longer impressed anyone."
"Fights broke out in the streets of Vaelarion—not organized, but wild and chaotic like a natural disaster. The city guards desperately tried to maintain control that no longer existed, but their orders had become worthless, their shiny insignia meaning less than the dirt beneath their boots. Some threw down their weapons and ran away, others resorted to brute force because it was the only thing left to them in this new, anarchic world. Old scores were settled, not with gold or words, but with blood and tears. Freedom, we realized, had never been peaceful; it was chaotic, dangerous, and precious all at once."
"Vaelarion changed with a whisper that seeped through walls and obeyed no hand. The city awoke like a giant who had slept too long—with the unsettling silence after a devastating storm and the deafening noise after an earthquake. And as this new world formed around us, three exhausted people stepped out into the morning. Through deserted side streets, through streets that had fallen silent, through a twilight that smelled different than any before. Of metal and dust, of burnt magic and spilled blood. And of something completely new, something that might one day be called the future."
"When Aerion stepped through the doors of the storm hall again hours later, this time alone, without his hood, without the bloody dagger, without the burden of regicide, the room was no longer the same. Golden light fell through the dust-covered windows like a blessing. The air moved freely, carrying the scent of roses and hope. No more threatening thunder, no more devastating lightning, only the peaceful silence after a cleansing storm. And in that silence: finally space to breathe, room to dream, freedom to live."
"The storm had not been broken. No, it had been released. Freed from the control of a mortal man who had forgotten that the forces of nature cannot be possessed, only respected."
"The king was dead, his chains broken forever. But the empire still reeled like a ship without an anchor, and those who overthrow an old system must face what lies beneath it: chaos, fear, responsibility. Aerion and I would not only have to lead Vaelarion anew, we would have to rethink it, dream it anew, recreate it. And not everyone would want to watch. Not everyone would understand or appreciate this new freedom. Some would long for the old chains, for the brutal simplicity of dictatorship."
Aeri'Vel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had told her story without really meaning to; the words had flowed out of her like water from a broken dam. And yet every word had been necessary, every sentence like a stone thrown into still water: the waves spread out in long, invisible circles that would now reach and touch others.
No one at the fire moved. The flames cast dancing shadows on faces marked by what they had heard and by the truth about power and loss, about love and betrayal, about the terrible price of freedom.
Maylen looked at her with something much deeper than mere curiosity. In her eyes there was understanding, compassion, and something that looked like admiration.
"Freedom," she said finally, her voice little more than a whisper in the night, "was not and is not the end of the story."
"No," replied Aeri'Vel, feeling something heavy and dark lift from her chest. "It was only the beginning. The hardest part came after and is yet to come. Because freedom is not just the absence of chains—it is the frightening, wonderful responsibility of deciding what to do with empty hands. Which direction to turn when all paths are open. How to build a world when the old one lies in ruins."
She lowered her gaze and stared into the glowing coals of the dying fire. "I have told my story so that it does not die with me. So that someone else will carry it on, perhaps with anger, or with hope, or with the quiet determination that is necessary when one realizes that one's own world also wears chains that must be broken."
She raised her head again and looked into the faces around the fire. "Both are right. Both are necessary. Both are true."
When the last embers of the fire died in the ashes, there was no old order, no rigid system, no absolute power. Only people. Wounded, hopeful, dreaming people. And the endless possibilities of what they could make of it.
The sun rose above them all, slowly, majestically, and inexorably. It greeted a golden morning full of promise, full of danger, full of life. A morning that belonged to them alone.
Chapter 14: The Oasis
Chapter Text
Date: 14 Feymaris (345 n.K)
Location: Secret floating island in the border region between Elythara & Vaelarion
Characters: Aeri'Vel Vael'Thir and Luaris Velyn'Elthar
High above the clouds, where the air was thin and crystal clear, a secret floated between heaven and earth. The small island, barely larger than a village, drifted silently through the endless blue of the ether, a forgotten gift from Elythara to Vaelarion, hidden from the eyes of the world in the heights where only eagles and wind spirits dared to fly. Even the cartographers of the great archives knew nothing of its existence, for it was not only hidden, but also protected from any search by spells older than the kingdoms themselves.
The sun, already low on the horizon, bathed the floating earth in warm, golden light. Its rays refracted in the water droplets of the Velir-Thaan, a narrow river that meandered impossibly through the island – fed by a source that no one had ever found, flowing in cycles that defied logic. The water seemed to spring from nowhere, bubbling up between the roots of ancient trees, only to evaporate back into the air before it could reach the edge of the island. It was cool, clear water that tasted of rain and wild herbs, and if you listened very carefully, you could hear the echoes of ancient songs in its splashing.
The island itself was a wonder of nature, or magic, no one knew for sure. Its surface was covered with the softest grass Aeri'Vel had ever felt under her bare feet, streaked with silver veins where tiny crystals sparkled in the soil. Lysbair trees grew at the edge of the island, their leaves making a constant, soothing sound in the high air—like distant sea breezes telling stories from other worlds. Moonflowers climbed up between their trunks, their snow-white calyxes opening only at sunset and exuding a scent reminiscent of jasmine and distant dreams.
The ocean below stretched endlessly in all directions, a living painting of turquoise and sapphire, streaked with white foam caps that danced like ghosts across the waves. So high up, even the largest waves looked like gentle folds in a silk cloth, and the sound of the sea reached them only as a distant, soothing hum, a lullaby that kept the island in eternal peace.
Between the Lysbair trees and a small grove of peach trees, whose fruits tasted sweeter than anything grown in the palace gardens, stood a hut so dreamlike that it seemed to have sprung from the pages of a fairy tale. Its walls of weathered cedar wood told stories of centuries of gentle winds and warm sunrises. The wood had turned silver-gray from time and the mountain air, soft and supple to the touch, as if it were more fabric than building material.
The roof, lovingly woven from reeds and soft grass, had become a living carpet – moss glistened on it like fallen sky light, while pollen flowers exuded their sweet scents in the evening breeze. Small birds had built their nests in the roof beams – tiny, colorful creatures that looked like flying jewels and sang songs that made the heart dance.
The windows, tiny and made of milky crystal glass, cast rainbow reflections on the meadow in front, where butterfly orchids bloomed in all the colors of the sunset – from delicate pink to deep violet, from bright gold to soft aquamarine. Here, so far away from the intrigues of the courts and the noise of the cities, time itself seemed to flow more gently, as if intoxicated by the beauty of this place and unable to bring itself to move on.
A small veranda surrounded the hut, supported by slender columns of polished driftwood that the sea had once washed up on unknown beaches. There were two comfortable chairs made of woven willow wood, between which stood a small table with a vase full of wild flowers. Colorful glass lanterns hung from the porch ceiling, ready to bathe the night in warm, colorful light.
But on this evening, the lanterns were not yet lit. The sun still provided enough light to bathe the world in golden fire, and inside the hut, no ordinary fire flickered. Instead, a glass sphere floated beneath the beams, in which golden sparks danced like trapped stars, a gift from the workshops of Elytharas, where light could still be shaped like warm wax. The sphere was about the size of a child's head, perfectly round and transparent like crystal, and the sparks inside moved in patterns reminiscent of galaxies or the movement of schools of fish in deep waters.
The interior of the hut was not large – just two rooms – but it exuded coziness and warmth from every crack. The floor was made of wide wooden planks that gave slightly underfoot and made a contented creaking sound, as if they were happy to be inhabited. Soft carpets made of Vaelarionian wool lay everywhere, woven in the colors of the sunset—deep red, warm orange, soft pink, and golden yellow.
On a sea of soft pillows and blankets, woven from spider silk and interwoven with threads that shimmered in the darkness, two figures lay huddled together. The pillows came in every size and shape imaginable: round, square, oblong, some large enough to stretch out on, others small enough to serve as headrests. They were covered with fabrics from all over the world, silk from Elythara, velvet from the mountains of Vaelarion, linen from the plains of distant Ignirion. Some shimmered like fish scales, others felt like moss or the inside of a flower.
The blankets were no less luxurious, warm wool blankets for cool nights, light silk blankets for warm days, and a special blanket made from the fur of sky lynxes that was so soft it felt like a cloud that had taken shape. This blanket was her favorite—not only because of its incomparable softness, but because it glowed faintly in the darkness, as if it had been woven from the fur of animals that had lived among the stars.
The world beyond their little floating oasis did not exist. There was only the warmth of their skin, the gentle rise and fall of their breaths, and the feeling that time had stopped for them.
Aeri'Vel lay with her head on his shoulder, her golden hair spread across his chest like liquid sunlight. Every single strand seemed to have a life of its own, glittering and dancing in the light of the floating lamp as if woven from the rays of the morning sun. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his skin, each touch a silent declaration of love. Sometimes in the shape of a flower, sometimes in intricate lines that looked like ancient runes, sometimes just gentle circles that made his nerves tingle.
She wore a dress made of gossamer elytharian silk, so thin and flowing that it felt more like a second skin than actual clothing. The color was difficult to describe, it shifted between deep blue and delicate green depending on the light, with silver threads running through it that shimmered like frozen tears. The dress had long, wide sleeves that flowed over her arms like water, and a neckline that exposed her shoulders and accentuated the gentle curve of her neck.
He wore only simple pants made of soft linen, his chest bare, his skin warm and tanned from the high sun. Small scars told silent stories—a long, thin line across his rib from a duel in his youth, a star-shaped mark on his shoulder from an arrow that had narrowly missed its target, tiny white dots on his hands from working with sharp blades on the battlefield to save what could still be saved. But at that moment, they were not memories of pain or danger, they were part of his history, part of what had made him the man she loved.
The air around them smelled of the lavender cookies on a small plate, of the sweet dew wine in their half-full glasses, and of the warm, salty breath of the distant sea blowing through the open windows. But there were other scents too. The sweet scent of moonflowers, the fresh aroma of the impossible river, the scent of cedar wood and old books, and beneath them, very faintly, her own scent, a mixture of lavender and wild honey that intoxicated him every time.
"Imagine," she murmured, her voice little more than a breath of wind, "we had no names. No past. No future awaiting us."
Her voice was like warm honey flowing over his skin, with a hint of an elytharian accent that stretched certain syllables and swallowed others, as if she were speaking a melody instead of words. It was a voice made for love songs and secrets, for whispers in the dark and laughter in the morning sun.
Luaris ran his hand through her hair, individual strands slipping through his fingers like trapped light. His hands were larger than hers, with long, dexterous fingers that could wield a scalpel or pick a flower without hurting it. On his ring finger, he wore a narrow ring of Thal'Varethian silver, veined with blue – a family heirloom that had been worn by his grandfather before him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice deep and warm, with a rough undertone that came from too little sleep. But when he spoke to her, it softened, almost tender, as if he were caressing a rare flower with words.
She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes large and bright in the warm glow of the floating lamp. Her eyes had been the first thing he noticed about her, golden, like the morning sun over the sea. When she smiled, small wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, not the lines of age, but the traces of a thousand happy moments.
"That we are just... us," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "Vel and Lou. Two souls on an island at the end of the world that belongs to no one but us."
The names sounded strange in their mouths, so simple, so ordinary compared to the pompous titles they bore in the outside world. But that was exactly what she loved about them. Vel and Lou. You couldn't name souls any shorter than that, you couldn't be any more intimate with each other.
He was silent for a while, listening to the soft splashing of the impossible river outside, the distant sound of the waves and the gentle sighing of the wind in the Lysbair trees. The island moved almost imperceptibly in the high winds, a gentle rocking motion that relaxed them both like the cradle of a loving hand.
More sounds drifted in from outside—the chirping of tiny birds nesting in the roof beams, the soft humming of bees flying from flower to flower, the occasional splash of the river as it jumped over a larger rock. They were the sounds of a place that was completely at peace with itself, a place that had never known war or hatred or despair.
"Just Vel and Lou," he repeated finally, his voice warm with tenderness. "On our secret island, where the laws of the world don't apply."
She smiled—the first real smile in months—and he felt his heart skip a beat. Her smile was like sunshine after a long winter, like the first warm day after a hard frost. It transformed her whole face, making her eyes sparkle and little dimples appear in her cheeks.
She reached for the clay carafe of dew wine. The carafe was a work of art in itself, hand-crafted by a master potter from Vaelarion, with a slender neck and a bulbous body decorated with spiral patterns that looked like little swirls in the lamplight. The wine inside shimmered pearly in the lamplight, streaked with tiny bubbles that rose like trapped dreams. It was a special wine, made from grapes that grew only on the highest peaks of Vaelarion, where snow lay all year round and the air was so thin that ordinary people could hardly breathe.
The glasses were no less artistic—hand-blown from elytharian crystal, so thin they were almost transparent, with long, elegant stems and bowls that fit perfectly in the hand. When they clinked together, they made a sound that lingered in the air like a wind chime. She refilled both glasses, the wine flowing quietly from the carafe and giving off a scent reminiscent of mountain flowers and fresh snow. Then she handed him one of the glasses.
"To forgetting," he said, raising his glass. The crystal was cool in his hand, but the wine inside sparkled warmly in the lamplight. "To remembering," she replied, her eyes fixed on his. "To who we really are when no one is watching."
Their glasses clinked together with a crystalline sound that echoed through the still air like a promise. The sound was pure and clear, lingering between them long after they had lowered their glasses, as if it wanted to carry their words into eternity.
The wine was sweet and sparkling, with hints of honey and wild berries, warming them from within and releasing the last of the tension from their shoulders. It was a wine made for special moments, for moments to be remembered like jewels in a treasure chest. It tingled on the tongue and left an aftertaste reminiscent of summer and freedom.
Aeri'Vel took one of the lavender cookies from the plate, slightly burnt around the edges because she wasn't particularly skilled at baking, and broke it in half. The cookies had been their joint creation, a chaotic afternoon full of flour dust and laughter. She had insisted that cooking was an art, not a science, and had sabotaged his meticulous measurements and precise timing with a handful of extra ingredients.
"Do you remember," she giggled as crumbs trickled down his chest, "how you tried to teach me one of your recipes?" Her laughter was like silver bells dancing in the wind, bright and cheerful and infectious. It was a laugh that could light up a room and melt hearts, a laugh that reminded him every time why he loved her.
"And you said recipes were for people without imagination," he laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a moment, feeling the warmth of her skin, soft as rose petals.
"I was right. These taste much better than those boring perfect cookies."
She was right. The cookies might not have been perfect—some too sweet, others too dry, all a little lopsided—but they tasted of love and laughter, of an afternoon filled with kisses between baking sessions and flour fights that ended in hugs.
She snuggled up to him again, her warm breath tickling his neck. The island rocked gently in the high winds, a movement so delicate that they could only feel it when they lay completely still. It was like the rocking of a loving hand trying to sing them to sleep, or like the gentle swaying of a boat on a calm lake.
The light from the floating lamp began to dim gradually, as if sensing that night was approaching. The golden sparks inside moved more slowly, more sluggishly, their paths becoming gentle spirals instead of wild dances. Outside, the first moonflowers began to bloom, their white calyxes opening like little moons, and their sweet scent wafting through the open windows.
"When the world burns beneath us," he whispered in her hair, his lips touching her scalp, "I want our laughter to be the only thing that reaches up here."
His voice was little more than a whisper, but she heard every single word, felt the vibration of his words through his chest. It was a thought that sometimes haunted them both, the idea that the world they had left behind could go up in flames while they lay here in their paradise. But at that moment, even that fear seemed far away, muffled by the magic of this place.
Her hand found his heartbeat, laid flat on his chest, and felt the steady thumping of life beneath it. His heart beat strongly and regularly, a soothing rhythm that synchronized with her own until she could no longer tell which heartbeat was hers and which was his.
"And I want my last thought to be the feeling of being here with you."
Her words were like feathers floating through the air, so light and yet so meaningful. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the feeling, the feeling of his warmth, his closeness, the absolute safety in his arms.
The words hung between them like golden threads, too precious to break. Instead, she nestled even closer to him, her forehead against his neck, her legs entwined with his, as if they wanted to merge into one being. His skin smelled of cedar wood and sea air, of warm sun and something indefinable that belonged only to him, a scent she would have recognized among a thousand others.
They lay there for a while, listening to their breathing and the distant sound of the sea. The world shrank to this moment, to the warmth of their entwined bodies, to the soft glow of the lamp, to the scent of moonflowers and the gentle lapping of the impossible river.
Later, when the sun had finally disappeared behind the clouds and the first stars began to twinkle above their floating world, she began to draw patterns on his skin. It was a ritual that had developed between them. A silent language of touch that only the two of them understood.
Her fingertips glided over his chest, drawing arcs and circles, lines and runes that only the two of them understood. Her touch was light as a feather, but every movement burned into his memory like a glowing coal. She started at his collarbone, letting her fingers wander down his shoulder to his heart, where she paused and drew small circles that spiraled outward.
Under her touch, a soft, bluish light began to glow, faint as moonlight on water, but clearly visible in the dim hut. It was a phenomenon that still fascinated them both, even after all the times they had experienced it. The light seemed to come from his skin itself, as if it had always been there, waiting only for her touch to reveal itself.
A rune formed beneath her fingers, elegantly curved, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It was beautiful in its simplicity—three intertwined circles connected by curved lines that looked like tendrils or the paths of stars in the night sky.
"What does it mean?" he asked softly, mesmerized by the glow on his skin. He knew the rune, had seen it many times before, but he wanted to hear her voice, wanted the words from her mouth.
"Home," she whispered against his skin, her lips so close he could feel her breath. "It only appears to souls who are meant for each other. People who have found each other even though they never searched."
The rune pulsed stronger, becoming brighter, as if responding to her words. It was a warm light that cast no shadows, but bathed everything around it in a soft glow. Luaris felt a strange warmth emanating from the spot, not unpleasant, but soothing, like an inner sun.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. The simplicity of her words stood in stark contrast to the depth of their meaning. Home—not a place, but a feeling. Not four walls, but two hearts beating in unison.
"And you... you mean that?" he asked, even though he could read the answer in her eyes.
Instead of answering, she placed her hand over the glowing rune. The light grew warmer, brighter, as if responding to her touch. Her hand fit perfectly over the symbol, as if it had been made for her.
"This island," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "is our true home. Not the palaces or cities down there. Here. With you."
Her words carried the weight of truth, a truth that ran deeper than any laws or traditions. She was right, up here, between the sky and the stars, they weren't the guardian of the borders, the crown princess, the commander, and the healer of the great houses. They were just Vel and Lou, two people who had found each other in a crazy world and decided they belonged together.
He intertwined his fingers with hers, holding her hand over his heart. Her fingers fit perfectly between his, as if they were pieces of the same puzzle. Her hands were rougher than his, marked by work with sword and shield, but he loved that roughness, the stories his scars told.
The glow of the rune was reflected in his eyes, but also something deeper, a love so pure and strong that it could have carried the entire floating island. It was a love that needed no words, expressed in glances and touches, in shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats.
They lay there as night fell completely. The stars came out, one by one, until the sky looked like a black velvet curtain embroidered with diamonds. The moon rose above the horizon, a silver disc casting its light on the island and bathing everything in a fairy-tale glow.
Outside, the island's nocturnal creatures began to stir. The moonflowers opened fully and exuded their beguiling scent, while tiny fireflies began to dance between the Lysbair trees like living stars. The night crystal crickets began their concert—a soft chirping that sounded like music composed by nature itself.
The impossible river seemed to glow brighter in the darkness, as if the moonlight was enhancing its magical properties. The water glistened silver between the trees, and if you listened closely, you could actually hear the echoes of ancient songs. Melodies from a time when the world was young and magic was as natural as breathing.
"Do you hear that?" whispered Aeri'Vel, lifting his head slightly from his chest.
Luaris listened intently. There was something, a melody so distant and delicate that he wasn't sure if he was really hearing it or just dreaming. It seemed to come from the river itself, from the water as it swirled in impossible circles.
"The old songs," he murmured reverently. "I thought they were just legends."
"Many things are real here that are only legends elsewhere," she said, resting her ear against his chest again. "That's why I love this place so much. Here we can dream without being crazy."
The melody became clearer, a wistful but beautiful tune that told of times gone by, of lovers separated by centuries, of hopes that never die, and of dreams that eventually come true. It was a song that made the heart cry and rejoice at the same time.
Aeri'Vel began to hum softly, her voice merging with the distant melody of the water. She had a beautiful voice, not trained like the court singers, but pure and clear as mountain spring water. When she sang, Luaris sometimes forgot to breathe, so spellbound was he by the sound.
He closed his eyes and let himself be carried away by her voice and the magic of the moment. The rune on his chest pulsed in time with her melody, a soft glow shimmering through his closed eyelids.
Time lost its meaning. They lay there and talked about everything and nothing, about the color of the moonflowers, the shape of the clouds passing overhead, the stories told by the stars. They shared memories from their childhood, dreams of the future, and laughed at each other's little quirks.
Chapter 15: How Ikaril breathes
Chapter Text
Date: Elytharis (ninth month of the year, 324 A.K., exact date unknown)
Location: Sylvara, Ignirion, Thal'Vareth
Characters: Sylwen Qen'Mara, Ignis Rath'Mor & Ormaris Thal'Quor
The morning sun broke through the dewdrops on the dense canopy of leaves like liquid gold, casting a glittering veil over the path to the forest temple. Sylwen walked barefoot, as was the custom in Sylvara when attending the first lesson of the day. Her feet knew every root arch, every soft moss carpet. The ground vibrated gently beneath her, a soft heartbeat deep in the earth.
At six years old, Sylwen was small for her age, her light brown skin glowing like warm amber in the sunlight. Dark, chestnut brown, unruly waves fell over her shoulders, and her eyes—a clear green with a golden sheen—reflected every leaf, every spark of life around her. The dimple on her left cheek rarely rested.
The forest temple lay in a circular clearing surrounded by ancient oak trees with trunks so wide that three adults could not have embraced them. Glowing mushrooms grew between them, their bluish glow visible even during the day. The temple itself was not a stone structure, but rather trees that had grown together, forming a living roof with branches and vines through which only soft, filtered light fell.
Inside, the other children were already waiting. Elrae, a boy with tousled golden-blond hair and restless feet. Maerin, serious and attentive, her dark braids immaculately woven. The younger Sioha played with a flower without looking up. Sylwen sat down with them on the soft mossy ground, her hands resting calmly on her knees.
Master Tharelle stepped out of the shadow of an oak tree. The tall elf woman spoke with a voice like the sound of the wind, her eyes the deep blue of a summer evening. Her green-brown robe seemed like part of the forest, her silver-streaked hair betraying centuries that she seemed to carry effortlessly.
"Today we will learn what the cycle really means—and why it affects you, no matter how young you are." She placed a small, flat basket on the ground and raised her hand. A white flower grew out of the moss, as if it had been waiting for her call. "This flower is part of a greater whole. It breathes what you breathe out—you breathe what it breathes out. Your life depends on hers, hers on yours."
Sylwen saw the flower open its calyx as if it were winking at her. A fine, warm thread of light flowed back and forth between her and the plant. This was normal. As familiar as breathing.
"Which of you can feel how this flower is connected to the ground, the water, and you?"
A few hands went up, but Sylwen saw only blank expressions on the faces of her classmates. Elrae grimaced. "I just see a flower."
"Me too," murmured Sioha. "It smells nice."
Sylwen blinked in confusion. "Can't you feel it answering you? How it knows you?"
The children stared at her as if she had said something very strange. Tharelle, however, smiled knowingly. "Some of you will feel more than others. That's okay. Your connection is like a seed — it grows when you nurture it."
The teacher took a small, smooth stone from her basket, which shimmered in the air like a veil of heat, almost transparent. "This is an invisible stone from the depths of Ikaril. Even if you can't see it, it's part of the cycle. It stores stories, voices, memories—and energy. Every touch changes it. Every thought leaves a trace."
The children passed the stone around. Elrae shrugged. "It feels cold."
Sioha giggled. "I don't feel anything."
When Sylwen touched the stone, a silent space opened up inside her. A distant humming reached her, like leaves in the wind, and for a moment she thought she could hear the heartbeat of the forest. She held her breath to listen longer.
"There is a danger," Tharelle said seriously. "If too much energy flows into you—more than you can hold—it can pull you back into the cycle too soon. Overload is rare, but it is real. That is why you must learn to control the currents."
While the others whispered in fascination or fear, Sylwen sat quietly and stroked the invisible stone. She thought of the flower, the threads of light, the humming in her hands. Maybe it was normal to feel this way. Until today, she had never questioned it. But now she knew: not everyone heard, not everyone saw. That made her... different.
When the lesson was almost over and the children were slowly becoming uneasy, Sylwen remained seated, the stone still in her hand. Tharelle gently placed her fingers on her shoulder. "Keep it as a gift and learn to carry it."
Tharelle waited until the last conversations had died down, then sat down cross-legged with the children. "You sensed that not everyone feels the same. That's because the cycle sounds different in each of you."
She pulled out a small leather pouch and poured various seeds onto the moss: round, elongated, tiny, hard, soft. "Do you see these seeds? They all come from the same meadow, drink the same water, feel the same wind. And yet..." She picked up two. "...these will become trees, those will become flowers. Some will bear fruit, others thorns."
"It's the same with your energy. Your personality, your experiences, the place where you were born, even the season—all of this shapes how the magic within you takes form." Her eyes looked serious but warm as she gazed around the circle. "That is why there will never be two magicians who are completely alike. Even with similar powers, they will feel differently, act differently—and leave a different mark on the world."
Elrae raised her hand. "If two people have the same magic, can't they do the same thing?"
Tharelle smiled. "Two musicians can play the same instrument, but one chooses a song of joy, the other a song of sorrow. Magic is the instrument. You are the music."
Sylwen looked at the seeds in front of her. For her, the comparison was more than just a beautiful image—she could almost feel the faint vibrations of the individual kernels, tiny voices with different tones. Some warm, some sharp, some barely audible.
"Sometimes the energy within you can also change—when you experience something that changes you. Great joy can make your magic brighter, connect you more deeply. A heavy loss can dampen it or steer it in a new direction. But that happens rarely and comes at a price."
Even Elrae had stopped playing with the moss.
"Never forget: every gift, no matter how small it seems, is part of the greater whole. Without the flapping of a small bird's wings, the storm has no beginning. Without the whispering of the leaves, the forest has no song."
Sylwen let the invisible stone slip from her hands. She realized that her own "melody" was perhaps quieter than a storm—and yet part of it. For the first time, she wondered what song she would play one day.
At the same time, the golden battlements of Ignirion glowed under the high sun, the city walls shining in the warm red of the stone. The scent of freshly baked flatbread and spices wafted through the narrow alleys, and the voices of merchants buzzed like bees in summer in the open courtyards.
The air smelled of warm ash and sweet bread from clay ovens whose fires came directly from the earth's belly. Light smoke rose above the roofs, and narrow lava channels ran beneath the streets like glowing veins. When the heat hit the cold stone, tiny sparks flew up—children held their hands over them as if they could catch the warmth.
The thin lava veins pulsed in time with the earth, as if the city itself had a heartbeat. Their light danced on the dark walls of the houses and cast soft reflections on bronze door fittings.
Ignis jumped over one of the narrow lava channels on his way to school. At four years old, he jumped as if he were twice his age and without a spark of fear, landing with a grin that already smelled of trouble. "I did it!" — even though there were no adults around to hear him. His mother would have warned him not to "tease" the lava. But Ignis thought that if you lived in a city full of fire, you should play with it.
The school was located in a courtyard of black basalt, surrounded by shimmering walls. In the center stood a circular pavilion with a roof made of golden shingles shaped like a flame. Other children were already waiting there, barefoot or in thin sandals.
The schoolyard was round and open, surrounded by a low wall of blackened stone. In the middle stood the collecting basin: a ring-shaped channel in which lava flowed so calmly that its surface looked like polished copper. Above it, the air shimmered and made faces dance.
Master Halvar waited at the edge. Today he was in a particularly good mood—which meant he was beaming almost as much as the lava behind him. He was a broad-shouldered man with arms like blacksmith's hammers and a beard in which a few sparks always seemed to linger. He was tall—not just long, but like a tree with broad, deep roots. The muscles in his arms were tense even at rest, and every movement carried weight. His black beard was streaked with silver strands, divided into braids with small bronze rings at the ends. His dark eyes sparkled warmly, his deep voice rumbling like an anvil under hammer blows.
"Now, my little flames," he called, holding up a thick, soot-blackened stick, "today we're going to learn the months—and woe betide anyone who forgets the month of the Great Fire!"
A few children giggled. They sat down on colorful cushions in a semicircle around him.
Ignis sat cross-legged on a yellow cushion, his hands in his lap—at least for three seconds before he started drumming his fingers on his knees. His dark red hair glowed like coals, and his amber eyes glowed with impatient energy, as if he could jump up at any moment.
Halvar drew a circle in the ashes with his staff. "Today you will learn the course of our year. Not as a song to recite, but as a path to walk."
He divided the circle into thirteen segments. "Ikaril's year has 13 months, each exactly 28 days long. That makes 364 days. Every five years there is a blank day—a day outside of all months. On this day, no one works. People celebrate, forgive, and remember."
He tapped the first segment. "Who can tell me the name of the first month?"
"Lunaris!" several children shouted at once.
"Correct. And what do we celebrate in Lunaris?"
"The Festival of Renewal!" blurted out Ignis. "With the big torchlight procession and the dancers, and at the end there's honey bread, and..."
"And we save the honey bread for later," Halvar interrupted with a laugh. "Otherwise you'll forget half the months. Besides, we don't shout."
"So: Lunaris – new beginnings, return. The month in which we renew the eternal fire. Feymaris – growth, the first surge of the year. Ignisaris – our month. The month of fire. Trials, bonds, sacrifices."
They worked their way through the months, and with each Ignirion festival, Halvar's voice became more animated.
"And in the month of Ignisaris?"
"The flame sacrifice!" the children cried in unison.
Halvar nodded, his eyes shining. "On the 7th of Ignisaris, the flame sacrifice begins. A festival that is more than just dancing and feasting. We give something of ourselves back to the embers—time, work, a piece of our creativity. The blacksmiths work day and night. The warriors compete in contests of strength, skill, and endurance. Children perform mock battles, reenacting the great battles of our history. The streets are filled with singing, and the smoke from the sacrificial fires carries the names of those we honor high into the sky. The fire takes, and the fire gives."
He pointed to a small symbol carved into the ashes. "Everyone, whether child or elder, faces their trial and contributes something. The fire never forgets."
Ignis' heart beat faster. In his mind, he imagined himself standing before the crowd one day, a knife he had forged himself in his hand, the light of the lava captured in the blade.
"On the 14th of Ignisaris, the blacksmith festival, also known as the trial by fire, takes place. There we show what we have created. What breaks is reforged. What holds is honored. It is a day of truth—no tool, no blade can be more than it claims to be."
He continued around the circle. "Vaelaris—travel and trade. Thalmaris—order and change. Sylvaris—month of rivers, forests, and harvest preparation. Veydris – smoke, secrets, hidden studies. Kaelmaris – competition and sharpening, like grinding a blade. Elytharis – month of stories, often without end. Noctaris – rituals and trials in the dark. Ormathis – transitions and farewells. Lutharis – harvest and reckoning. Zypharis – conclusion and prediction."
The children repeated the names until they sounded like a steady drumbeat.
Halvar only mentioned foreign festivals briefly. The "Festival of Blossoming" in Sylvara received few words, and the "Day of Tides" from Veydris was almost overlooked. But on the day of the blacksmiths' march, his eyes lit up:
"All the workshops open their doors, the blacksmiths show what they have created during the year - swords, helmets, sculptures, all born of fire."
An elderly woman brought in trays with steaming clay cups. Spiced tea, dark and fragrant with cinnamon, cardamom, and a hint of chili. Everyone took a cup. Ignis drank it in one gulp, grimaced briefly as the sharpness hit his nose, coughed, laughed, and continued drinking anyway.
Halvar drew a small dot in the center of the circle. "This is you. The one who counts stands in the year, not outside it. He sees the months circling around him. Some smooth, some sharp. In Ignirion, we have learned to stand on all of them."
Ignis raised his hand. "And the empty day?"
Halvar smiled. "A day without a month. A day when we let the embers rest. We forgive old debts and swear new oaths. Some say that those who forget the empty day will be overtaken by the next one."
Ignis' eyes flashed. "Then I'll never miss it."
At the end of the lesson, Halvar had all the children recite the months in unison, and at every Ignirion festival, they stamped their feet on the basalt floor until it echoed through the courtyard like distant drumbeats.
"Remember," Halvar said finally, "The calendar belongs to all peoples. But never forget: we keep the flame alive. Without it, there would be no warmth—and no light."
Ignis grinned. He didn't know if that was true. But he knew that he wanted to be at the front of every festival—regardless of whether he could recite the months in the right order.
There were no footsteps in this room. No twilight, no passing. Only the quiet, clear existence of glowing lines in the air—strokes and arcs, delicate as breath, sharp as blades, with spaces more important than the lines themselves. The rune in front of him was almost complete. Veythra—connection. Not a word, but a blueprint: four load points, two relief points, an angle that either saved or tore.
Ormaris waited. Patience was not a character trait here, it was a measure. He did not move his hand until the imperceptible in the silence aligned: a subsiding pressure, a beginning pull—as if a door suddenly fit its hinges. Then he placed the last bow. No gesture. Just a hint of movement, barely more than a thought reaching his fingers.
Something closed. No flash of light, no thunder. An inner click, felt in the body, not in the ear. The lines fell into place like stones that had found their flow. And with the closing of the form, the room dissolved.
It didn't disappear. It was simply no longer there. The edges of the world tilted, the absolute silence cracked, and sounds pushed their way in—at first tentative, then confident: footsteps on stone, fabric rubbing against fabric, the metallic clink of a hook on a chain. Air rushed in—not the cool, purified air of the study, but air from outside: rain on metal, a hint of tar, of wet wood; somewhere, a lamp burning with old oil.
Ormaris stood upright in the large entrance hall of the Academy of Thal'Vareth.
He had left it differently. The columns had once had more delicate shafts, the capitals less foliage, more knots. Now they bore an additional band—a ribbon of stone symbols he did not recognize. More recent inscriptions, clean handwriting, foreign schools. The walls were lighter, as if the soot of past years had been washed away, the tall windows letting in cooler light. Rune lanterns floated beneath the ceiling on thin wires, their light pulsing evenly—a rhythm that had been unusual in the past.
A girl saw him first. Her cloak was embroidered on the shoulders with a pattern unfamiliar to the old workshops; the threads glistened with moisture. Her scroll slipped from her hand and rolled onto the mosaic floor, which bore a coat of arms in the center—once familiar, now with a subtle new addition: a small circle next to the old one, as if a decision had been added after the fact.
"...Master?" It was not a call. She laid the word on the floor in front of her to see if it would carry.
More faces turned toward him. A man with a gray beard and a deliberately stern mouth, whose eyes betrayed that the severity was a habit, not his nature. Two boys in the attic with ink stains on their fingertips, who simultaneously tilted their heads as if they had to check from two angles whether he was really there. An archivist with keys on her belt like soft rain. Tense silence.
"Ormaris." This time it was a name that filled the room. It flew through the hall like an animal finding a door: Ormaris. Ormaris. The murmuring broke out at the edges. A messenger was already running, his hand on the wall as if he wanted to go faster by holding on to the world.
Ormaris did not raise his hand. He stood there and felt the floor beneath him change—firmer, denser; the mortar had hardened in the time he had not counted. He looked at the faces and saw the moment when reason and emotion overtake each other. Many looked at him as if there were a picture in front of them, cut from a chronicle and held in the present.
"How long...?" It was he who asked. The words felt as if he hadn't used them in a long time, and yet they were clean. No great expectations, just a number, a direction.
No one answered. An older man whose robe was embroidered with waves at the hem opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at his hand as if the wrinkles on his skin were enough to measure history.
"A long time." The archivist finally spoke, her voice soft but reliable. "For us... a very long time." She bowed her head—not in submission, but rather to balance the moment, as if to give it the form it deserved. "No one knows for sure. Books have been written that mention you, and books that have erased you." A subtle, brief smile. "The good ones have kept you. And you are also represented in the curriculum."
Ormaris nodded. Long—that was enough. His body felt as if he had just been sitting down. He knew he looked different from what one would expect of someone who had been immortalized in stories. A face around thirty, perhaps younger when the light fell softly. His skin was smooth, but not empty of time; his eyes were dark, with a weariness that did not come from nights spent awake, but from moderation.
"You are... not older." The girl bent down carefully toward her scroll, as if a sudden movement might push the man in front of her out of balance. "Or hardly."
"Hardly." He confirmed it without secrecy, without pride. "Sometimes something stands still so that something else can flourish." He said it more to himself, testing whether the sentence felt true.
"The council..." The gray-bearded lecturer mechanically raised two fingers as if to summon order. "The council must..." He fell silent because a group was already coming down the stairs: three or four figures in robes simpler than those of previous councils, but with clean, new symbols at the edges. No golden cords, but fine, dark threads with symbols sewn into them—modern, without forgetting the past.
The one in front was small, wiry, with a gaze that counted things rather than people. He stopped at a respectful distance. "If this is a mistake, forgive us. If it is not... welcome back." The politeness held because the language held it; the rest wavered.
"I don't want to take away anyone's order." Ormaris placed his hands together—not in greeting, but rather to leave them somewhere. His fingers recalled movements that should not be made here: closing, opening, correcting. "I'm back. That's all."
A murmur swept through the hall like wind finding its way under doors. Rumor had become reality; it would loosen the screws on the city's skin. Two boys pushed their way forward. One had the cheeky face of those who are often caught and often needed later. "Master," he stammered, "is it true that you... that you feel runes? Not read them?"
The councilman glanced at him, a look that later said more than words ever could. The boy lowered his head—just a little. Ormaris looked at him, and in the way he held his gaze, there was something that was rarely given to children: being taken seriously without question.
"I know when something is right. Not always why. I find the why later."
"Is that... the living language?" The archivist spoke softly. The word hung in the air for a moment, as if it had to find its place again. "I've... seen references. Just long enough to realize that they had been cut out."
"Not language in the sense of sentences." Ormaris searched for something tangible that would explain it without making him feel dizzy. He pointed to one of the hanging rune lanterns. "Imagine: the cycle is pressure. Life, movement, heat, cold—everything. A rune is a valve that you put in a pipe. Depending on how you cut the grooves, you open or restrict the flow. A little too far, and it sucks you in. A little too little, and nothing moves. Most people spend decades learning how to hold the handle without breaking the pipe. I can feel when the pressure is right."
The boy with the cheeky face exhaled audibly. "That's... the best thing I've ever heard." The councilman raised two fingers again, this time out of habit. "Please, no demonstrations in the hall."
"None." Ormaris' hand remained still, although his fingers twitched as if following an invisible pattern. He noticed two things spreading through the hall that rarely go well together: enthusiasm and fear.
He let his gaze wander. Where the list of those admitted had once hung in heavy wooden frames, there was now a wall of dark gray stone with names embedded in it that could be removed with a hook if necessary. Flexibility instead of splendor. The stairs to the east gallery had been widened; the old knot on the landing—the spot where you used to stub your toes—had been smoothed out. At a side gate stood a guard in armor that did not clank; the plates were closer together, the straps were a new cut. Time had not only passed, it had learned.
"We have questions." The archivist spoke as if making an offer, not a demand. "Not all of them today. Not all of them out loud. But—" "Not today." The councilman interrupted gently. It was not a rejection, but protection. "Give him... space."
Ormaris nodded gratefully. Only then did he feel his body catching up with the transition: a slight weakness in his knees, as if from sitting too long; a thirst for clear air instead of water. "I want to see a courtyard. Any courtyard. I want to see the sky."
"The north courtyard." The girl who had spoken first offered it with quiet eagerness that, if guided correctly, would one day carry weight. "It's quiet there, the flowers are blooming, and... there's the mural."
"Then let's go." The councilman nodded, and the crowd parted in awe and practical wisdom.
They stepped outside. The corridor was cooler than he remembered; someone had learned where to place openings so that air could flow without creating a draft. In a niche stood a figure, once made of light-colored stone, now blackened in places from being touched by numerous students who touched it for good luck. Beneath it was a small, new sentence engraved in small handwriting: "We change what we understand."
Ormaris stopped in the north courtyard. The sky was clear, a harsh blue. The wall showed the old mosaics: scenes from apprenticeships, exams, a master placing his hand on a student's grip and letting go. Someone had later made small, inconspicuous markings under the scenes—no corrections, no additions. A language that had learned that it was not finished.
"I was a rumor." Ormaris said it matter-of-factly, without bitterness. "That's okay. Rumors keep you warm when reality is lacking."
The girl stood next to him at a respectful, curious distance. "And now?"
"Now I'm tired and hungry for things without lines." A small attempt at a smile. It suited him, even him, and yet the movement was unfamiliar and new after such a long time.
"You look younger than our stories." The gray-bearded lecturer who had followed them murmured it not as a reproach, but rather as an admission that images rarely age well. "And yet you are different, which was to be expecteded."
"You carry what you have built." Ormaris laid his hand flat on the stone wall. It was warm from the sun, but deeper inside he felt another warmth that he knew. The circulation wasn't strong here, just a hint, but it was enough to stand securely.
After a while, he added: "I won't start teaching right away. Not because I want to keep secrets, but because I need to hear how your time speaks first. Otherwise, I'll be explaining a door that no longer exists."
The archivist nodded, visibly relieved that this was a boundary that did not separate but rather organized. "Then let's start by showing you what we've changed." "And what you've kept."
They walked along the edge of the courtyard. A breeze blew through the galleries, smelling of wood and lime, and somewhere a bell rang—not like it used to, a deeper tone, drawn out longer. Ormaris paused briefly, as if checking whether his footsteps made sounds that fit the hall. They did.
Behind them, on the threshold, the whispering lingered. He's back. He's really here. He doesn't look old. How long...? What does he know? Words like insects exploring a new smell—cautious, excited, too numerous to catch individually.
Ormaris heard them and left them where they were. He would need time to understand what had become of what he knew. They would need time to understand what he could no longer explain without making a mistake.
He stopped a second time in front of the northern wall. One of the small, new markings in the frieze showed a valve—simply carved, barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for. At least someone here understood the image. That was enough.
"Good." He said it more to himself. "Then let's start—with questions."
The councilman breathed audibly, as if he had passed an invisible test. The girl grinned as if she had invented a ruse. The archivist put her fingers on the key ring—not to jingle it as a signal for what was to come.
And the academy that had preserved him as a rumor began to carry him as the present. Without magic sparks. Without fanfare. Only with stone, air, and the certainty that something that had been missing for a very long time was back in its rightful place—instead of beside it or outside it.
Chapter 16: The hunt begins
Notes:
one day later because depression got me again <3
Chapter Text
Date: 24 Lutharis (343 n.K)
Location: small village on the coast on the edge of Veydris
Characters: Nyxar Vey'Taal
The ship groaned with every wave, as if each creak was a reminder that it would rather be on a warm pile of wood than out on the open sea. The medium-sized freighter seemed inconspicuous enough for someone who preferred to work in the shadows: neither too conspicuous nor too shabby. The taut sails billowed lazily in the wind, while the salt-stained wood of the planks creaked under the weather-beaten feet of the sailors. There was not a single wind mage on board, no glittering runes on the mast—just honest craftsmanship made of wood, rope, and human sweat.
Nyxar stood at the bow, her hooded cloak wrapped tightly around her slender form. Her dark purple eyes with golden highlights scanned the endless sea, while the wind loosened strands of black hair from her hood and blew them around her oval face. Behind her, far to the north, lay Vaelarion – there the storms raged as if the sea itself were a living weapon bent on driving away any stranger. Waves towered up like monsters as high as houses, driven by wind that cut like sharp blades. Many ships disappeared without a trace in these waters, and those few that returned preferred to remain silent about what they had seen in those dark waters.
Here, in the waters closer to Veydris, a deceptive calm reigned. The surface glistened like polished silver, concealing the dangers lurking in the depths. Nyxar knew better than most. The elders whispered of creatures that slept deep beneath the sea—beings larger than entire city blocks, with eyes that devoured all light and mouths full of teeth that could crush ships like nutshells. She had never seen one of these creatures, and frankly, she had no desire to.
She breathed in the salty air, which tasted of rust and distant storms. For the other passengers, this was just a crossing. For her, it meant a return.
Her slender fingers unconsciously slid over the small stone in her coat pocket. A whispering stone—inconspicuous and gray like an ordinary pebble. But as soon as her skin touched it, she felt the familiar vibration, a soft hum that reached deeper than any audible sound. The stone was her connection to the whisperers and to the man who had introduced her to this shadow world.
She thought of the assignment she had just completed—the third since she officially joined the circle of whisperers. Gather information, check for changes in the cycle network. For most people, an impossible task: how do you check something that is invisible? But Nyxar saw it. She felt it. The cycle was not a vague myth or a diffuse feeling for her, but as tangible as the planks beneath her feet. And it was never silent. It was constantly changing, imperceptible to others, but to her like a flame flickering in the wind.
This time, it had shifted again. No great rift, no storm that would tear the world apart—but the invisible threads had been rewoven, and that alone was enough to make the whisperers uneasy.
A bitter smile played on her lips. Everything changes. A saying that could just as well have been her motto.
The port of Veydris welcomed them with its usual mixture of open arms and drawn knives.
Even from a distance, the black masts rose like an army of spears against the gray sky. The harbor formed a confusing labyrinth of swaying wooden walkways, winding alleys, and crooked warehouses that competed for precious space. A heavy cocktail of salt, fish, oil, and human sweat hung in the air, so thick that it seemed to suffocate even the strong sea breeze. Merchants shouted out their prices as if they could control the market by sheer volume. Nimble children darted between the adults, small shadows with even nimbler fingers. And in between them moved figures with hoods pulled low, their half-hidden faces concealing watchful eyes.
Veydris was a melting pot of a special kind. All currents flowed together here – the bright and the dark, the precious and the corrupt. Those who survived here quickly learned that everything had two sides. A laugh could hide a threat, a friendly handshake could signal the beginning of betrayal. Nevertheless, life pulsated here, untamed and dangerous, but alive.
Nyxar pushed her way through the crowd with smooth movements, her cloak concealing her sufficiently to avoid attracting unwanted attention. She knew the streets, knew which glances were best avoided. Finally, she stood in front of an inconspicuous workshop – according to the sign, the home of a stonemason.
She knocked twice, then once. The door swung open and a broad-shouldered man with a gray beard eyed her searchingly. Stone dust covered his face like a second skin, but his eyes seemed too alert for an ordinary craftsman.
"Delivery?" His voice sounded rough as sandpaper.
"A wagon load, as agreed." Nyxar pointed to the cart behind her. Hidden among ordinary chunks of stone lay the whispering stones—inconspicuous, yet full of secret resonance.
He pulled out one of the stones and weighed it thoughtfully in his large hand. "Ignirion pays well for ore. Perhaps too well."
The code. Nyxar replied without hesitation: "Sometimes a stone is worth more than a piece of gold."
His gaze met hers for a fraction of a second – a brief flash of recognition and understanding. Then he nodded curtly and took the cart while she handed him the forged delivery note. The cover was perfect. No one would ever ask why this particular stonemason made so many deliveries to Ignirion.
The way home led over familiar cobblestones, still wet and shiny from the recent rain. The houses huddled close together, as if afraid of the biting wind from the sea. Above it all hung that peculiar feeling that made Veydris so unique: a fragile balance between hope and constant danger.
Even before she reached the threshold of her parents' house, Nyxar knew she was expected.
Nyxar sensed them before she crossed the threshold. Two familiar sparks in her bloodstream, as familiar as her own breath. Her presence was like a warm current enveloping her – home.
Val'Zerin was the first to show himself. He glided silently out of the shadows beside the doorframe, his lithe, catlike body larger than any lynx. His silver-gray fur shimmered in the dim light, covered with dark rosette patterns that seemed to change with every movement. His wings—smooth, dark surfaces instead of feathers—spread briefly before he let out a melodic coo. Almost like a comment, half joy, half reproach: "Where have you been all this time?"
Nira'thayen remained in the shadows, as was her way. Slimmer than Val, more wiry, her gait more fluid. Her darker fur had sharp, blade-like patterns that made her almost invisible. Her amber eyes shimmered coldly and alertly—narrower than Val's, deep and clear as the light of a blade in the sunshine. She spoke rarely, and when she did, it was through movements that were clearer than any spoken language.
For the first time in days, a genuine smile played around Nyxar's lips. "Yes, I'm back. And no, I didn't bring any fish this time. You'll have to make do with what Mother cooked."
Val cooed louder, as if to protest, and pressed his head firmly against her hand. Nira blinked once—for her, the matter was settled—and settled down quietly beside her.
Shadow wings, night wings, whispered the stories of humans. Demons, said some. To Nyxar, they were none of those things. They were family. And as she stood there with Val the Silver Sound and Nira the Blade in the shadows, she knew that no matter how many shadows lurked outside, this was her home.
The greeting meant more than mere routine. It was coming home, closing the circle. Here, with the two of them, she felt complete.
Inside, the smell of fresh bread and long-cold coal hung in the air. Although her mother's forge had been silent for years, the characteristic smell of iron had burned irrevocably into the walls. A loaf of bread lay on the simple wooden table, next to it a knife—a simple gesture that was worth more to Nyxar than all the gold in Ikaril.
She sat down and took out the whispering stone. The silver ring on her finger pulsed faintly as she placed her hand on it. No writing was necessary, no parchment. Just a precise impulse. The stone vibrated slightly, and she felt the tunnel open. Her superior had already prepared the connection—like a vein in the circulatory system itself. Everything she had collected was ready and waiting. With the impulse, it flowed through her, disappeared from her hands, and was absorbed by the network of whisperers.
It was done.
Nyxar leaned back and closed her dark purple eyes. Val had curled up into a gray ball while Nira remained alert, her gaze fixed on the door. For one precious moment, Nyxar believed she was safe.
Until there was a knock.
The knock sounded a second time—deeper, heavier. This was no stray visitor, no curious neighbor, no accidental wanderer. It was the knock of someone who knew that behind that door was a heartbeat they wanted to silence.
Val reacted first. His soft greeting sound broke off abruptly and turned into a deep, throaty hiss. His wings snapped open and cast menacing shadows on the walls. Nira didn't move, but her slender body tensed like a bow about to be fired. Her eyes no longer showed curiosity. They had become weapons.
Nyxar froze. The cycle flickered within her as if a black thread had been woven into the familiar web. This was not a visit. This was an attack.
"Val. Nira." Her voice was quiet, almost superfluous. The two night wings knew what was coming.
The third knock did not come. Instead, the door shattered with a loud crash, sending a hail of wood splinters and bent metal flying. Men stormed in—silent despite the chaos, each step precisely calculated. Dark cloths covered their faces, their eyes cold as polished steel. Assassins. Not ordinary street killers—professionals.
Nyxar's heart raced, but she didn't take a step back. The world around her seemed to be muffled, every sound swallowed up—only the controlled breathing of the attackers penetrated her ears, along with the thunderous pounding in her own head.
"Nyxar!"
The desperate voice came from the backyard. She spun around and froze in sheer horror.
Her father lay on the ground. His blood had stained the gray stone floor black, his lifeless body lay in an unnatural contortion, his once familiar face bloodied and contorted. Kneeling beside him was her mother, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other pressed against the gaping wound in her side. Blood dripped through her fingers, but her eyes burned with unabated fighting spirit.
Nyxar's chest tightened painfully. The shock hit her like a fist in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. But there was no time to break down.
"Run, Nyxar!" Her mother's voice was almost a scream.
Run. Flee. Save herself. All her mother wanted was for at least her daughter to survive.
But Nyxar didn't move. Her hand was already clenched around the hilt of her dagger, her dark purple eyes fixed on the intruders. "Forget it. I didn't come home to run away."
One of the attackers took the first step, and Val lunged at him like a gray bolt of lightning. His wings whipped through the air so fast that all you could see was a flash of teeth and hear the dull crash of a body against the wall. Blood spurted, a strangled scream broke off.
Nira glided silently through the room—a shadow that suddenly took on a deadly substance. She jumped at one of the men's throats and tore him to the ground. Her wild hiss echoed through the house, ancient and terrifying.
Nyxar was already in motion. The dagger was perfectly balanced in her hand, as if it were a natural extension of her arm. She ducked under the blow of a sword and struck, feeling the resistance of leather, then soft flesh beneath it. Warm blood ran over her slender fingers.
Her mother fought at her side, though every blow visibly drained her strength. But her technique remained relentlessly precise. Two attackers kept a respectful distance, not daring to come too close.
"They want you!" her mother gasped hoarsely. "You're their real target!" One of the attackers hurled her mother across the room with a blast of air.
Nyxar stepped back, parried a powerful blow, and kicked hard. Her heart pounded like thunder against her ribs. Of course they wanted her. Of course. Somewhere out there, someone knew she was more than just a blacksmith's daughter. She was an informant for the Whisperers.
"Then they'll have to try harder, or get what they deserve."
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the tense air like a sharp blade.
Another assassin fell under Nira's silent onslaught. Val was everywhere at once — jumping, scratching, and biting, a whirlwind of gray fur and black wings.
But despite the apparent chaos, the opponents were not moving haphazardly. They acted like a well-oiled network, every step perfectly coordinated. Someone had trained them. Someone had sent them.
One of the men—broader in build, with an ugly scar across his forehead—came straight at Nyxar. He struck with the superhuman force of a blacksmith's hammer. Nyxar parried, but the blow knocked the wind out of her lungs and sent her flying backwards. She felt the cold stone of the wall against her back.
"For Vaelarion," he hissed through clenched teeth.
The words were little more than a whisper, but they burned into her mind. For Vaelarion. Was it the truth? A clever lie? A bait? Or was it actually true, and the Order wanted her dead?
Nyxar did not answer with words. She lunged forward, stabbing cleanly between his ribs. The man gasped, blood spurting from his lips, and sank to the ground.
But there were still too many of them.
The mother supported herself on one knee, the sword still ready for battle in her hand, but the blood flowed faster from her wound. Nyxar wanted to rush to her, but Val jumped in between them and knocked back an assassin who was trying to ram the dagger between her shoulder blades.
"I said run!" the mother gasped desperately.
Nyxar's jaws ground together. "And I said no!"
The rage burst out of her—hot and black, like molten iron. She spun around, her dagger now slightly extended by her energy, flashing and cutting through flesh again and again. She was no trained master, no born warrior like her mother—but she fought with fierce determination, faster and tougher, driven by a strength her attackers had underestimated.
One by one, they fell. Val and Nira fought like ghosts—unstoppable and cruel, despite the injuries they had sustained. The last man stumbled backward, blood seeping from several wounds. His eyes behind the mask remained cold—without fear, without remorse.
"You can't break the cycle..." he began. Then his sentence broke off as Nira slit his throat with a single blow.
Silence fell.
Nyxar gasped for breath, her heart still racing wildly. She looked around. Blood. Wood splinters. Corpses. The house that had been her home just moments ago now resembled a battlefield.
Her father lay unchanged, his blood long since cold. Her mother was still alive – but weak, pale, her face contorted with pain.
"Look at me," her mother whispered in a broken voice. "You... must stay strong."
Nyxar rushed to her, knelt down beside her, and placed her hand on the wound as if she could hold back life just by touching it. "You're not going to die on me."
Her mother laughed dryly and coughed up blood. "Then hurry."
Nyxar hastily reached into her side pocket. Her fingers trembled, but she knew exactly what she was looking for. A small glass vial containing a liquid as dark red as fresh heart blood, sealed with a simple cork. The tincture.
She had bought it at a market in a port town in Vaelarion—an ancient recipe, expensive and risky to use, and illegal in most parts of Ikaril. She had originally intended it for her father, for his hips, which had kept him awake so often at night in recent years. She had hoped it would at least give him a few peaceful nights.
But now he was dead. And her mother was bleeding to death in her arms.
"Hold still." Her voice sounded firmer than she felt. She broke the seal—the smell was acrid and metallic, tinged with unfamiliar herbs. Carefully, she poured the tincture into her mother's mouth, gently supporting her head.
At first, nothing happened. Then her mother's body tensed as if invisible fire were racing through her veins. The skin under Nyxar's hands became feverishly hot, and sweat appeared on her pale forehead.
"Breathe," Nyxar whispered urgently, "just breathe."
The wound began to close more quickly, the blood clot forming at an almost superhuman speed. Color returned to her mother's lips, which had been gray as ash just moments before.
But Nyxar knew only too well that the effect was temporary. A last gasp against death, not true salvation. Maybe an hour, maybe two. The tincture would not grant more than that. But it had to be enough.
Her mother was breathing heavily, but more powerfully. Her eyes sought Nyxar's gaze. "Where did you get it?"
"It was a gift," Nyxar replied curtly. And inside her, a bitter thought burned: Bought for him. Needed for you.
The dead were carried out that same night, one by one. Nyxar dragged them out with trembling hands, her mother helping despite her weakness, pale but unyielding. And unteachable.
They burned the assassins at dawn. The flames licked greedily at the bodies, sparks rising like evil spirits into the dim sky. Veydris could tolerate many things—but the rotting corpses of assassins were not one of them. Fire meant purification. Fire was a warning.
Nyxar stood before the pyre, her dark purple eyes fixed on the figures she had just killed. Sooner or later, she would find out who had sent them. Vaelarion? The Blood Envoys? Or someone else entirely, hidden in the impenetrable web of shadows and intrigue?
But one thing she knew for sure: this had not been a coincidence. Someone wanted her. And that someone had already claimed blood.
Val and Nira stood to her left and right, motionless, but their eyes glowed in the light of the fire. Guardians. Shadows. Family.
Most people simply called them "Shadow Wings" — a name born of fear and ancient legends. In old fairy tales, they were described as harbingers of death, but that was only a fraction of the truth. Today, they were beloved companions throughout Ikaril.
Three lines ran through their kind: the wild Lightwings, young and inexperienced; the mysterious Interwings, said to be capable of performing miracles and healing; and the Nightwings—larger, wiser, more agile, quieter. And above all: loyal.
Val and Nira were Night Wings. Their fur shone like dark steel, streaked with patterns that moved with every breath. Their folded wings looked like night that had taken shape. Their silver eyes sometimes showed gentleness, sometimes the sharpness of teeth and claws.
It was said that night wings bonded only once in their lives—to one human, to one heart. If that human died, they died too: either of a broken will or of anger that would not let them rest. Bonding two was considered impossible.
And yet here stood Val and Nira. Val—loud, curious, his voice like a bright ringing in Nyxar's mind. Nira—quiet, alert, a born hunter. Where Val spoke, Nira was silent. Where Nira struck, Val was there to celebrate her prey.
Nyxar hadn't tamed them—no one could tame a shadow wing. They had chosen him. Long before they saw each other, he had sensed their presence: two sparks in the cycle, waiting. When they found each other, it wasn't chance, but fate. At least, that's what he told himself.
In the glow of the fire, they were what they were: not pets or weapons, but companions. Two souls who carried their own as if they had always been a part of them.
The next morning, they buried their father. No grand ritual, no crowd of mourners—just the two of them and the night wings watching silently from the edge. Veydris was not a city for grand monuments, and the Whisperers were not a people for elaborate ceremonies. The body was wrapped in linen cloths and laid to rest beneath a pile of stones so that the cycle could take its course.
Nyxar knelt at the grave, her slender fingers clawing at the earth until the dirt cut into her nails. The wind from the coast carried the taste of salt and iron, and she listened to the soft crackling of the stones she carefully stacked on top of each other to protect him. A poor grave, considering what he had meant to her.
Her mother stood next to her, leaning heavily on a cane. The wound had half healed thanks to the tincture, but it was by no means forgotten. Her eyes looked tired, but not broken.
"They'll come back," she said after a long silence. Her voice sounded hoarse, almost lost in the wind.
Nyxar raised her head, her forehead covered in dirt, tears mixed with earth. "Why?" she asked in a rough voice. "What do they want from me?"
Her mother was silent for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then she exhaled deeply. "I don't know exactly. But... there's something you need to know. Something we never told you. I wanted to wait. I wanted you to grow up, to be strong. But after last night... maybe there won't be a later."
Nyxar's heart began to beat faster. "What do you mean?"
Her mother sat down heavily beside her and placed a trembling hand on the pile of stones. "When we found you, you were no ordinary child. We told you it was a ritual of the Whisperers that had marked you. But that was a lie. The scars on your forearms... they were already there."
Nyxar stared at her in disbelief. "Already there?"
Her mother nodded slowly. "You were lying in the forest. Neither abandoned nor exposed. You were lying there as if the earth itself had given birth to you. The cycle had brought you forth like a seed taking root in the wrong soil. We didn't know why. We only knew that you were there. Your father said he had never seen anything like it—and he knew more than most."
Nyxar's thoughts raced wildly. Everything she had believed—the ritual, the explanations—crumbled like rotten stone. "Father knew more?"
"Yes." Her mother's voice threatened to break. "He had theories. Too many. But I... I didn't want to know. I didn't want to see you as a mystery, neither as a tool nor as a danger. To me, you were just my daughter. That was all I needed. And that was enough."
A bitter smile played around her cracked lips. "Maybe that was naive. Maybe it wasn't. But all the years we laughed, the years we really lived, were more important to me than any prophecy. I wanted you to be free. Not trapped in what others think they see in you."
Nyxar felt her throat tighten. Anger, sadness, confusion—everything rushed at her at once like a breaking wave. "So... am I a mistake? Or...?"
"No," her mother interrupted sharply and forcefully. "You are not a mistake. You are part of the whole, as we all are. Perhaps...a special part. Maybe that's exactly what they fear. Or desire."
Her words hung heavy in the salty air.
Nyxar looked at the stones covering her father. The world as she knew it had collapsed. But beneath the burning pain, something else stirred: a glowing, unshakeable will.
The fine rune scars on her forearms began to shimmer in the faint morning light, as if her emotions had brought them to life. The silver ring on her finger pulsed more strongly—an echo of her own wildly beating pulse.
"Then... they will come back," she said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her face that the wind had loosened.
Her mother nodded grimly. "Yes. But this time we will be prepared."
Nyxar's slender fingers clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She could feel Val and Nira close by, like two loyal shadows that would never leave her. Her piercing, dark purple eyes with golden flecks hardened to crystal.
"Then let them come," she whispered—this time it was not defiance, not blind rage. It was a vow, forged from steel and shadow, sealed with her father's blood.
The wind from the sea carried her vow away, while the rising sun made the purple embroidery on her cloak glow. Seagulls screeched in the distance, but Nyxar already heard the echo of coming battles.
She stood up, her supple movements betraying the tension of a predator about to pounce. Her angular cheekbones cast sharp shadows, her oval face looking as if carved from marble. Whoever wanted her would pay for it, with interest and compound interest.
Chapter 17: The Mask that spoke too soon
Notes:
I would love your opinion in the comments ^^ please tell me what you think
Chapter Text
Date: 28 Veydris (344 A.C.)
Location: Lutharion
Characters: two mask carvers and their son
The wood chip curled off the blade like a bashful confession. Master Corin followed its small escape with eyes that had long since ceased to wonder about anything except perhaps the stubbornness of wood that refused to become what he imagined it to be. The blade danced through the warm wood, and anyone passing by outside the milky workshop windows would have seen only a gray-haired craftsman going about his daily work. But anyone lingering inside would have sensed it immediately: two old acquaintances were conversing here.
"Well, are you going to cooperate today, or should I plane you back to your senses again?" Corin muttered to the mask he was creating, as if he actually expected a defiant answer. After forty years of carving, he was no longer quite sure whether he was just imagining it or whether the wood really did sometimes talk back. His wife, Master Selya, called it a charming eccentricity. He himself simply called it his profession.
Lutharion floated in a blanket of fog that rolled lazily around the city like a contented cat. The floating city breathed in time with the wind, and the fog moved with it—reverently, as if it knew it was enveloping something special. The mask carver's workshop hung on the outer ring of the city like a defiant bird's nest: three cozy rooms, a low attic with crooked beams, and a wooden walkway that jutted boldly into nothingness. Brass bells dangled from the edges and jingled melodiously with every gust of wind, letting every visitor know: this is a place of work, this is a place of life, and disturbances are only welcome after knocking.
The scent of the workshop was a symphony of warm wood, shiny oils, and a hint of salty fog. Every wall was lined with shelves carrying a silent audience of hundreds of faces—some grinning cheekily, others looking thoughtful, still others seeming to be about to reveal a secret. Some showed signs of wear from past festivities: fine scratches from chains, traces of paint from rain-drenched parades, the dull sheen of many touching hands. Most, however, waited patiently. And those who waited in Lutharion had learned that patience was an art form.
Corin stood up to his full, albeit modest, height and raised the carving knife like a magic wand. He was broad-shouldered like an old oak trunk, with hands in which every scar and callus could tell its own story of unruly wood. The blade rested in his palm like an extension of his thoughts. A deep breath, then he made the next cut. The wood sighed softly under the steel, releasing a wafer-thin shaving that curled elegantly before floating onto the workbench—bright as moonlight, light as a promise. Corin blew gently over the fresh cut, and one could have sworn that the surface began to come alive under his breath.
"Don't get too carried away," Selya warned without looking up from her own work. She stood at the cast-iron stove, dripping golden oil from a bulbous jug into a shallow clay bowl, while her free hand made circular movements over the liquid. The scent transformed in layers: first tart resin, then something bitter like crushed bark, and finally the warm sweetness of a tree that had been allowed to grow for centuries. "She should be able to laugh without her cheeks tearing."
"Our masks never tear," Corin grumbled with a mischievous grin. "Ours still laugh even when no one gives them a reason to."
"That," Selya replied dryly, "is probably because they have your sense of humor."
Her son Taren crouched in his usual observation post at the window, one foot braced against the workbench, his hands unusually idle in his lap. Today he was not allowed to help – too risky when the face had already progressed so far that one clumsy cut could ruin weeks of work. He knew that, even accepted it. Nevertheless, his fingers followed his father's every movement, twitching when the blade cut a curve, tensing when a chip came loose. The boy had grown up with the sound of steel scraping against wood, the sound of damp cloths on freshly oiled surfaces, the concentrated breath of his parents hanging between the tools like an invisible baton.
Selya carefully set down the oil bowl and reached for a linen cloth, narrow as a tongue and soft as silk. She ran it over the wooden forehead of the mask. "Come on, breathe for us," she whispered—not an instruction, more of a loving request. And Corin breathed with her: a short breath on the carved surface, repositioning the blade, applying pressure, releasing, pulling. Each gesture followed the next in a rhythm that changed constantly. It was like pottery on wood, except that it wasn't the wheel that turned, but time itself.
In Lutharion, these masks were considered a venerable craft and a lucrative trade, but in this particular workshop, they were something else entirely. The two masters never called it magic—they cursed when the oil got too cold, grumbled about wood that was too dry, laughed at noses that turned out too cheeky. But with each stroke of the blade, more than mere form flowed into the mask. The two knew instinctively where the wood thirsted for air. They put their life warmth into it, stroke by stroke, breath by breath, until something began to awaken between the fibers and the air. No mystical runes, no secret symbols, no complicated alchemy. Everything was done with the simplest of means: hands, breath, and the patience of people who had learned that the best things took time to use their energy purposefully and consciously.
"The shadow caravan isn't coming today, is it?" Taren asked cautiously. His voice was subdued—one spoke softly when a face was about to come to life. Some masks were already listening before ears had been carved into them.
"Not today," Corin confirmed, blowing another splinter from the cheek line. "The mists are perpendicular to the currents. You know what that means."
"Narrow passages," said Selya, nodding knowingly. "And those who rush through narrow passages fall deeper than planned."
The Shadow Caravan was Lutharion's only reliable connection to the world below. After all, the floating city was located where one could neither walk nor roll with a cart. Lutharion floated—thanks to ancient magic that no one fully understood or dared to repair. Some residents claimed that the city was protected by the gods and had already been floating before the cycle broke and Ikaril reorganized it. Others swore that a huge current of pure magic carried it, fed by forces as old as the cycle itself. The Lutharians nodded politely to all theories and stuck to tried and tested rules: when the edge bells rang twice short and once long, they waited. When green light illuminated the landing stages, they were allowed to load – never when blue. And anyone who dared to overtake the caravan, no matter how sure-footed they appeared, never returned.
The oil bowls stood in rows, arranged by color and scent like soldiers in formation. The polishing cloths hung over their frames and had become almost transparent from years of use. Selya took the finest of them and polished the wooden cheeks of the mask until a gentle sheen appeared—not an obtrusive shine that betrayed vanity, but a quiet glow that was only visible when you looked closely.
"She should appear light-footed," said Selya, examining her work. "Light enough to dance."
"Light-footedness is risky," murmured Corin, making a particularly delicate cut around the corner of the mouth. "Too light, and people take her too seriously."
"Then we'll give her a sense of humor." Selya ran her polishing brush over the mouth area—a little deeper on the left, a little sharper on the right—and as soon as the cloth was lifted, the mask seemed to smile. Just a hint, a shadow of a smile. But Taren laughed spontaneously.
"She can already grin!"
"She wants to," Selya corrected, dabbing again. "The festivals in Kael'Zara appreciate faces like that. When the music gets too loud and the wine is too thin, only the right masks can save the evening."
"And what about the merchants from Ignirion?" Taren asked curiously. "The guys with the bright red ribbons?"
"They want to show off," Corin grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Give them wide teeth and gold-plated edges. But this—" He lifted the mask into the light so that the shadows modeled her face, "—is for people who prefer to listen rather than shout."
Lutharion had no magnificent towers or defiant battlements stretching pompously toward the sky. The city looked as if it had been created by a happy accident and then simply forgotten in the air. Thick wooden walkways crisscrossed dizzying chasms, squares hung like stone bowls between houses on stilts, and bridges swung where no one would expect them. The unwritten laws of the city were: Never step onto an untested walkway alone. Wait until two others have crossed it safely. No one had ever written down why—everyone just knew. It was this kind of naturally grown order that held the city together, without rulers or decrees. Rumors spoke of a council of elders who met somewhere in the misty heights and collected faces until they believed they knew the true soul of the city. But the mask carvers just shrugged when anyone asked about it. "If they exist," they would say, "they'd better help stabilize the fog and keep the Golden Thread away from us. Then maybe they'll find out who we really are."
Corin put his blade aside. The last cut had freed the inner edge of the eyelid, and the mask now seemed to blink, even as it lay motionless on the workbench. He ran his flat hand over the surface—gently, as if smoothing a child's hair from its forehead.
"There," he said with satisfaction. "Now it's your job, my son."
"Don't be too hasty," Selya warned, but her hands were already reaching for the oil bowl, its contents shimmering between amber and dark tea. "Just treat the edges. Forehead, cheeks, corners of the mouth. But don't touch the nose—it has to be able to breathe."
"The nose is too big," she remarked casually, leaning against the doorframe.
"Do you see a nose?" Corin asked, feigning indignation. "I see the future centerpiece of the next big celebration."
"If that nose becomes the centerpiece of a celebration, I sincerely hope we're allowed to remain spectators and don't have to participate."
"The celebration or the nose?"
A mischievous smile flitted across Selya's face. "Both, I'm afraid."
Taren instinctively held his breath, even though he knew that was counterproductive when awakening a mask. Corin carefully placed the mask on the "Hörnischen," a round wooden stand with three elegant legs—her stage for the most important moment. Selya dabbed the wooden forehead with three circular movements, as if gently loosening a knot. Corin placed both hands next to her cheeks without touching them and exhaled calmly. Once. Again. The oil soaked in where it belonged – according to its own mysterious rules. Over time, one learned to respect the preferences of wood. And this wood loved warmth.
The mask moved the corners of its mouth so distinctly that Taren took a step closer. Then Selya tilted the oil bowl by a hair's breadth and let a single golden drop slide along the edge of her mouth. "Don't drink it," she whispered with a wink. "Just taste it."
The drop clung to the surface, searching for a groove, finding none, and coming to rest. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, and a sound—barely perceptible—ran through the workshop. Not a word, more like a warm breath, something like a suppressed giggle that couldn't be held back.
"She accepts us," Corin noted with satisfaction. "Pick her up, Taren."
The boy stepped forward reverently and lifted the mask with both hands. The weight was perfectly balanced—noticeably present, but never burdensome, as if he were holding a warm, familiar hand. "Can I try it on?"
"Of course," his father grinned. "But only if you're prepared to be as talkative as your cousin for three days straight."
"Which cousin?"
"It doesn't matter which one. They're all the same."
Taren laughed heartily and put the mask on his face. The leather straps wrapped around his head as if by magic and found the perfect places to sit – tight enough for security, loose enough for comfort. For a moment, he felt only his own body heat – then something cool like the night wind glided over his skin, and the world shifted a hand's breadth to the left. His breathing sounded different, deeper. When he moved his lips, the mask responded, and when he raised his eyebrows, unfamiliar muscles in his forehead laughed along with him.
"Say something," Selya urged him.
"What?" asked Taren—and the voice that came out of the mask was brighter than his own, with a slight echo, as if he were standing in a theater instead of a cozy workshop.
"Excellent," Corin nodded appreciatively. "She definitely has a sense of humor."
"I'd like to—"
"Take it off." Selya deftly untied the ribbons. "She's had enough of you. Now she wants to go to a real party."
Taren reluctantly returned the mask, but his eyes shone with pride. There were days when all you did was work with wood and plane it. And there were days like this, when you freed something from the wood that had always been waiting to be seen.
Outside, the fog parted like theater curtains and closed again, as if cradling the city so it wouldn't tip over. Voices drifted over from the north pier—merchants from the Shadow Caravan, loudly announcing their prices so the whole city would know what was going on before they were gone again. In Lutharion, people traded more with gestures and glances than with coins. What really counted here was reputation. Those who delivered poorly found that the bridges carried them a little less far the next time. But those who worked reliably and honestly eventually found their way into the circles where the important decisions were made – even if no one officially admitted it.
Selya placed the finished mask on the window stand, its face facing west. "She should see that the day is bright," she explained. "And learn that you should never take that for granted."
Corin wiped the workbench thoroughly, collected the fine wood shavings in a small bowl, and placed it next to the stove. "So that the house knows what it was nourished with today."
"Is the caravan coming tomorrow?" Taren asked hopefully.
"When the bells ring twice short and once long," Selya replied. "No one here will hurry before then."
"And what if the merchants from Sylvara place their special orders again?"
"They always order," Corin grumbled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "They have their children speak with masks before they can write their own names. They believe it makes them more honest." He grinned mischievously. "Sometimes it even works."
Evening descended on the city like a cautious experiment. The workshop never really closed—it just drew the curtain halfway across the window so that the light from outside could caress the waiting faces. Taren put water on for tea, Selya fetched fresh bread from the kitchen, and Corin sat down in his usual place by the window—the small stool from which he could see everything beyond his control: the currents in the fog, the seagulls circling below the city, the silent waves of the guards on the edges when they thought no one was looking.
"Do you hear that?" Taren asked suddenly, raising his head to listen.
"Those aren't the bells," Selya said.
"No," he whispered. "Not the bells. Her."
Her. The mask at the window. The corners of its mouth had lifted imperceptibly—the same gesture as before, but this time something hung in the air, as if someone had plucked an invisible string.
A sound. Quieter than a whisper. It didn't come from the room—it originated directly in the head, just behind the ear, where one remembers particularly vivid dreams. A word that didn't want to be a word.
"Later," Corin said decisively and stood up, as if he had to escort an uninvited thought to the door. "New faces like to chatter on the first evening. Tomorrow they will be quieter. Then they will want to be carried and admired. Today they should just learn that we see and appreciate them."
They ate in silence—bread with spicy cheese, accompanied by the golden-sweet delicacy of a boiled syrup extracted from the bark of those peculiar trees that grew on the outskirts of town and listened to the wind until the wind gave them flavor. There was also a thick stew, steaming in a bowl. They were people who used their words where they were really needed. In the workshop, that was rarely necessary.
As Taren washed the bowls, he heard it again. This time it was unmistakably a voice—bright, young, cocky, and dangerous for that very reason. He stepped to the window. The mask looked over his head into the gray nothingness, as if watching a parade that only it could see.
"Have you heard?" chattered the mask in a melodious, teasing voice. "The trees want to dance tonight! But shhh—that's an ancient joke. The trees always dance when no one is looking."
Taren stared at it with his mouth open. "Did you just—"
Bright, cheerful, unsettling: "Well, that was quite a birth! Finally finished, finally alive. And no one says thank you. How typical of you humans."
Corin spun around like lightning. Selya froze in mid-motion. Taren grinned in amazement.
"Maybe," the mask continued in the same playful tone, "you'd better go to sleep. Someone's coming to visit tomorrow. Someone who's been here before. Or maybe not—it's so easy to lose track of time when you're... well, dead."
A silvery giggle. Lighthearted. Childish. And yet somehow frosty.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm mostly talking nonsense. Most of the time, anyway."
"I never left," the mask chattered cheerfully, "but I'm coming back. That's the funny thing about coming back – you have to leave first, don't you? By the way, did you know that crowns are always too big for the heads they're supposed to wear? That's why they roll away so wonderfully easily. Practice catching them, my dears, practice diligently—"
"Enough." Corin's voice was calm but unwavering. He stepped between the mask and the window. There was no threat in his tone—more like, You're not alone here.
"I just want to play," the mask giggled innocently. "Play, sing, remember. Remember what is yet to come. A storm with hands, a singing pit, a throne without a sitter, and a home that falls from above even though it wants to stay above. I am here, I have always been here. And I will return."
Selya hadn't moved an inch. Only her knuckles had turned white where she clutched the edge of the table. Then she let go. Taren saw the look with which she assessed the situation—how much she heard and how little she wanted to reveal.
"That's enough," Corin repeated firmly. This time he reached for the linen cloth he had used to clean the workbench, folded it carefully, and gently stroked the wooden cheeks of the mask with it. He didn't literally take the words out of her mouth—but the room fell silent, so silent it was as if someone had placed the entire workshop in a protective hand.
Taren struggled to compose himself. "She—she really—"
"Yes," Selya said simply. "And no."
"Was that—"
"Words sometimes find their way to us," Corin explained matter-of-factly. "Occasionally through the wrong throat. Some masks actually speak. Most just hum to themselves. Some tell brazen lies. And rarely—very rarely—they confuse the past with the future. That doesn't make them prophets or oracles. It makes them... difficult house guests."
"Difficult house guests?"
"The kind that stay long after the music has stopped."
Taren looked back and forth between his parents, searching their faces for an explanation for what he was feeling. It wasn't pure fear—or maybe it was. But it was also curiosity. And beneath the curiosity lay a sense of danger.
"We'll take them to the chamber," Selya decided.
Taren blinked in confusion. "The chamber?"
"There aren't many," Corin said, as if apologizing for an embarrassing family secret. He carefully lifted the mask from the stand and held it as one would carry a sleeping person. "Only those who speak too soon, smile too deeply, or wear their noses too vainly. Misbegotten does not mean inferior. Misbegotten means..." He searched for the right word, found none, snorted. "Too much at once, I would say. Maybe they're too close to the cycle."
The chamber was located behind the workshop, separated by a heavy hatch that kept the smell of fog outside and the scent of oil inside. One then entered through a low door that forced every visitor to stoop, and found oneself in a room where time seemed to follow different rules. There were a few shelves, deliberately placed at a distance from each other. Three masks, each on its own stand. One had moved its eyes on its own after being worn for the first time—away from Corin's original placement to a position from which it could see better, but the wearer was haunted by visions. Another had formed its mouth into a silent "O" and since then refused to do anything but scream. The third smiled incessantly, no matter how serious the occasion. It had been banned from all celebrations after turning a funeral into a farce. Since then, it had smiled to itself in solitude.
Corin placed the new mask on a fourth, previously empty stand. For a heartbeat, Taren thought she would speak immediately. But she remained silent. She just looked west, where the fog grew lighter as the caravan approached.
"We will repair you," Taren said, because he needed that certainty.
"We will try," Selya replied. "And maybe she will never be completely calm. We'll just have to accept that. Even in Lutharion, there are faces that say more than is good for them."
Taren nodded slowly. "What did she mean by all that?"
"Nothing you need to understand to do your job well," said Corin, placing his hand on his son's shoulder—firm enough to offer comfort, gentle enough to show understanding. "Everything you will understand when the time comes. Until then, listen to the breath of the wood. Not the stories it tells."
Outside, footsteps echoed on the wooden walkways. A neighbor poked his head through the workshop door, ducking deftly under the brass bell so as not to pass through as wind. "Have you heard? The caravan may be coming tomorrow. When the bells—" He fell silent, noticing the tense silence, scanning the three faces. "Ah," he said understandingly. "One face too many. Or too early?"
"Definitely too early," Selya confirmed.
The neighbor respectfully tapped his forehead—half greeting, half acknowledgment—and disappeared again. In Lutharion, people instinctively knew when questions would do more harm than good.
Later, as the light sank low over the city and the workbench had become a land of shadows, with the bells on the jetty ringing only occasionally, they began packing. Boxes made of soft linden wood, lined with supple leather on the inside so that nothing could be scratched or damaged. Each mask was given its own padded bag, as if it were a pair of precious, delicate hands. Discreet markings were placed on the lids—no secrets, just practical notes: North Pier, South Square, for the merchants who knew which faces suited which customers. Once a month, an assortment went to Sylvara — lighter shades, more delicate lines for the lovers of subtle elegance there. Another went to Ignirion — bold shapes, expressive mouths for people who began to rave at the mere sight of wine. More rarely, a delivery went to Veydris — masks for people who said less and remained silent for longer.
"If they do come tomorrow, they'll need the spring set for the east," Selya thought as she closed the last box. "It's been raining down there for days, from what I hear. The people there should be allowed to laugh."
"They just need to be reminded that laughter is still possible," Corin added, sounding as if he were quoting a piece of wisdom he had picked up somewhere and found valuable.
Taren carried the packed boxes into the foyer and stacked them neatly next to the door where the mist could see them. He had developed a habit of whispering something to each box before setting it down—not real words, just warm breath through his teeth. His parents never mentioned it. Everyone had their little rituals, and as long as they didn't bother anyone, they were part of life.
When evening finally fell over the city—slowly, like a hesitation before an important confession—Taren sat down next to the door once more. Val, the lightwing from the neighboring pier, brushed against his leg and settled down in front of him, as if she knew that sometimes you had to sit by doors to hear what remained unsaid outside. Taren thought of the voice of the mask —the bright, sharp words that had sounded so cheerful that it was only in the echo that you realized how cold they had actually been. "I'll be back," she had said. How could someone who had never been away return? And why did a brand-new mask that had never been worn speak as if it were more familiar with ten festivals than all the other faces on the shelf?
"Best not to think about it," he muttered, knowing he was lying to himself as he stroked Val's wings absentmindedly.
"If we can't fix it," he said later, as they turned off the light and the house sought a more comfortable position in the air currents, "then we'll just keep it. In the chamber. For..."
"Later," Selya finished.
That night, as the fog enveloped the workshop like a cocoon and the bells on the jetty hung almost motionless, the mask stood silently in its chamber. Taren lay wide awake in his bed, listening for a sound he both wanted and feared. When he finally heard something, it wasn't a sound in the true sense of the word—more of a feeling that nestled in his thoughts. Then, very softly, that bright, exuberant voice again, which seemed to be forced into a whisper, making it even more insistent.
"Don't be sad," the mask giggled softly, "don't be sad, don't be afraid. He was never gone, you know. He was just... out of place. Crowns roll so wonderfully easily. Bring nets if you can. And if the city ever falls—it will fall upwards, did you know that? No? You'll see. I'll be back, I'll be back, I—"
Taren was on his feet before he had knocked the blanket away. He stood in the doorway of the chamber, his hand pressed against the edge as if he had to cling to it to keep from falling into something that could not be described in words. Corin had followed him silently—only the familiar hand on his shoulder betrayed his presence.
"Not tonight," he said firmly, repeating the gesture from the evening: the linen cloth, the wooden cheek, the edge of the mouth, the returning silence. The mask fell silent instantly. Taren felt the tension in the room ease and took a deep breath, as if he had just run a long distance.
The next morning, the city woke up to the sound of bells. Two short rings, one long ring—the familiar signal. The shadow caravan would reach the landing stages if the fog and wind cooperated. The porters emerged from the winding alleys, each with his own distinctive gait, which the city recognized by its sound. They did not knock on doors, but rang their brass bells, and whoever answered had something to send.
Selya meticulously checked the leather straps, Corin checked the metal fasteners, and Taren checked every single knot. Nothing was allowed to slip, nothing was allowed to come loose. If a mask was damaged, more than just wood fell – reputation fell. And reputation was the foundation on which Lutharion built its existence.
"Not this one," Corin said decisively as Taren's gaze wandered involuntarily to the chamber.
"No," Selya confirmed. "Not for the market, not for celebrations. Not until she has learned to wait until she is asked for her opinion."
Taren nodded understandingly. Nevertheless, he stepped in front of the hatch once more. Inside, there was bright light, even though the lights were tiny. The mask did not look at him – her gaze remained fixed on the west. He took a deep breath.
"If you really do come back," he whispered so softly that he could barely hear the words himself, "then come on a night when no one is keeping watch. And don't tell anyone until someone is ready to listen."
He didn't know who he was addressing these words to. To a voice in the wood? To the material itself? To the something that hovered over Lutharion when no one was looking? Perhaps to everyone. Perhaps to no one. He closed the door, but did not lock it. In Lutharion, people rarely locked anything. They knew who was nearby – and if they didn't know, they didn't have enough bells hanging on the door anyway.
The porters arrived on time and accepted the boxes as if they were old acquaintances they hadn't seen in a long time. One of them, a man with a narrow braided leather headband, bowed politely. "Nordsteg. Two days to Sylvara, if the passages remain open."
"Ignirion gets the expressive ones," Selya instructed. "Tell them not to sing if they're already drinking. Or vice versa — but definitely not both at the same time."
The man grinned knowingly and disappeared. Corin watched him go, then rubbed his fingers together almost imperceptibly, as if brushing off invisible wood shavings. "If anyone asks who we are," he muttered, "they'd better walk through the fog to find out."
"And if no one asks?" Taren wanted to know.
"Then the faces will ask," Selya replied with a mysterious smile.
They stood at the jetty and watched the caravan until it disappeared into the fog. The fog closed behind it like the page of a huge book. The edge bells sounded their farewell signal: two short rings, one long. Taren thought of the voice that had spoken in jest of storms and pits, of crowns and falls, and felt the workshop behind him grow quiet.
"We'll fix it," he said for the fourth time.
"We'll try," Corin repeated patiently. "Sometimes that's enough. And if not..." He looked down into the depths, where the mists tugged at the invisible anchors of the city. "Then at least today she learned that someone will stay with her, even if she talks too much."
Selya put her arm around Taren's shoulders. "Go to work," she said, and it sounded like: Stay safe and sound. "The world needs faces that can smile without hurting."
He nodded and turned toward the workshop. In the doorway, he turned around once more. For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow at the edge of the hatch—a movement that was not his own. Maybe it was just the fog taking a shortcut through the windows. Maybe it was something else. Lutharion lived off things you could see without wanting to prove them.
In the chamber beneath the hatch, the mask stood and gazed westward. It did not smile. It did not speak. But if you listened very closely, you might have heard a soft chuckle, so harmless-sounding that it was easy to overlook. It was the kind of chuckle you heard at markets when a merchant performed an old trick and everyone pretended they had never seen it before.
"I never left," the voice would have said, if it had been allowed to. "And I'm coming back."
But no one let it. Not today. Today, Lutharion took its own rules seriously and did what it was renowned for in the lower lands: it held its ground. It kept calm, it kept peace, it kept together—without rulers, without decrees, with bells that announced the time and faces that knew what could be entrusted to them.
On the shelf in the workshop, the finished masks stood close together, as if holding a council of war. One had a crooked mark on its left cheek that could only be seen when the lights were off. Another could frown without moving the corners of its mouth – perfect for negotiations where no one wanted to be the loser, but everyone still paid their price. A third – the new one, so light that it was easy to forget it was there – waited in the chamber for its time to come.
In the evening, Corin fetched the special cloth he used when he didn't want to repair anything, but simply wanted to be present. He went down through the hatch into the chamber without sneaking, sat down on the stool that was there for fathers, for craftsmen, for people who were willing to endure. He said nothing. He just breathed. His hands rested relaxed on his knees. He didn't look directly at the mask – he looked into the space between them. After a while, that space became warm.
"Not today," he finally said and stood up again. "Maybe tomorrow. Or in a year. Or never." The mask smiled very gently. It wasn't a smile that meant, "I'm right." It meant, "I'll wait until you're ready."
Out on the outskirts of town, the fog parted. Someone sang—not a festive song, just a rhythm he needed to find his way home. The bells answered: twice short, once long. The city responded with its own silent pulse. And somewhere in the western gray, the shadow caravan found its way back—loaded with boxes full of faces.
Someday, in another story, someone would understand what she had said that night. But not today. Today was a day for work. And work kept Lutharion floating in the air, that was all it took.
Chapter 18: Wings in the Mist
Notes:
⚠️ Content Warning / Trigger warning:
This story contains sensitive themes such as animal cruelty, graphic violence, torture, blood/gore, systematic exploitation.
Not suitable for under 16s. Please only continue reading if you feel emotionally safe.
Chapter Text
Date: 12 Vaelaris (348 n.C)
Location: Veydris - Whisper's End
Characters: Kaelira Zar'Vorr & Nyxar Vey'Taal
The fog of Veydris crept through every corner of the city like a hungry ghost, finding its way through cracks in the stone and human weaknesses alike. Kaelira Zar'Vorr had known this since she first set foot in this godforsaken city. Veydris wanted to see you naked—not just your body, but your soul as well. The city of Whisper's End, northwest of Veydris, spoke a language of shadows and whispers, and those who didn't listen ended up with their throats slit in an alleyway.
The massive warrior stood at the edge of the lower market, where morality was as cheap as rotten meat. Her dark brown eyes with reddish reflections scanned the crowd, while her right hand unconsciously touched the frayed band around her wrist—a habit she could never break. The air here tasted of rancid oil, congealed blood, and the sweet-bitter smoke of burning dreams. Merchants sold promises from a cloth and a smile, while their customers stood ready to flee as soon as a dagger spoke faster than coins.
Kaelira wasn't here to trade. She was hunting for the truth—a more dangerous prey than any man with a sword. Two weeks ago, she had heard of "healing surfaces," shimmering artifacts in the mansions of the rich that mended bones and swept away disease like dust. The wealthy called it a blessing from the gods. But Kaelira had recognized the warm, golden glow these objects emitted—it was the light of feathers, not magic runes. Wing feathers. And that meant torture.
The stench hit her like a punch in the stomach before she saw the first cages. Iron, corroded by the eternal fog, but beneath it lay something more repulsive: the smell of burnt innocence, of pain so deep that it infected the air itself. The scars on her chest began to tingle—an old warning from her body about what was to come.
She followed three men carrying wooden crates who were trying too hard to appear ordinary. In Veydris, no one strove for normality unless they had something terrible to hide. The alley they disappeared into was too narrow to be a coincidence—someone had built it that way to lure prey into a trap.
Kaelira set her heavy boot on the slippery pavement. The world exploded.
A rope bit into her throat like the teeth of a predator, while a club struck her ribs and knocked the breath out of her. Two shadows detached themselves from the walls—too coordinated to be coincidence. She had walked into a damn trap.
Her training took over. Kaelira pulled her shoulder back, feeling the rope cut into her flesh, but the grip loosened. She kicked backward, her boot crashing into bone, and a scream tore through the air. Her sword sang as she drew it, the familiar coldness of the steel calming her nerves.
But three against one, and the alley was barely wide enough for her shoulders. A second blow struck her back, driving the air from her lungs like water from a broken jug. The metallic click of chains made her blood run cold.
"You're lost, warrior." The leader's voice sounded as if he had been lying in stagnant water for too long. "In Veydris, honor is bought like bread—and you have no coins."
Kaelira spat blood and smiled grimly. "Then I'll take what I need." Her knee dug into his groin, and his scream echoed off the walls like the song of broken bones.
She could have fought her way free. Maybe. But not without wounds she would later regret. Not without mistakes.
Then the air changed. The fog, normally sluggish as a fat dog, suddenly became alert. A sound vibrated within it—soft, unnatural, like the hum of a string plucked by invisible fingers. The men froze, their grip weakening, as if the city itself had decided they were making too much noise.
"I will ask a simple question." The voice came from the darkness, calm as still water, but with a sharpness that could cut through bone. "You will answer truthfully. Or you will die a painful death. Are we agreed?"
A woman stepped out of the fog, and Kaelira's breath caught despite the danger.
Slender as a blade, with an oval face and high cheekbones that cast shadows like small cliffs. Her dark purple eyes with golden accents glowed in the dim light, hypnotic and dangerous at the same time. Raven-black hair fell in complex braids over her shoulders, interspersed with purple strands that seemed to dance in the fog.
Nyxar Vey'Taal.
The attackers exchanged glances like animals who suddenly realized they had become the prey. One wanted to protest, but his throat closed as if the air itself were suffocating his lies. The second gasped, panic coloring his words: "What... what do you want to know?"
Nyxar's head tilted slightly, a predatory smile playing on her lips. The fine rune scars on her forearms began to shimmer. "Numbers. Places. Names of buyers. Start. Now."
"Two... two dozen, maybe more. Daywing and Twilightwing. We hid them in the southern gorges, behind the old rune walls." The words bubbled out of him like blood from a fresh wound.
"The buyers?"
"Golden Thread! And... parts of the Caravan. Not all of them, just... just some transport for us." He was trembling now, as if each word were burning him from within.
Nyxar's violet eyes narrowed to slits. "Of course. The honorable merchants." Her silver ring pulsed faintly, in sync with her heartbeat.
The third man finally found his voice: "She's lying! The Whisperers always lie! She can't—"
Nyxar snapped two fingers, a casual movement. His scream broke off like a thread snapping. He sank to his knees, gasping for breath as invisible hands squeezed his lungs.
"Enough philosophy." Her voice was pure steel now. "You gave me what I wanted. Go."
The men stumbled away, staggering into the fog like drunks. Three steps, four—then the wet sound of steel piercing flesh. No screams, just the dull thud of bodies hitting stone. Figures with bloody daggers emerged from the shadows—Nyxar's men, silent as death itself.
Kaelira watched Nyxar, searching her face for emotion. Nothing. Her expression was as calm as a frozen lake.
"You could have let them go," Kaelira said quietly.
"No." Nyxar's voice was firm as rock. "They would have filled new cages by tomorrow. Ulcers must be cut out at the root."
The silence between them was heavy as lead. Only the dripping of water somewhere in the stone joints reminded them that time had not stood still. Kaelira felt the frayed band around her wrist digging into her skin—a reminder of a comrade who had realized too late that mercy was sometimes weakness.
Finally, she lifted her chin. "Why?"
Nyxar studied her for a long moment, as if weighing whether an honest answer was worth the risk. The golden reflections in her eyes danced in the dim light. "Because they had erected a barrier. A magical wall that blocked every scream in the Cycle. No echo, no trace, nothing. As if someone had thrown a black cloth over the souls of the tormented." She exhaled sharply, her nostrils quivering with suppressed anger. "But greed makes you stupid. They took too much at once, too quickly. And then their wall collapsed under the weight of the screams. Now I hear them all—every single cry of pain, every torn feather."
A cold lump formed in Kaelira's chest. "The wings."
"'Daywings. 'Twilightwings. Babies among them, their wings not yet fully grown." Nyxar's voice lost all mockery, becoming hardened iron. "If you truly follow the code, as rumored, then ask yourself: What is honor worth when you watch innocents die while keeping your hands clean?"
Kaelira was silent. The fog pressed between them, damp and clammy like a guilty conscience. Her brown eyes betrayed nothing of the storm raging in her chest.
Nyxar shrugged slightly, a gesture of indifference. "If you don't want to come, leave. But then do us both a favor: never speak of honor again as if you know what the word means."
She turned, her long coat with purple embroidery swirling behind her. Kaelira stood there for a heartbeat, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other clenched into a fist. Then she took the first step and followed.
The fog grew thicker the deeper they ventured into the ravines of Veydris. The air tasted of despair and old blood, of people who would never see sunlight again. Kaelira's armor creaked softly with each step, its familiar weight a small comfort. Nyxar moved beside her like a predator, each movement fluid and calculated, as if following an invisible trail.
"Can you hear them?" Nyxar asked after a while.
Kaelira listened. Only the dripping somewhere in the distance, the creaking of rotten wood. "No."
"Of course not." Nyxar's laughter was bitter like burnt wine. "The outer barrier is still standing."
"What kind of barrier?"
"A web that not only deceives the eyes, but silences the Cycle itself." Nyxar stopped, her slender fingers groping in the air as if she could feel invisible threads. The rune scars on her forearms pulsed faintly. "That's why I couldn't track them for weeks. But now..." Her eyes flickered as if light were bursting forth from within. "Now they carry their own noise outside. They've become too greedy, too loud."
Kaelira stared into the apparent emptiness before them. Only fog, stone, and the oppressive weight of silence. But Nyxar's entire posture spoke of tension, as if she were standing before an invisible wall of pain.
"How do we break through it?"
"Not us. Me." Nyxar stepped forward, raised her hands. Her fingers trembled, but not from weakness—from barely contained power. The Cycle rushed through her like an invisible storm. "The runes devour any energy you give them. So I give them more than they can digest."
Kaelira tensed her shoulders, her hand finding the hilt of her sword. "And if they tear you apart in the process?"
Nyxar's crooked smile was full of dark promises. "Then you'll probably hate me afterward."
She placed her palms against the seemingly empty rock.
What followed was not light—it was a crack in reality itself. A sound so deep that it made Kaelira's bones vibrate, as if the earth had swallowed an ancient scream and finally spat it out again. Nyxar's slender body tensed, her back arching under a burden no mortal should bear. The Cycle flowed through her in waves, too powerful for human veins. Her breath became a throaty growl, almost animalistic.
Kaelira felt the air dance around her, her own muscles tense as if Nyxar's storm were sweeping through her soul as well. The metal plate on her right knee began to ache—a reminder of old battles.
The runes burst. First a line of blue-white fire, then ten, then a hundred. The light became bright enough to blind the eyes, then black as a grave, then... nothing.
The curtain fell.
Behind it lay a courtyard of horror. Cages stacked like coffins, iron bars as thick as men's arms, sealed with runes burned into the metal itself. Inside: Daywings with mutilated wings, their golden feathers hanging in bloody shreds. Twilightwings, their proud silhouettes collapsed into broken shadows. Their eyes—once bright as stars—stared blankly into nothingness, as if their souls had been cut out.
On tables in front of them: artifacts steeped in the suffering of the prisoners, glowing like screams trapped in stone. Men in expensive robes laughed as they removed feathers from still-living bodies with surgical precision. One wielded his knife like a painter's brush, as if torture were an art.
"Sons of bitches," Nyxar hissed, her voice more blade than sound.
Four men were busy there. Merchants, not warriors—soft bodies that had never known honest combat. Two scraped feathers like skin from fruit, one swung his knife with the casualness of a cook, the fourth counted blood money.
Kaelira moved first. Her sword split the air with a sing that ended in bone. A head rolled from its neck, arterial blood spattering across the table like red rain. The coins danced through the air, clattering on stone. The man collapsed, gasping, his hands clawing at his torn throat.
Nyxar followed, but not with steel. The mist itself became a weapon, heavy as molten lead sinking into their lungs. One of the men stumbled, his fingers scratching at his own throat as invisible hands squeezed it shut. Another screamed, a high, animalistic sound, before falling to his knees as if red-hot needles were piercing his nerves.
"Feel what you have done to them!" Nyxar's voice echoed off walls that were too far away. Her eyes burned like violet fires. "Every feather torn, every wing broken—feel it until it eats you from within!"
Kaelira thrust her sword into the ribs of the second man, feeling the blades slide between the bones. Ribs broke like rotten wood, and he fell with a wet gurgle. The last one tried to flee, but the fog tugged at his legs like a thousand hands. Nyxar stepped closer, her slender form suddenly seeming gigantic. "You scream less loudly than they did."
The man writhed, foam at his lips, blood from his nose and ears. Then he too fell silent, collapsing like a puppet with severed strings.
Silence descended like a shroud.
Only the cages still breathed. A thin whimper came from a young daywing whose wing bones protruded at grotesque angles. Feathers stuck to dried blood, the skin beneath burst open like overripe fruit.
Kaelira knelt down, the sword still in her bloody hand. The creature lifted its head with difficulty, and in its eyes she saw something worse than pain—hopelessness. "How many are there?"
"Too many." Nyxar pressed her forehead against the metal of the nearest cage. Her lips trembled as if she had to share every breath of the wings. "Far too many for the two of us."
"We can't free them all at once," Kaelira said with the harshness of years of experience. "They would die before they saw the first sky."
Nyxar's head snapped around, her eyes burning with rage. "Say that again. Loud. Look her in the face while you do it."
Kaelira did not flinch. Her brown eyes met the violet ones without blinking. "Do you want to lose them today, or give them a real chance?"
A moment cut through the air between them like a blade. Kaelira's gaze: cold, clear, unshakeable as rock. Nyxar's: fire and bile, guilt and raging fury. Finally, the Whisperer turned away, her braids whipping through the air. "Rune locks. I'll overload them, you break them."
"What will it cost you?"
"Whatever it takes." Her voice was rough as sandpaper.
Nyxar placed her slender hands on the first grate. The engraved runes flared up, greedy, sucking power like thirsty vampires. Her body tensed as if every single nerve were being twisted. Sweat broke out from her pores, her lips turned white.
"Now," she gasped through clenched teeth.
Kaelira struck. Her sword crashed against the lock, sparks flew, metal screeched. The lock shattered and the cage swung open. The little daywing staggered out, fell almost immediately, and crouched against the cold wall. Her eyes were huge with fear and a hope that seemed to hurt.
Nyxar immediately knelt beside her, gently placing her forehead against the feathered head. She whispered words in a language Kaelira did not know—ancient, melodic, comforting. The winged creature breathed heavily, but the trembling subsided.
"That's enough," Nyxar whispered hoarsely. "That's reason enough to fight."
Kaelira said nothing. She turned to the next cage.
So they continued to fight. Cage by cage. Each liberation a small war. Nyxar sacrificed pieces of herself to satiate the greedy runes, while Kaelira smashed locks that resisted like living things. Her hands began to bleed where the stubborn metal had torn them open. With each cage, Nyxar sank deeper into herself, her breathing becoming irregular, her movements more uncertain.
The air began to vibrate. Kaelira felt the runes throughout the gorge reacting to Nyxar's waste of power, as if she had awakened something ancient that was not meant for mortal touch. Her skin tingled, her teeth ached, as if reality itself wanted to devour her.
"Enough!" Kaelira grabbed Nyxar's arm, her armored fingers closing around the slender wrist. "One more cage, and you'll break."
Nyxar's eyes flashed at her, too bright, too wild. The golden reflections danced like flames. "They're screaming! Don't you understand? They're tearing my skull apart with their screams!"
"I only hear you," Kaelira growled. "And I need you alive."
"Then shut up and let me work." Nyxar broke free, her palms finding the nearest cage. Her fingers trembled, blood seeping from under her nails where the metal had cut them. The Cycle was no longer roaring in the distance, but directly above them, as if an invisible waterfall were about to collapse.
Kaelira struck. The lock burst open. Another small daywing—barely more than a baby—stumbled out, squeaking hoarsely as if its vocal cords had been cut. It immediately sought protection under the wings of a larger twilightwing, which, despite its own injuries, lowered its head protectively.
Nyxar sank to her knees, her hands still on the glowing runes. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites, as if a foreign power was fighting for control inside her. Kaelira threw herself down beside her and grabbed her shoulders. "Can you hear me? Come back!"
"I'm already back," Nyxar gasped, but her voice sounded distorted, as if it were coming from a great distance and directly from her mouth at the same time. "I'm already inside. But I'm holding on. I have to hold on."
And she held on. Cage after damn cage. Kaelira's blows became a deadly rhythm, each strike precise, brutal, showing no mercy to the metal that stood between her and freedom. Some wings crawled out and collapsed immediately, others tried to fly but could do no more than crawl. Feathers—golden, silver, rainbow-colored—stuck to everything, soaked with the price of liberation.
In the end, all the cages lay open. The Wings—broken, bleeding, but free—pressed themselves against the rock walls, the weaker ones seeking shelter under the wings of the stronger ones. The air vibrated with their collective hum, a chorus of pain and cautious, fragile hope.
Nyxar lurched forward. Only Kaelira's armored arm kept her upright. Her skin was deathly pale, her slender body trembling as if she were nothing but nerves and raw magic.
"You should be dead," Kaelira said in a hoarse voice.
"I'm not." Nyxar's whisper was brittle as old parchment, but a spark of defiance still glowed within it. "Not yet. But if we don't destroy the main enclosure, they'll all be hanging in new cages tomorrow."
Kaelira looked at the freed Wings. Her Codex Oaths burned in her skull like carved runes: Protect the weak. Judge the guilty. Honor the Cycle. She exhaled sharply, her hand tightening around Nyxar's shoulder.
"Then let's move on."
Nyxar's laugh was short and harsh, almost insane. "You'll hate me when you see how much energy this takes."
"Then I'll hate you tomorrow," Kaelira replied. Her gaze was hard as iron. "Today, we fight."
The deepest ravine was different. Here, there was no mist creeping across the ground, no dripping from invisible water sources. It was as if someone had stopped the world and forgotten to start it again. Only the runes on the walls were still alive, drawing blue lines like veins across the black rock.
The smell of iron and blood was so thick that it wrapped itself around their throats like hands.
"This is it." Nyxar's voice was little more than a whisper, but the Cycle vibrated in every word. Her violet eyes had darkened, her pupils narrowed to slits, as if she were looking into dimensions not meant for human senses. "This is where they keep the heart of horror."
The main enclosure lay before them like a nightmare of stone and steel. A plain enclosed by walls too high to be natural. Rows of cages, larger than the previous ones, filled with creatures too precious to be slaughtered quickly. Daywings, their feathers hanging in bloody shreds, their eyes milky with pain. Twilightwings, bound with runic ropes, their proud wings knotted as if they would never feel the wind again.
But they were not the only prisoners.
Between the ordinary cages stood cells of black iron, their bars thicker than Kaelira's thighs. Inside: Shadowwings. Only three in number, but each of them so enormous that even injured, their mere presence made the air vibrate. Their wings were like living storms, even bound, they seemed like caged storms.
One of them rammed against the bars, and the screech of metal under impossible pressure made Kaelira's bones tremble. Its cry was not an animal's cry—it was the sound of a world breaking apart.
Nyxar stood frozen, her slender fingers trembling. Tears ran down her high cheekbones, leaving silver trails on her pale skin. "They... they even took them." Her voice broke, becoming a growl that came deep from her chest.
Kaelira placed her hand on her shoulder. "Then let's end it."
With Nyxar's last ounce of strength, these rune locks also burst open. But the Shadowwings did not gratefully break out of their cages—they tore them apart. Metal screeched and splintered like rotten wood under their claws. Their screams were thunder that split the fog and made the rocks tremble.
One spread its wings, half torn, but still so vast that they seemed to swallow half the air. It looked down at the dead on the ground, as if memorizing every face for a later reckoning. Then they leaped up, heavy, staggering, but free.
Before they could finally leave the enclosure, they stumbled upon something deeper in the complex that made Kaelira's blood run cold. No longer just cages for individual wings, but an entire hall—as large as a cathedral—filled with industrial torture. Dozens of tables on which surgical instruments were arranged in neat rows. Vats of a translucent liquid in which severed feathers floated like drowned butterflies. And on the walls: shelves full of artifacts, each one steeped in the suffering of the Wings.
Men in expensive robes and leather gloves worked with the precision of watchmakers. Golden Thread—Kaelira recognized it from the embroidered symbols on their robes. And next to them, in the red and gold colors that made her heart sink: members of the Caravan. Traitors to everything her organization had once stood for.
Nyxar froze beside her. Her eyes widened, the golden reflections exploding into tiny suns. "My God," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's even worse than I thought."
An older man in Caravan colors held a small Daywing while another systematically plucked its feathers. Not quickly, not out of anger—with the same care a collector would use to pin butterflies. The little creature whimpered in a voice that sounded too human.
Kaelira saw red.
Her sword sang through the air before her conscious mind could kick in. The blade cut through the torturer's throat so cleanly that his head remained on his shoulders for a full heartbeat before rolling away. Arterial blood spattered over the sterile instruments, staining them with a more honest color.
"Bastards!" Nyxar's cry was half human, half something older, wilder. The Cycle exploded through her, unbridled, dangerous. Men stumbled, their hands clawing at their throats as if invisible fingers were strangling them. One fell to his knees, foam at his mouth, his eyes rolling back until only the whites were visible.
Kaelira fought with the cold precision of her training. Her sword found hearts, throats, everything vital. Bones broke under her armored fists like dry wood. Every blow was measured, deadly, without waste.
Nyxar, on the other hand, was pure rage. The mist itself became a weapon, cutting whistles through the air, crushing ribs like eggshells. Her long black hair with purple streaks whipped around her like living shadows. "Feel what you have done to them!" she screamed, her slender form seeming to grow, becoming a goddess of vengeance. "Every cut, every pain—feel it a thousand times stronger!"
A man in golden robes tried to flee, slipping in his own sweat. Kaelira grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up like a sack of grain. Her brown eyes with reddish reflections burned with contempt. "You sell healing based on torture?"
"It... it's just trade!" he stammered. "Business! We save lives!"
"False lives." Kaelira's fist crashed into his ribs, a wet crack was the answer. "Life based on suffering is theft."
She dropped him, stomping on his hand until the bones splintered. His scream echoed off the walls, mingling with the hum of the dying runes.
Nyxar stepped toward the last survivor, a young man cowering in a corner. Her violet eyes were shining like stars, and the silver ring on her finger pulsed in time with his racing heartbeat. "You have two options," she said in a voice like silk over steel. "Talk or die. Choose quickly."
"Varenthos!" The word spurted from him like blood from a wound. "Varenthos organizes everything! He has contacts in all the great houses, even in the government! The healing artifacts... they go to the richest, the most powerful! No questions asked, no scruples!"
"Where can we find him?"
"He... he has an estate outside the city. But it's well protected, he has mages, mercenaries, even..." He swallowed hard. "Even a few Caravan traitors as bodyguards."
Nyxar's smile was cold enough to freeze blood. "Thank you."
She snapped her fingers. The man fell to the side, his eyes empty, as if someone had blown out a light.
Kaelira wiped her blade on his robe. "Villa Shadowsea."
"Do you know it?"
"By reputation. Varenthos is no small fish." Kaelira slid the sword back into its sheath, her movements mechanical, but her eyes burning with barely suppressed rage. "He supplies half the nobility with 'remedies'. He has immunity through bribery and blackmail."
"Had," Nyxar corrected. Her rune scars still glowed, and her slender fingers twitched as if the Cycle still flowed through them. "Immunity won't help against what I have in store for him."
And when the battle was over, only Kaelira, Nyxar, and the survivors remained. Blood had turned the stone into a slippery battlefield, steaming in the eternal fog of Veydris. Nyxar's troops materialized from the shadows, their daggers still red, and helped tend to the wounded creatures. Wounded Daywings were supported, trembling Twilightwings were calmed, the youngest were pushed toward the stronger ones. The Shadowwings kept to the edge, too wild and proud for any contact, but they too remained—no longer prisoners, but guardians of their smaller siblings.
Kaelira washed her blade in rainwater that had collected in a stone hollow. Her brown eyes followed the creatures as they set off, despite broken bones and torn skin, back to a sky that had been denied them for too long. The frayed band around her wrist was dark with blood—not her own.
Nyxar sat exhausted, leaning against a rock wall, her slender fingers covered in blood, her violet eyes half-closed. The rune scars on her forearms still glowed faintly, like coals in an almost extinguished fire. But when Kaelira sat down next to her, her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. "They're alive. That's more than I dared hope for."
"For today," Kaelira agreed.
Silence fell over them. Only the beating of wings slowly receding, the fading hum of the now-dead runes. Then Kaelira spoke, her voice soft but with a hardness that could split stone. "Varenthos. The name remains."
Nyxar's eyes opened fully. The golden reflections danced like tiny flames, but something colder lurked behind them. "We'll get him."
"And when we have him?"
Nyxar's smile was weary, but her violet eyes burned with a fire that no exhaustion could extinguish. "Then he will die so slowly that he will have time to think about every single feather he has stolen."
Kaelira nodded, straightening her massive shoulders as if the code itself had become a heavier burden. The ritual scars on her chest tingled—a sign that her oath was calling her to new bloodshed. "Then let's go hunting."
Kaelira glanced over at Nyxar. The Whisperer was paler than before, her violet eyes darker, but there was a determination in her posture that could move mountains.
"And you're really ready for what's coming?" Kaelira asked.
Nyxar's smile was sharp as a blade. "I was ready before we started. The question is: Are you ready to see what justice truly means when all masks fall?"
Kaelira touched the frayed ribbon around her wrist, feeling the weight of her codex vows in her chest. "Lead the way, Whisperer. I follow."
And so they disappeared into the night of Veydris, two hunters on the trail of a monster that had lurked too long in the shadows of wealth. The name Varenthos would soon mean more than just power and influence.
It would stand for death.
Chapter 19: The First Waves
Chapter Text
Date: 1 Sylvaris (350 A.C.)
Location: Verdanthollow
Characters: Sylwen Qen'Mara
Verdanthollow awoke beautiful that morning, which in this area meant that the river had not yet shown its moods. Fog wrapped itself around the stilt houses like an oversized scarf around thin shoulders, and beneath the footbridges, the water dozed with the feigned innocence of a well-fed cat. It was a lie that everyone here knew, but no one contradicted—polite neighbors keep silent about each other's idiosyncrasies.
Willow trees bowed their heads over the embankments and exchanged gossip in the wind: old stories that everyone knew by heart but still wanted to hear again and again, because some truths only retain their sharpness through repetition.
Normally, this would have been the first day of Sylvaris – a festival full of lights on the water and voices overflowing with hope. People celebrated new beginnings and the stubborn retreat of winter. Instead, there was no singing in the air, and instead of festive decorations, the jetties carried the wounded. Today, the river accepted no offerings, but all the more sick people with feverish eyes. The holiday had been transformed into its evil mirror image by the unrest throughout Ikaril.
Sylwen stood at the edge of a floating bridge and practiced the fine art of Verdanthollow: watching without being caught. Her shoulders still burned from the night's march. Dew hung from the tips of her hair like tiny, worthless diamonds. The knife on her belt had seen more dirt than blood—a fact Sylwen hoped to keep that way. The seeds in her bag rattled familiarly, a sound that reminded her of quieter times.
She kept what lay behind her to herself. In Verdanthollow, people asked few questions as long as you understood the unwritten rules—one of which was: strangers with dirty boots and clean blades deserve the same courtesy as the weather.
"Wash your shoes first." A fisherman spoke without looking at her, his voice rough as sandpaper, but without hostility. His hands repaired a net with the mechanical patience of a man who had seen the river rage before and had no desire to see it again. "Cold basin up there. It won't take any dirt before it decides what else it'll take."
Sylwen followed his gaze, knelt down, and slipped off her boots and wet wraps. Skin appeared, chafed from the long march. She washed the leather first and then herself: the water over the bare backs of her feet, over salt and dust. The cold burned her down to her ankles—a good burn that said, You've arrived, now pull yourself together.
"It chooses," she had been told along the way, "healing for one, oblivion for the other. Sometimes a burden. Occasionally even the name." In the villages upstream, they called it superstition. In Verdanthollow, they called it Tuesday.
The footbridge to the grove of willows was overflowing with people: wounded with feverishly shiny skin, their eyes too big for their faces; children whose supply of tears seemed already exhausted; men with suspiciously smooth faces, as if their worry lines had decided to take the day off. Ropes creaked under unfamiliar weight, baskets changed hands more hastily than usual, and from the ghost houses — low, windowless structures on the shore built for those who were missing and for the memories that had become too heavy to bear — women carried bowls: herbs that smelled of hope, salt that tasted of tears, and silt from a bay known only to the river guards.
"Overcrowded," grumbled the fisherman, this time giving them a scrutinizing look—the kind of look you give strangers to find out whether they'll jump into the water or stand on the edge when things get serious. "They've been pouring in for days. Moor folk with green skin, field burners with smoky voices, a troop of mercenaries with too little luck and too much pride." He snorted contemptuously, as if pride were a disease caught from bad company. "The willows listen patiently, the spirit houses endure bravely. But the river..." His hand made a gesture that hovered somewhere between respect and warning—like a greeting to a sleeping wolf. "The river is as unhurried as a thunderstorm. Those who rush it will get wet. Thoroughly wet."
"The river guardians?" Sylwen asked with feigned casualness, as if she were asking about the weather.
"In the grove. The eldest has been sitting with her fingers in the moss since sunrise. That means: today we ask instead of command." His forehead wrinkled like an old rag. "Hopefully the people will understand that too."
Sylwen nodded and wandered through the village. The atmosphere reminded her of the feeling before a storm—that tense calm when even the air held its breath. Lanterns were being prepared at the landing stage, less for the night than for trade on the river. A light in exchange for a cure. Sometimes it drew fever from a body like smoke from wet wood, making the light burn brighter and the person lighter. Occasionally, the flame went out and the person forgot a name that had been dear to them—father, mother, the girl next door. You learned to live with it, or you moved away. Most stayed.
Forgetting a name, thought Sylwen, unconsciously touching the knife at her side. Would that be so bad?
"Why do you build the spirit houses so close to the water?" Sylwen asked later, kneeling next to a woman who was kneading silt into a bowl as if she were shaping bread for particularly picky guests.
"Because they carry what we must let go of," the woman replied without looking up from her work. Her fingers moved with the confidence of a surgeon. "Memories weigh heavily, especially the bad ones. When the willows are full, the houses take up the rest. And when it becomes too much..." She shrugged. "One sinks. That's not misfortune, that's destiny." Her eyes briefly scanned Sylwen—a quick, razor-sharp glance that seemed to test whether the words would take root or slip away like water. "Today, they will be given a lot."
There was a restlessness in the alleys, quiet but sticky like honey, clinging to everything it touched. Sylwen noticed the signs: children who were quieter than nature intended; men who tied ropes twice without anyone ordering them to; old people who huddled close under the willows and sniffed the air as if they could smell bad weather coming.
A muffled argument drifted over from the bridge—voices clashing like wooden blocks in a bowl.
"No circle today," said one voice, final as a coffin lid slamming shut. "The river tolerates no demands. Especially not loud ones."
"And if we wait, our patience will tear us apart like wet paper," objected a younger woman with hands scratched by nettles. "We've been scooping spoonfuls for three days, and nothing is moving. A circle, a united voice—then it must hear us."
Sylwen recognized the eldest of the river guardians from afar: hair like gray grass that had survived even the harshest winter, fingers glistening green with moss, nails black from the riverbank. There was a humor in her eyes that was rarely seen anymore—the kind of smile people show when they've seen too much and still carry on.
"It always senses you," she said with the calmness of a teacher correcting the same mistake for the hundredth time. "The question is whether it wants to answer. Those who shout rarely get a good answer—usually none at all."
"But we can't afford to wait," interjected a man whose hands were covered in cracks – clearly the wrong kind of cracks for honest work. Escape left different marks than craftsmanship. "The fevers are getting worse, the children are losing their tomorrow. What do we prefer: to ask for a favor that may come, or to fight for the favor that must come?"
The eldest laughed dryly – a sound like crackling leaves. "You fight the river as little as you fight the weather or your own shadow. You politely remind it who you are. No more, no less."
Sylwen remained on the sidelines of the discussion, listening and breathing in the scent of the grove: water that tasted of secrets, rotten wood that smelled of time, and the sweet tiredness of damp earth that tasted of everything that had ever fallen on it. There was a special tension in the air, which in cities was called "politics" and here was called "essential advice."
Some of the younger ones were already pushing things forward—distributing cloths and lanterns like weapons before battle. They were already forming circles, even though it had not yet been decided whether circles would be allowed today.
This is how disasters begin, Sylwen thought. With too many good intentions at the same time.
A boy came running up—barefoot, his knees covered in mud as if he had tried to embrace the mire—and stopped in front of the eldest as if she were a particularly intimidating tree.
"The troop from the moor has arrived," he gasped, trying to breathe and speak at the same time. "Eight are lying flat. Two have..." He searched for an adult word that would describe the situation appropriately without sugarcoating it. "They no longer recognize their own mothers."
The elder closed her eyes briefly, as if counting to ten in a language only she knew, which probably consisted mainly of curses. "Take them to the edge of the circles. The center is too dangerous today. And you..." She looked around, and many nodded before she even spoke—a sign that some lessons had sunk in deeply enough. "You save the light. Whoever sets one light waits. Whoever sets two has stolen one."
An old rule that no one liked: every light was a request to the river. Too many lights became demands – and water that felt crowded became defensive, like any other creature under pressure. The river guards usually kept such wisdom to themselves, but they were reluctant to mention it – people love rules until they become expensive.
Sylwen helped without being asked: preparing carrying straps, tightening wobbly stakes, reinforcing ropes. Her hands knew these movements. Everyone had prepared a village for disaster at some point.
Not far from the grove stood a ghost house with fresh cracks in the clay—fine lines pulsing like veins under the skin. When she placed her hand on the wall, a warmth radiated from it that definitely had nothing to do with sunshine. More like fever, only without the sickly smell.
Did memory actually store heat? Or was that just a story for children who were afraid of the dark? In Verdanthollow, such boundaries blurred generously, and no one was in a hurry to clarify them—some truths were more useful when they remained a little fuzzy.
"You're not from around here," remarked a voice at her side—friendly as a well-honed knife, polite but ready to cut. A woman, perhaps in her fourth decade, the tendons in her forearms taut as bowstrings, her gaze alert like someone who had been surprised too often. "But you know where to reach."
"I know especially where I shouldn't reach," Sylwen replied, glancing at the river. "That's enough for now."
"Excellent." The woman nodded appreciatively toward the grove. "It will be crowded tonight. People believe that many voices will impress the river." She laughed softly—a sound like water over pebbles. "It can be impressed, just not in the way they hope."
She hesitated, as if she had to weigh a word on her tongue before she spoke it. "If too much comes at once, it can be dangerous. Some call it a blessing when the boundaries become thinner. The Tha..." She broke off as if she had burned her tongue. "Others come then. People who haven't found their way back yet. They sense it from afar."
Sylwen nodded in understanding. "Then make sure less comes at once."
"Tell that to the mothers." A crooked smile that contained more despair than humor. "Tell that to the men who flaunt pain like currency."
The sun was already low when they placed the lanterns on the water. No procession—that would have been too theatrical for the elders. Just hands sliding boards with flickering lights across the water's surface like shy prayers. The flames flickered briefly, as if testing the neighborhood and the wind conditions before settling in.
The grove breathed in the warmth like a contented animal. The river remained what it had always been: dark, calm, heavy with secrets.
"We remind it," murmured the eldest at the water's edge, her fingers buried deep in the moss again, as if she could speak to something greater through the earth. "We tell it who we were before we lost ourselves. It likes that—honest stories about honest people." She smiled at Sylwen with the smile of a woman who knew that the stranger held more secrets than she revealed. "And we definitely won't tell it what to do."
The circles formed despite all the prohibitions – small at first and at a respectful distance, like guests at a funeral who are unsure how close they are allowed to get to the coffin. The younger ones stood behind the older ones, as if they could hold on to their words so they wouldn't fly away like frightened poultry. The wounded were arranged in concentric rings like annual rings in an ancient tree trunk – the most seriously injured in the center, where help was closest.
A wind swept across the water, carrying smells from further upstream: bog that smelled of ancient secrets, wet ash that tasted of burnt hopes, and a hint of resin, sweet and sticky like unspoken promises.
The village fell silent in a way that was louder than any shouting—the kind of silence that precedes turning points. Sylwen placed her feet close to the water's edge, close enough to help, far enough away not to disturb. She knew this kind of silence, which did not lie clumsily before wars, but dangerously well before the moment when something is remembered so intensely that it must respond.
Her hands unconsciously formed a gesture she used to calm restless roots: gentle pressure, but no coercion. Showing that she was there, without demanding anything.
"Let's begin," said the elder quietly, but her voice carried further than some screams. "One by one. No choir. No drama."
The first voice rose alone above the water and told nothing earth-shattering: the name of a father who had provided shade under the willows when the sun burned too hard on their shoulders. The words fell into the water like stones—heavy enough to sink, round enough not to make waves.
The second voice spoke of hands that had mended nets until the fingers knew when enough was enough. Of a kind of wisdom that could only be learned through years of repetition.
The third laughed briefly—sometimes laughter was the bravest response to life—and told of a dog that swam far too well and therefore often came home wet, but never alone.
These were the right proportions for a beginning. The river preferred small stories to great tragedies—it had had bad experiences with the latter, and water forgets more slowly than humans.
The lights nodded in agreement on their floating boards, as if they had understood every word. The air grew cooler, but in the refreshing way that tastes like rain. The water level in the basin stretched smoother than before, as if it were clinging to its own surface and listening.
A child at the edge stopped trembling. A man suddenly found the words that had eluded him for days. And there was a soft rustling in the willows, as if they were counting along—one, two, three stories, all in the right place.
Maybe, Sylwen thought, feeling her shoulders relax, maybe everything will be all right today.
Then too many moved at once.
Not because the eldest had allowed it—her warning hand had been clear enough. But because fear was faster than wisdom, and desperate people are rarely good listeners. Three, four, five voices overlapped like poorly stacked plates, a sixth pushed its way in between, a seventh pushed forward.
Later, no one would be able to say who had started it. Maybe it was just a breath at the wrong time, a word that slipped out too soon. But the circles pressed closer together, a foot stepped too close to the water, a lantern tilted dangerously.
Two hands reached for it, caught it, put it back in place—and added another one for safety's sake. This well-intentioned safety measure was exactly what the river appreciated least.
The air grew thin. Sylwen felt the water beneath the surface begin to breathe more heavily, as if holding back a coughing fit it couldn't suppress. The willows were the first to react, dropping leaves without the wind being responsible.
A dull crack came from one of the ghost houses—not malicious, just overcrowded, like a stomach that had swallowed too much at once.
"No more," whispered the eldest, quietly and too late. "Please, no..."
The air held its breath as the voices became confused like frightened poultry. The water level in the grove stretched until it no longer shone, but seemed hard like cut glass that would shatter at any moment. Sylwen recognized the signs from other villages, other rituals that had gone wrong: this was not good hardening – it was overload. And it was getting worse in many parts of Ikaril.
The river was overwhelmed, and everything that was overwhelmed sought an outlet.
The willows reacted first. Their leaves trickled down like green snow, and anyone sitting close enough heard the whispering of long-dead voices in the falling leaf veins: a father warning his daughter about the ice; a mother recounting a birth that had been painful yet blessed; laughter and sobbing and uninvited voices crowding into the present like unwanted guests at a wedding.
Memories that had no place here flowed like thick smoke between the people—too much, too fast, too unfiltered.
A ghost house on the edge groaned as if it had come to life and had a stomach ache. The clay walls cracked like overstretched skin, a beam snapped with a sound like breaking bones, and heat poured out from inside – not fire, but pure, concentrated energy, so densely packed that it scorched the skin.
"Back from the water!" cried the eldest, but her voice was lost in the murmur that was no longer a prayer, but something else, something hungry.
And then one of the sick moved.
A man they had brought to the water because he had been silent for days. His head turned too slowly, as if he were swimming through honey. His mouth hung open like a black hole, his eyes became hollow—not black, but empty, as if looking into a dried-up well.
He took a deep breath, and Sylwen could see the memory that had just flowed from the willows being drawn into him like smoke into a chimney.
Tha'Lorr – soul eaters, most people called such transformations. People who had prayed too close to the river until their own essence was torn apart. They still had human faces, but their eyes were nothing but hunger. They did not tear off limbs, they did not bite flesh – they reached for what held a person together inside: names, memories, the precious feeling of being someone specific.
Those who touched them lost more than blood.
The woman next to him let out a sound—half name, half desperate plea—but her voice broke like a rope under too much weight. Her hands curled as if she were losing something invisible but vital—the kind of loss that leaves no wound but is still fatal.
The man raised his hand—no longer a hand, but something that reached, pulled, and grasped at things that were not physical. At the part of people that made them human.
"Tha'Lorr!" The eldest spat out the word like poisoned wine. "Don't look! Don't..."
Too late. Three more bodies followed suit, as if the transformation were contagious like yawning. Skin became taut tendons, voices became a breathy whisper that crept directly into the ear and remained there like a parasite: "Name. Tell me your name."
This can't be happening, Sylwen thought, feeling her carefully constructed calm shatter like thin ice. I just got here. I just wanted to...
The creatures crawled across the walkways—slowly but inexorably, drawing essence from every touch. People flinched, forgetting for a heartbeat what the person next to them was called. A child reached for the wrong hand—and the hand already belonged to no one.
Sylwen reacted before her mind had grasped the situation. Her magic flared, vines sprang from the stakes like green lightning, sliding between the transformed and the still living. The plants pulled, pushed, separated – a living barrier of thorns and determination.
"No," she growled as a Tha'Lorr tried to rest its forehead on her shoulder, and whispered, "Say your name. Give it to me."
"Not by the water, you idiot," she hissed back. The vines wrapped around his leg, pulling him into the mud. The water gurgled contentedly, as if savoring him like candy.
Then came the second.
A sound that was not really a sound – vibrating as if someone were plucking a non-existent string. Above the grove, the air opened like a wound. No light came out – the opposite of light. A fine crack, clean as a knife cut, black as the void between the stars.
A Zyr'quin – the ancients called them Voidwalkers. Beings from the twilight world, with no skin, no voice, only endless hunger. They devoured magic like moths devour light, but infinitely more efficiently. No steel, no blade could touch them – they existed between moments, in the pauses between breaths. They saw no humans, only streams of energy, and anything that glowed or hummed or smelled of magic became their meal.
"Don't move," someone whispered in panic, even though everyone knew that movement and stillness were equally visible to these creatures. It was the kind of pointless warning people utter when they feel helpless—better to say something than nothing at all.
The crack slid forward like a knife testing the quality of a fabric. It touched a lantern—and the lantern was simply gone. Not broken, not extinguished: vanished, as if it had never existed. It brushed against a man's arm—and the skin no longer reflected anything, becoming a gray void that hurt to look at.
The man did not scream. He fell as if the world had forgotten he existed.
A second crack vibrated, then a third. The air became thinner, more breathless. Too many voices had sweated too much magic into the air, and the Zyr'quin came like flies to honey – wherever magic flowed unchecked. And due to the growing imbalance in Ikaril, they appeared more and more frequently.
And then came the smell of blood, which, together with the overload, was a feast for them.
No, no, NO, Sylwen thought desperately.
From the edge of the forest came a sound that definitely did not belong to the peaceful river idyll: the crackling of breaking branches and the stomping of heavy paws on soft ground. Then eyes like glowing coals, too big and too hungry for a normal animal.
The first Rav'kar leaped across the footbridge—far too large, far too fast, its body a living mass of muscle, teeth, and unbridled rage. Some called them blood beasts; others used less polite names. It landed on the wood with a sound like breaking bones, and the wood had not been built for such force.
Boards splintered like toothpicks, a rope snapped with a whip-like crack, and a man disappeared into the water. Instead of his cry, a red cloud rose.
Rav'kar—their noses could smell the smallest drop of blood from a mile away, their bodies were nothing but muscle, tendon, and fury. Skin as thick as tree bark, teeth like wedges of flesh, claws that could tear through steel. They did not pounce on their prey—they tore it down, shredded it until no sound remained except their own satisfied growls.
Only black or divine fire could reliably kill them, and even then, often more than just the animal died.
The chaos did not descend suddenly like a storm—it came like a dam that had been crumbling for a long time and finally gave way. Tha'Lorr crept up and whispered names, their voices like cold breath on the neck. Zyr'quin floated through the fog and made things disappear from the world. Rav'kar tore apart everything that moved, and some things that didn't.
People screamed, but many could no longer form words—the Tha'Lorr had already stolen their language, letter by letter.
I just wanted peace, Sylwen thought as she moved, because standing still meant death. She drew her bow and let arrows fly. She knew that normal arrows didn't kill Rav'kar, but they could confuse them, annoy them, distract them from more important targets. An arrow in the cheek of a Rav'kar—no wound, just a sting like a mosquito bite, but enough to irritate the creature for a precious moment.
A cry behind her—thin and desperate. A child, wet to the chin, clung to a sinking board that was slowly sinking. Sylwen jumped into the shallow water, which was colder than expected, grabbed the small figure, and pulled it onto a floating mat.
"Not a word," she hissed in the child's ear. "Not by the water. Understand?"
The child nodded vigorously, eyes so wide that the whites were visible.
A second Rav'kar rushed in, its teeth already red with the blood of a man who had just been singing a song for his sick daughter. The beast moved like liquid violence, every muscle coordinated toward a single goal: to kill.
Zyr'quin glided through the fog, cutting lights out of reality like a tailor cuts fabric. A wandering priest raised a small silver chain, murmuring prayers in a direction that had no geometric counterpart. The tear paused—for a breath—then veered off as if bored, devouring three candles with a sound that was not heard but felt in the bones.
Tha'Lorr drew essence from every skin contact. A young mother became empty in a way that leaves no wound, but is still more deadly than any knife. Her little daughter held her hand tightly and asked with the cruel innocence of children, "Mommy?"
The woman wanted to answer—her lips moved—but there was nothing left that could speak.
Sylwen hastily tied a blue cloth band around the little girl's wrist—a small protection, more symbolic than substantial. "Don't let go. Don't look. Just breathe and count."
Like last time, she thought bitterly. And the time before that. Always the same.
A Rav'kar lashed out at Sylwen with claws like butcher's knives. She felt the draft as the mouth whizzed past her cheek – so close that she could smell the animal's foul breath, like old blood and rotting flesh. She tugged on a rope, a stake crashed over, and the beast got a mouthful of splintered wood instead of tender flesh.
The offering boat drifted helplessly between the sinking jetties – small but still buoyant, built for candles and flowers, not for refugees. Sylwen nudged it with her foot, hoisted the first child into it, and jumped in after them. The boat rocked dangerously, then steadied itself.
A second little girl stood indecisively on the shore – barefoot, with eyes like moonlight, too frightened to cry.
"Come," said Sylwen, and the girl came, as one does when someone pronounces one's name with the right intonation. "What's your name?" Sylwen almost asked, but stopped herself in time. Names were too dangerous today. "Later," she murmured instead.
They pushed off. The boat rubbed against a rotten stake that had seen better days and glided into a narrow channel between two dying fields of lanterns.
"Don't look back," Sylwen warned quietly. Sometimes the sight of horror made things worse than they already were.
A Zyr'quin floated in front of them, slow as a thought that no one can come up with but remains persistent nonetheless. It didn't see the boat—wood didn't glow, nor did a dirty children's shirt in mud colors, and Sylwen knew how to breathe and dim her own flame so that it was only a small, inconspicuous glow; she had survived for a long time that way.
A breath of cold air brushed her right cheek—one of the cracks was so close that it could have drunk her breath if breath had tasted like magic. The children clung to the edge of the boat as if their little fingers were roots.
Behind them, the next ghost house sank—dignified, like an old man finally going to bed after staying up too long. Another followed, slower, standing for a breath, then no more. Willows dropped their leaves as if counting the loss one by one.
Verdanthollow was no longer a village—just jetties as aimless lines, extinguished lights, people who had become disembodied voices. A woman who had just been queen of her little footbridge stood on a single swaying plank, arms outstretched, as if balance could replace the courage she had lost.
A Tha'Lorr crawled beneath her and breathed its hungry song, and she wept, not knowing whose tears were running down her cheeks.
At the edge of the grove, two brave lads finally reached the valve for the supply line. One of them—young enough to still believe in heroes—stood across it and threw the full weight of his hopeful years against it. The wheel groaned like a tortured animal, the supply gurgled, hesitated, then subsided.
The other lad fell, got up, fell again. The third time, he remained lying down, and a Zyr'quin glided over him, silently and thoroughly.
The boat glided on, carried by the river, which today finally knew what it wanted again. Sylwen did not row; the river guided them. It chose the path. It took what it needed. It let live what it chose to spare. Old, simple rules.
They glided between two cracks that looked as if someone had made fine, precise cuts in the air. The children held their breath without anyone telling them to.
"When the fog offers you words, don't take them," Sylwen murmured. It sounded like a game, but it was a warning that could save lives.
The younger nodded. The older asked quietly, "Will the river give us back too?"
"Some things," Sylwen said honestly. "Some things not. But it rarely forgets completely."
Just like me, she thought bitterly.
Further downstream, where the jetties ceased to be jetties and the water became ordinary water again, there was a piece of land that had not yet decided whether it wanted to be an island or just a whim of the river. Roots reached into the water like nervous fingers, earth threatened to fall away at the edges, but the middle held – for now.
Sylwen pulled the boat between the roots, pushed the children under a mighty willow trunk that was big enough to tell stories if anyone wanted to listen, and covered them with her wet coat.
"Don't talk," she said firmly. "Don't answer if something calls your name. And if something asks who you are, don't say anything."
"What's your name?" whispered the older one, and Sylwen smiled—a smile without teeth, but with warmth.
"Later," she said again. "Not by the water."
She looked back at what had once been Verdanthollow. The village lost its shape like a face in a dream. Zyr'quin drew their geometrically impossible paths, Rav'kar hunted everything that still breathed and bled, Tha'Lorr breathed their eternal "name" into the ears of the dying.
The eldest still stood—smaller, as if someone had cut off a piece of her dignity, but still there. Her hands were still raised, even though nothing obeyed her anymore. Some gestures are not for the world, but for oneself—a way to remember who you were before everything fell apart.
Sylwen could have gone back. You can almost always go back when you have something that weighs more than you do. Courage, for example. Or stubbornness. Or the kind of love that is greater than fear.
But she stayed where she was. Sometimes survival was more important than heroism. She had learned that. They stayed until her neck ached and the children swallowed their questions, because questions make noise, and noise means attention.
She saw the line where the river grew darker—like a frown about to say something unpleasant.
"No names by the water," she murmured softly. Not a commandment—a realization that had been bought with blood.
She turned away and led the children into the forest. Roots tugged at her boots, the bark smelled cool and clean. Under a willow tree, they found a dry hollow. Sylwen gathered moss and wove vines into a flimsy roof.
Under a willow tree that stood far enough from the shore to still belong to the normal world, they found a dry hollow. Sylwen gathered moss, layered it like sleeping sheep, and wove a few vines into a flimsy roof. Her hands did what hands do when the head is still stuck in yesterday: they built a future.
The older one watched. The younger one counted twigs: "Two, three, four..." There was a defiance in this delicate arithmetic that Sylwen liked.
"Drink," said Sylwen, handing the older one a cup of water from a gutter, far enough away from the river to be harmless, close enough not to taste strange. "Slowly. Small sips."
"Are they coming to get us?" asked the little one.
"Not here," Sylwen said firmly. "We're safe here." It was a lie, but a useful kind—the kind children can carry with dignity until they are old enough for the truth.
She listened into the forest. Behind them, the river rushed. In between: a crackling that was not wood; a singing that did not come from a human throat.
Night came uninvited. Stars remained discreetly behind the fog—perhaps for the best.
"Tell me a story," the little one begged, and the big one nudged her warningly.
"Be quiet," she hissed, her voice suddenly sounding like that of an adult woman who knows when a word carries too much weight for the air that carries it.
Sylwen thought of the eldest with her hands in the moss, of the fisherman with his nets, of the woman with the mud shells. Of the man who had become a Tha'Lorr. Of two brave boys, one of whom had not gotten up again.
Of ghost houses that were allowed to sink—but today too many at once. Of willows that did not weep, but counted what was lost. Of the first day of Sylvaris, which should have carried lights instead of burdens.
She waited until the children were half asleep again—the restless kind of sleep children have when they know the world is not safe—and drew her knife. It was a gesture that gave her security.
Steel in the hand is a kind of prayer that offends no god.
She cut a small mark into the bark of the willow tree—three lines that met like friends after a long journey. Not deep, not visible to the kind of eyes that watch in false light.
"So you know we were real," she whispered, and the willow looked at her the way trees look: slowly, but without misunderstanding.
Later, footsteps came. Not Rav'kar, not the heavy movements of Tha'Lorr. People trying to sound like mist.
Sylwen raised her hand; the older child became as narrow as a breath, the younger so still that even her fear stopped fidgeting.
Four shadows, crouched, smelling of smoke and willow bark. The one in front had his hands raised visibly—hands that had held more today than they deserved.
"Not by the water," Sylwen replied automatically, and he nodded as if he had expected exactly that answer.
"Not here. Tomorrow, further up, at the stone with the red veins. Do you know it?"
She knew it. "The eldest?"
"It was still standing when we left," he said in a voice too tired for hope but too stubborn for despair. "She stood better than any of us."
"The Rav'kar?"
"Found enough." He spat on the ground—not out of contempt, but to give something that wasn't a memory. "They leave when there's nothing left to kill. That rarely takes long."
"The Zyr'quin?"
"Leave when it gets dark enough. Or when it gets boring." A crooked, tired smile. "Sometimes it's the same thing."
"The Tha'Lorr?" Her voice softened with the last question.
He looked away, as if it took effort. "Some stay. Some... come back. Sometimes." A pause. "Not often."
She nodded. "Tomorrow. At the stone."
"At the stone," he confirmed, and they disappeared as people who have learned that presence is a luxury not everyone can afford disappear.
The children turned in their sleep as if the earth were gently turning them so they could rest evenly. The younger one murmured—Sylwen quickly put her finger to her lips.
"Ssh." The word slipped out before she could hold it back. Even words of reassurance made waves in the air.
She thought of the fisherman and his warning about the 'bad' getting wet. Of the woman with the mudflats. Of the eldest and her "We remember him." And of herself: "Not by the water."
Four sentences, she thought wearily. Carrying one world through the night until morning replaces it.
As the gray coolness of early morning seeped into their little hollow like hesitant light, they woke the children with the sparing kind of gentleness that needs few words. The older one didn't need a helping hand—she had grown a year older overnight. The younger one sought Sylwen's fingers and found them.
"Thirsty?" Sylwen asked, and the child bravely shook her head, because courage sometimes looks exactly like that: like a little lie that spares others from worry.
They set off through low blackberries and damp grasses that smelled of iron and of what remains when too much magic is consumed too quickly. Birds began to sing softly, as if they had practiced not to attract attention.
When they reached the stone with the red veins—a thick ridge in the ground that looked as if someone had carved blood vessels out of gray flesh—a handful of people were already waiting. No one called out names, no one cried loudly. Someone had drawn lines in the dust—not letters, just strokes. That's how you pass the time when clocks seem rude.
The eldest was there. Smaller, but there. Her hands were shaking now.
She lifted her head, saw Sylwen, saw the children. There was something in her gaze that younger people call gratitude and older people simply call recognition—the kind of nod that passes between two women when both know what it costs to keep the right ones alive.
"We'll pay later," she said in a voice that still carried authority despite everything. "Today..." She looked down at the invisible but audible river that pulsed like a heartbeat through a ceiling. "Today we are grateful to still be alive."
Sylwen nodded. She adjusted the younger woman's coat and tied the blue ribbon tighter around the older woman's wrist. "What's your name?" she asked the little one, who opened her mouth, then closed it again.
The older woman reached for her hand. "Later," she said in a voice that sounded older than it should have. "When it's safe again."
And that "later" was big enough to live in until the world could tolerate names again.
It was no longer the first day of Sylvaris—a day when names were normally entrusted to the water and the awakening of the world was celebrated. Today, people were confronted with the consequences: silence on the shore, extinguished lanterns, and a taboo that no one would break anymore.
No names by the water.
Sylwen stood among the survivors and felt the familiar emptiness in her chest—the place where hope should have been. She had sought peace, a place without screams and blood. Instead, she had once again watched people die while she saved the children she could save.
Always the same decisions, she thought bitterly. Always the same pain.
The tradition of Verdanthollow had changed forever that morning. But that was the way all important traditions changed: not by council resolution or royal decree, but by blood and the hard lessons that only survivors can teach.
The river continued to rush on, indifferent and eternal, carrying its new secrets away like all the others.
Chapter 20: The Wave Runner Tavern
Chapter Text
Date: 26 Vaelaris (348 n.C)
Location: Stormreach, Wave Runner Tavern
Characters: Kaelira Zar'Vorr
Kaelira pulled her sodden hooded cloak tighter around her shoulders as salty spray penetrated the fabric. The dampness was the least of her problems. Veydris clung to her like congealed blood: the shadows between the houses, Nyxar's icy gratitude, the echo of decisions made by others on her behalf. A vibration ran through her bones, as if she had placed her hand on a death bell that refused to stop tolling.
Heavy veils of rain hung over Stormreach like the banners of a besieged city. Kaelira climbed the slippery steps to the Wave Runner tavern, where the wood beneath her boots had been polished by endless kisses of salt. The air tasted of seaweed, tar, and the metallic breath of the sea. All day long she had roamed the winding alleys of the storm city, delivering messages, covering her tracks, her shoulders tense like rigging before a storm. Only now, as her fingers closed around the worn door handle, did the weight between her shoulder blades ease.
The weathered sign above the tavern had been blinded by salt, but the relief carving remained recognizable: a slender cutter gliding down a wave as if the sea were nothing but air. To the Wave Runner. A place where the tables were scarred by salty spray, the benches groaned under every guest, and stories hung like warm steam beneath the soot-blackened beams.
Kaelira closed her eyes and imagined the door swinging open: a rush of voices, golden light, and wood smoke that would envelop her like a forgotten embrace. Simple happiness—so rare in her world of political intrigue and bloody secrets.
The wind tugged at the door a second time before the bolt gave way. Kaelira stepped inside, slipped off her dripping hood, and left the salty cold of Stormreach behind. The chaos of another world greeted her: voices crashed like breakers on rocky shores, laughter whipped through the room, cups clinked, and a fiddle fought its way through the noise like a ship through heavy seas.
The Wave Runner was no establishment for pampered noble sons. Old nets hung from the beams, blackened by salt and smoke like the dreams of failed fishermen. Model ships swayed in the warm air as if they were still weathering the storms of battles long past. The heat of the room enveloped her after too many nights in the biting cold. Behind the massive bar, a copper stove glowed, casting dancing shadows across shelves full of bulbous ceramic jugs.
With the trained eye of a spy, Kaelira surveyed the audience: merchants with weather-beaten faces that bore stories in every scar; navigators in oil-stained linen whose eyes reflected the vastness of the sea; a group from the Academy, recognizable by their weatherproof coats with woven lightning bolts on the chest—young idealists who believed magic could be squeezed into formulas.
In a shadowy corner, three figures crouched, their hoods pulled down too low to be coincidental. The sweet scent of smoke herb and the metallic smell of hidden blades betrayed Shadow Caravan. Smugglers or worse. At the fogged-up window, two teenagers played a dice-less dice game, white chalk dots floating in the air like frozen stars—small magic, big dreams.
On the tiny stage, barely higher than a footstool, an empty instrument stand waited for skilled hands.
Steam rose from simmering stews, smoke from past winters clung to the beams, and somewhere a plate clattered against wood. A group of sailors let out a throaty, rhythmic "Heeee" as if they had just successfully set a mast.
Kaelira took in the room strategically: two exits, the large window wall facing the harbor, the bar as a possible bottleneck, three tables full of men with more calluses than fingers, and a group of Vaelari girls crouched on the benches, their feet tucked under them, their hair braided into complex knots.
Several glances drifted her way. Some scrutinized her broad shoulders, the upright posture of a warrior. A few nodded curtly—the terse respect of one fighter for her equal. Others looked away hastily. Kaelira knew that her appearance stood out, even when she strove for inconspicuousness. Members of her guild were not uncommon in Stormreach, but she carried the dangerous calm of those who had not only learned the code, but lived it—a calm that both unsettled and fascinated others.
The space on the wall to the right of the fireplace was empty. Perfect for someone who collected secrets like others collected coins.
She settled down, her back to the wall, her gaze fixed on the door and the innkeeper. The stone wall pressed against her shoulder blades like a second suit of armor. Only when she sat down did she notice how much her muscles ached. Veydris was still in her bones: endless alleys full of lurking shadows, ice-cold negotiating rooms where every breath was weighed, the grueling effort of calculating every gesture, because in Veydris, movements cost as much as spoken words.
Nyxar—the thought flashed through her mind like a dagger thrust: cold, heavy, painful. She had helped as far as the code and her conscience allowed. No more. This evening belonged to her.
"Storm beer? Or something that won't rot the teeth?" The innkeeper materialized next to her table, a man with a scar running diagonally across his forehead like a botched rune.
"Storm beer," Kaelira said, allowing herself a small smile.
He grinned back. "A woman of taste."
She felt the room reorganize itself. The coarse laughter at the front tables was rough but not malicious—dockworkers, then, not mercenaries looking for trouble. The polyphonic singing from the back corner carried the deep weight of Vaelari throats: sailors in a festive mood. Another sound mingled with the human voices: the low-frequency hum of the wind towers on the cliffs, which penetrated Stormreach to the bone like ancient frost.
It was an omen that every local could interpret: if the sound sank, the currents would shift and bring storms. If it rose, the sea route was open for further voyages. Kaelira counted the beats almost unconsciously—a steady rhythm that relaxed her tense shoulders like warm oil.
A plate of salty fish pie appeared before her, followed by a foaming mug. "Returning to the city?" asked the landlady—a mixture of politeness and professional curiosity.
"Passing through," Kaelira replied with a diplomatic smile. "Just for tonight."
"Then drink the foam first and save the rest for later. The foam is better than the dregs here."
Kaelira nodded and drank. The first sip tasted like a promise: tart with a sweet note that danced on her tongue. The room shrank for her to the soft bench, the steaming plate, and the babble of voices that merged into a single, undulating layer. A sailor gestured wildly, demonstrating the size of a legendary catch with outstretched arms. An elderly woman laughed until tears ran down her weather-beaten cheeks. Glasses clinked. Behind the kitchen door, someone sang a busy tune.
"Warming up costs nothing," said the innkeeper, nodding toward the fireplace. "Neither does listening." Kaelira followed his gaze. A bard was standing there—not a colorful bird of paradise, but rather an old mast that could still have fought half a war: strong hands, scars on his knuckles, a lute with carved runes instead of mother-of-pearl inlays. No fuss, no artificial smiles.
She liked that.
Three sailors sat at the next table, their faces weathered by the wind like old leather, their voices rough from the salty air and too much brandy. "If he were still with us," said the eldest, spitting contemptuously on the floor, "those beasts out there wouldn't exist." His voice carried the bitter disappointment of old men who had seen too much decay. "The sea would be calm, the sky clear as polished glass."
Kaelira listened without interfering. The name was familiar to her—Xarven Elyth'Ra, celebrated savior, embodiment of a time long since crumbled to dust. In Veydris, he was rarely spoken of—there, they thought little of heroic songs and even less of nostalgic reveries. But here, in Vaelarion, his name still lived on like the storm wind that whipped incessantly against the walls.
The gray-haired man rose from the tiny stage. His hair was matted by the wind, his voice piercing even the densest noise. He wore no ornate robes, but the weatherproof clothing of an old sailor, yet at his side hung a fiddle that gleamed as if freshly polished. When he raised his hand, a respectful silence fell over the room like a sudden gust of wind. Only the crackling of the fire and the distant thunder of the sea remained.
Then that small, quiet miracle happened that occurs in taverns when a story takes a breath: the pauses between sentences grew longer. Spoons paused. A dry chord, struck once, made the entire wooden framework resonate.
The bard—not much older than themselves, with the kind of face that was at home in any city: open, but hard to remember; friendly, but without neediness—stroked the strings of his lute with his thumb, as if testing the mood of the room. His lute was not a showpiece, but a companion: the pegs polished to a shine, the top expertly patched.
"You want to know," he began in a voice that radiated authority without demanding it, "why the cycle still burns even though it has been broken. You want to know why we still have time – and to whom we owe it."
"Listen," he said, without raising his arm theatrically. "Listen first."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then all that could be heard was the hypnotic humming of the towers and the rhythmic clicking of the window latch in the wind. "Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "Those who cannot hear the wind cannot be heard either."
Scattered laughter broke out, but quietly—not in protest, but in agreement. Kaelira lowered her shoulders. This was the kind of introduction she liked: no frills, no false modesty.
He began to play the lute—a gently flowing melody that he repeated twice before switching to a stronger, more memorable sequence of notes.
The first note settled over the tavern like a silk cloth, and the stories began to weave together like ropes in skilled hands.
"He's singing about Xarven!" cried a boy whose voice was dangerously close to breaking.
"Be quiet," scolded an old woman, gently pressing his head down. "You can hear even when your mouth is closed."
The bard did not let himself be thrown off course. "They say," he began – and in this "they say" resonated the entire soul of the city – "that if Xarven still walked among us, there would be no monsters in Ikaril."
Several mugs were raised as if in a silent toast. "That's what they say," someone in the audience confirmed solemnly. "They also say that the sea owes no one anything. And yet we sail out every morning."
"Before the cycle was broken," the bard began, his fingers gliding over the strings, "the currents of the sky moved in paths that no mortal dared question. No island floated. The rivers obeyed their beds like faithful dogs obey their masters. And we believed this was the measure of all things."
An old navigator at the next table closed his eyes as if he could actually remember this mythical time. His seatmate, a young merchant with clean hands and naive eyes, nodded reverently. In Ikaril, people argued about many things—politics, trade, religion—but not about Xarven.
"Some claim," the bard continued as the melody grew darker, "that the Heirs of Light blessed him. Others whisper that the Silent Voices taught him how to be silent without falling silent. Perhaps it was both. One thing is certain: when the sky burst like canvas under hail, Xarven remained standing."
He paused. The strings trembled like the last breaths of a dying man. A child timidly raised its hand, wanting to ask a question, but its mother gently pulled it down. Kaelira had to smile. In a world full of scars and broken dreams, children needed heroes who shone brightly.
"I will not tell you where he came from," said the bard, "nor who taught him, nor what his sword was called. I will only tell you what concerns us all: the day Xarven stole time from the storm."
"The day he saved Ikaril," whispered an apprentice of the Storm Academy in a reverent voice.
The word hung in the air like morning dew on spider webs. Kaelira took a sip, felt the warmth in her stomach, and placed her hands flat on the worn wood of the table. The room had fallen silent—a tense silence like a sail in the rising wind.
"It was a woman," the bard began, his voice now deeper, carried by the weight of the story, "who held the Cycle in her hands—and it held her captive. She carried a child beneath her heart and carried the whole world on her shoulders. And Xarven stood before her."
Outside, the wind tugged at the door as if it too wanted to listen to the story. The landlady braced herself briefly, then nodded to the guests: "Bad storm. Good evening for old stories."
The bard's fingers plucked a deep, vibrating melody that resonated more through the bones than through the ears. "Hear of the day when Ikaril was to cease to exist. Of the woman who demanded more than even the almighty Cycle could give."
"She was no mere fool," he began. "She was of the same blood as Xarven, born of the same ancient line of power and magic. Some call her the Nameless One, others speak of her only as the Mother of the Rift. She was heavily pregnant, and yet she wanted to force the entire flow of the Cycle through her mortal veins."
His voice sank to a whisper that nevertheless reached every corner of the room. "She said, 'If I control the Cycle, I also control the future of my child.'"
"The elders warned her with desperate voices. The scholars shouted themselves hoarse. Even the Silent Voices, which had been silent for centuries, raised their voices and begged her to desist. But she listened to no warning. For in her heart burned not only a lust for power, but something far more dangerous: the all-consuming fear of a mother. The fear that her child would be born into a weaker, darker world. The fear that no one would be able to control the cosmic currents if she did not find the courage to try herself.
The strings vibrated as if the Cycle itself were resonating in the salty air. Kaelira felt as if the tavern were swallowing every note. No one dared take a sip, no one moved a chair. Only the story breathed with deadly intensity.
"But those who grasp the Cycle without it granting them a hold will be torn apart. And so the inevitable happened. When she tried to force the heavenly paths through her human veins, the eternal stream broke. The sky tore like parchment, islands rose from nowhere, streams plunged into the abyss, and Ikaril trembled to its foundations."
His voice became hard as steel striking stone. "It was the rift."
A collective groan went through the audience. Everyone knew this term—it was not legend, but the bloody origin of the world as they knew it.
"Xarven was her twin brother. Not older, not younger, but the same heartbeat, divided into two bodies. Where she wanted to enslave the Cycle, he wore it like a cloak that must never be taken off."
The bard played a fast, angry pattern – strings like arrows shot from a bow. " When he finally found her, the sky lay in a thousand shards. Currents that had flowed since the beginning of time hung loose like severed threads in a torn seam. And his sister stood in the middle of it, an unborn child in her womb, fire of madness in her eyes, screaming her defiance against the dying light."
"Too late," she yelled at him, her voice drowning out even the shattering of reality. "Too late, Xarven, the Cycle is mine."
"I don't hold it for you, not for the damned Ikaril," she continued, her words sharper than the lightning bolts that flashed from her hands. "Everything the current gives belongs to my child. Its future shall be greater than your miserable world, and if the currents tear it to pieces, then so be it."
A frightened murmur ran through the crowd in the Wave Runner when the bard uttered these words, for in them lay not only naked fear, but a greed that drowned out all reason.
"But Xarven knew a truth that she had forgotten in her madness: the Cycle did not belong to her. The Cycle was Ikaril."
The lute sounded shrill and bright as the strings were pulled upward with brutal force.
"He stepped into the apocalyptic storm without batting an eyelid. Where others would have been burned to ashes, the current closed around him like an old, familiar friend. He called her name through the chaos, but she heard nothing but the mad voice in her head whispering that she was strong enough for what she was doing."
"And so they fought—brother against sister, light against darkness."
"He wielded the Sword of Light, blessed by the Heirs, as some chronicles report. She embodied the heart of pure despair, amplified by the life growing within her."
"She summoned lightning that lifted rivers from their ancient beds. He raised the shield that sought to bind the shattering sky. She expelled the raw breath of the Cycle like liquid fire. He held against it with the concentrated power of time itself."
"And the world held its breath and watched."
Kaelira imagined the scene: two figures, bound by blood, separated by fate, amid currents of energy never meant for mortal eyes. An unborn life in the womb of one, a will of unbreakable steel in the heart of the other.
"He didn't want to kill her," the bard said more softly, his voice now carrying genuine pain.
"But he realized the cruel truth: if he did nothing, Ikaril would collapse like a house of cards in a hurricane. And so he lunged forward—for one last, desperate attack."
Fingers slid across the lowest strings like the heavy footsteps of an executioner.
"But he was too late. The cycle had already been irrevocably broken. No sword, no shield, no magic in the world could close the gaping wound."
"And so he did the only thing that only Xarven could do: he held the tear closed with his bare hands."
The bard's voice now carried a reverence that silenced even the most cynical cynics in the corner.
"With every fiber of his being, with every drop of blood in his veins, he braced himself against the all-consuming current. He forced the tear not to spread any further. He threw his entire life into the balance—not for glory, not for gratitude, but because it had to be done."
"And the Cycle, which never obeys, never speaks, never forgives—paused. For a single, precious moment, it paused."
A collective gasp went through the audience. Some closed their eyes, others unconsciously clenched their fists as if they could feel the supernatural power in their own arms.
"He couldn't heal the Cycle," the bard continued. "But he bought us time with his life. Time that no one else in the world would have given. Time for all of us to survive."
"And in this gifted time, Ikaril found a new, fragile balance. Islands that do not fall, but float in the clouds. Streams that do not end, but divide and find new paths. Scars that remind us every day that we once stood on the brink of the abyss."
The lute fell silent for an endless breath. Only the crackling of the stove could be heard and the distant howling of the wind.
"And so Xarven did not sink into death like ordinary mortals, but into the stream itself. Some claim he is still there, holding the crack closed with his bleeding hands so that it does not open further. Others believe he became pure light that accompanies us when we draw the gesture of the broken circle."
"But everyone agrees on one thing: without Xarven's sacrifice, there would be no more Ikaril."
The listeners remained in absolute silence. Then, one by one, they reverently touched their foreheads and drew the broken circle in the air. Even the hooded figures with their deep hoods did so—whether out of genuine belief or mere habit, no one could say.
"And so this ballad ends not with glorious victory, not with an ending, but with the most precious gift we have ever been given: time. Time to live, to love, to fight. Time bought with the blood of a hero."
He let the last notes fade away until they were lost in the salt-soaked wood of the walls.
Kaelira exhaled deeply. She had heard many things in her life—lies that sounded like truths, oaths that were broken before the ink was dry, confessions that were drowned in blood. But the ballad of Xarven had a different, purer sound. He had not been an unapproachable god, a tyrannical king, a fanatical prophet. He was a man who stood up when everyone else fell.
She watched as an old navigator wept quietly, a child held his mother's hand tighter, a merchant bowed his head in reverence. Stormreach thrived on trade, on ships, on wind—and on stories like this. Without them, the city would be nothing but a pile of stone and salt, without soul, without hope.
The bard's words hung heavy in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate. For a heartbeat, even the storm outside seemed to have ceased its relentless assault on the shutters. But then, almost shyly, a young sailor began tapping his mug against the wood—a slow, respectful rhythm. A second followed, then a third, until the tables seemed to pulsate like a collective heart.
"To Xarven!" someone shouted in a hoarse voice, and half a dozen throats echoed the cry like a battle cry. But immediately, an older sailor with gray braids stood up and shook his head decisively.
"For Xarven, yes... but never forget: one man alone cannot hold a rope in heavy weather. His sister meant well too – and look what disaster it led to."
Some children giggled nervously at the mention of the nameless one, as if her very name would bring bad luck.
The silence after these words was like that after a particularly high wave, when the water has to rearrange itself. Then a spoon clattered against ceramic somewhere, someone breathed audibly, and the conversations sprang back into the room like sparks from a newly lit fire. The child at the window asked for a second piece of honey cake; the old navigator wiped his moist eyes with the back of his scarred hand.
"He's still holding on, people say," murmured the landlady next to Kaelira, without taking her eyes off the bard, who was carefully tuning his lute. "Not dead, not gone. Holding on."
"If he let go," Kaelira replied softly, "we would all feel it. Immediately."
"Everyone here would feel it," confirmed the landlady, placing a hand flat on the tabletop as if she could feel the heartbeat of the entire city beneath it.
On the bench opposite, a sailor leaned with scratched hands that told countless stories of rope and storm. He pushed his half-full mug aside. "I'll tell you one thing: if Xarven ever returned, the floating islands would finally land where they belong. Everything back in its rightful place, as it should be."
A young man with an immaculately clean coat—no doubt from the Academy, where they put theory before practice—shook his head vigorously. "They belong where they are now. The Cycle has found new paths, opened up new ways. Xarven has given us time to understand and master these changes—not to nail the world back to the ground like an old carpet."
"Pah, 'understand.'" The sailor narrowed one eye mockingly. "For some, 'understand' means the same thing as 'charge fees so others can pass.'"
Audible grins spread across the tables where merchants of the Golden Thread pretended not to hear this not-so-subtle dig.
A gray-haired man, whose back still showed the unmistakable posture of an old soldier, set down his mug with a decisive clink. "I was at the Vael Gorge when the first island appeared out of nowhere," he said to the group, his voice carrying the authority of an eyewitness. "It came out of nowhere. At first, it was just a shadow in the sky. Then there was a hum that made your teeth vibrate and your bones tremble. And suddenly the sun fell differently, because there was something up there that held the air itself captive."
His voice grew quieter, more reverent. "We all threw ourselves to the ground. The man next to me prayed for the first time in his life, even though he usually mocked the gods. And we got back up because the damn thing didn't fall. That is Xarven's work. I swore then that I would never forget it."
"No one here forgets," said the landlady with the simple certainty of a woman who had heard stories all her life. "We sell storm beer and tell its story. That must be enough."
"Is it really enough?" asked a woman at the next table sharply—the ink on her fingers betraying the scholar who had read too many books and experienced too few storms. "We have new sea charts, unknown currents, completely changed trade routes. But we also have new cracks in the fabric of reality. The Cycle is no longer smooth and predictable. It has become... sharp-edged. Dangerous."
"It wasn't smooth before either," replied the academy apprentice, almost too hastily, as if he had to answer an exam question. "Just... dangerous in a different way. Xarven prevented everything from collapsing. From us all ending. If you're smart, you can learn to deal with edges."
"That's easy to say for someone with warm hands and a full belly," the sailor grumbled suspiciously.
"Don't argue about the gift we've all received," the bard interjected diplomatically as he readjusted a string. "Without him, we wouldn't be sitting here worrying about anything."
A murmur of agreement rose—half embarrassed by the quarrel, half grateful for the simple truth. Kaelira took a long, deliberate sip; the storm beer felt warm and comforting in her stomach.
From the corner where the hooded figures sat, one slowly raised his head. Only a clean-shaven chin was visible, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a hardness that did not come from honest labor. "Xarven held the cosmic rift," he said in a calm, almost friendly voice. "Others keep the trade routes open today. Some fools call us thieves and highwaymen for doing so. Others, wiser ones, call us guides."
His gaze wandered around the room, lingering on no one for too long. "Names are like the wind—they come and go. Paths are paths."
Someone muttered "Shadow Caravan" between clenched teeth, without saying the word completely. The man didn't seem to hear it—or skillfully ignored it.
"Paths are paths," the ink woman repeated thoughtfully, as if savoring the phrase on her tongue. "And fees are still fees."
The landlady clapped her hands once decisively – not hard, just connectively, like a judge restoring order. "Should we discuss petty fees when people still have Xarven's heroic deed ringing in their ears? Not tonight. Tonight we drink to the fact that we'll still be here tomorrow to argue."
Cups were raised like weapons. "To Xarven."
"To the time we've been given," added the old soldier, his voice trembling.
Kaelira also raised her cup. As she drank, she saw the child by the window, now eagerly practicing the broken circle gesture, opening his fingers too early each time. The mother laughed affectionately and corrected the child with patient movements. Small, intimate rituals were taking place all over the room: a finger tapping the rim of a cup three times, a hand briefly touching the breastbone, a glance at the ceiling as if someone invisible were sitting there and nodding back.
"Tell me," began the ink woman with the curiosity of a researcher, "if Xarven really sank into the stream, where is he then? As light? As... a force that holds?"
"In the Cycle, where else," said the apprentice with the instructive tone of those who have memorized formulas. "We call it the persistence of a metaphysical anchor. In the academy's diagrams—"
"Diagrams," the sailor interrupted contemptuously. "I call it something else: when the night suddenly grows still and my nerves flicker, I speak his name, and they calm down again."
A knowing exchange of glances wandered through the rows. The soldier tilted his head thoughtfully. "In our garrison, they said: If you turn your shield on the windowsill before going to bed, you'll sleep without falling dreams. Maybe it's superstition. But it worked anyway."
"Superstition or not," grumbled the landlady, nodding toward a glassy stone on the wall, "we don't have the crack stone hanging there without good reason. Since it's been there, no storm has torn the roof off. The house two streets away—three times in six years."
"You'd think the stone actually holds up the roof," one of the merchants from the Golden Thread scoffed under his breath.
"You'd also think that some debts pay themselves," the landlady promptly replied. Honest laughter broke out, broad and liberating. Even the merchant grinned.
"I often wonder," said the ink woman more quietly, running her finger along the edge of the table as if it were a line of text, "if the mother of the rift finally understood what she had done."
"She only understood what she wanted," said the sailor bitterly. "And everyone who swims against the tide ends up getting wet."
"What about the child?" asked the girl at the window suddenly, very seriously and with the direct manner of children who are not yet afraid of difficult questions. The mother wanted to wave her off, but the bard nodded encouragingly. "A very good question, little lady."
A respectful space was created—not silence, but rather a space that everyone instinctively left free for important thoughts. The bard gently placed the lute in his lap. "Children are also part of the Cycle," he finally said with the wisdom of a man who knew many stories. "They are born because life itself wants to continue. Xarven has not only given us time. Perhaps also to this unborn child. Whether boy or girl." He shrugged. "Who can count or measure that?"
The girl thought about it intensely, as if it were a puzzle with a clear solution. "Then... did Xarven save it without knowing it?"
"When you save Ikaril," said the old soldier with the certainty of experience, "you always save someone very specific whom you will never see."
Kaelira felt her throat tighten. Sometimes heroism was just another word for "someone holding out until they've had enough." There were dark days when she would have preferred a world without such heavy words. Today was not one of them.
The Academy apprentice rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out something: a thin, scarred brass anchor knot, the kind novices wore as a good luck charm and memento. He placed it carefully on the table. "We measure the new energy channels every day," he said with youthful enthusiasm. "The towers, the guardians of the breath, are still responding. Sometimes they even sing. I am convinced that this is where Xarven..." He tapped the knot reverently. "...holds. Not always with the same strength or volume. But for those who really want to hear it, it's there."
"I hear it in the mast of my ship," said the sailor thoughtfully. "When it groans like an old violin but still doesn't break, I thank it." He raised his cup toward the window as if his ship were out there.
"I hear it at night," said the landlady, "when the whole city falls completely silent for a moment. Then I know for sure it will get loud again. That's my proof that someone is watching over us."
The hooded figure in the corner rubbed his fingertips together thoughtfully, as if testing their roughness for the work ahead. "I hear it in price negotiations," he muttered dryly. "When someone thinks they can buy time like meat or grain. Then I tell them: time has already been paid for. With blood."
Surprised laughter rose, quickly turning to respect.
The bard strummed the strings again—a sound that was more circular than straight, like water moving in a calm pool. "I was once asked why we sing the same ballad over and over, century after century. I replied: Because otherwise we would convince ourselves that we were all alone in the darkness. But we weren't. Someone stood by us all."
"And still stands by us," added the ink woman, this time without question in her voice.
"And still stands," repeated the room like a sacred oath.
For a while, the conversations drifted into calmer, more familiar waters. Stories surfaced like flotsam after a storm: an uncle who had saved three boats from sinking with a single rope on a night of sher wind; a grandmother who could tell when a floating island changed course by the flickering of the oil lamps; a merchant who stubbornly swore that the heirs of light had lit a lantern in a dark side alley, brighter than noon and warmer than love.
No one argued about absolute truths. They were left hanging like nets hung out to dry: may they be useful tomorrow.
Kaelira finally stood up to stretch her stiff legs. Through the fogged-up windows, she saw the lightning on the horizon becoming smaller and less frequent, as if retreating into the pockets of a distant, weary giant. The wind whistled more softly at the door joints. Somewhere in the courtyard, someone laughed—rough, happy, alive.
When she sat down again, the landlady had already added a small bowl of fruit and a piece of salted silver pike skin, fried crispy, as if it had been invented for this very moment.
"On the house," said the landlady curtly.
Kaelira raised two fingers in greeting. "To Xarven."
"To the gift of time," said the landlady.
The lute began to play again—this time not for a grand ballad, but for the kind of gentle melody that allows conversations to mature like fine wine. The old soldier leaned over to the young apprentice and quietly explained how to calm a nervous patrol with a few well-chosen words. The sailor told the curious child how to untie knots that others consider impossible to untie. The hooded figure discreetly ordered the next round for his table, paying without haggling or questioning the price. The ink woman silently wrote a word on the damp tabletop with her fingernail: Hold.
As the evening grew deeper and more comfortable, the bard placed his trusty lute in its stand and stepped down from the small stage. People patted him fleetingly but warmly on the shoulder, as if he had been a reliable messenger who had brought important news from a safe source. Kaelira caught his tired gaze, and he nodded to her—a narrow, exhausted greeting among people who know that some burdens do not become lighter just because you share them with others.
"Thank you," she said without standing up.
"Not to me," he replied with a faint smile. "The thanks belong to the one who holds."
Kaelira smiled back. "Then he has heard a lot of gratitude today."
"Today and tomorrow," said the bard as he took his coat, "and until we no longer need him."
"We will always need him," interjected the landlady with the matter-of-factness of a woman who only occasionally has to voice certain truths aloud.
"Then," said the bard, walking to the door, "we'll just keep singing."
He disappeared into the stormy night, and the wind briefly moved the bolt, as if to politely make way. Behind him, the familiar noise closed again, but something invisible remained: the warm feeling that somewhere, forever invisible, a strong hand lay in a cosmic crack and would never let go.
Stormreach took a deep breath. The Wave Runner hummed contentedly.
Kaelira placed her fingers on her thumb and index finger, forming the broken circle, holding it closed a breath longer than custom required—and then opening it with a gratitude that surprised even herself.
The conversations continued like streams that had known their way for centuries.
Outside, the rain had finally subsided. The puddles carried the flickering light of the harbor lanterns like flat, golden moons on their surface, and somewhere behind the docks, a loose rope beat to the hypnotic rhythm of the fading wind. Kaelira stood beneath the weathered sign of the Wave Runner and listened intently: the distant hum of the Guardians of the Breath was a barely perceptible note lower today—not a threatening sound, more a gentle hint that the Cycle was cautiously charting a new, hopeful course.
A messenger boy scurried up the narrow alley, his hood too large for his narrow head, his steps too hasty for the slippery stones. He would have shot past her like a startled animal if the wind hadn't pushed him aside. "Excuse me..." He paused, confused, unable to find a suitable form of address for a woman like her, and wisely left it at that. "I was instructed to give this to the woman who looks at the crack the longest and most attentively."
He handed her a small, oil-stained package and had already disappeared back into the darkness, as if the storm itself had reached out for him.
Under the dim light of a lantern, Kaelira unwrapped it. Inside was a brass needle, artfully bent into an anchor knot, old and polished smooth by countless hands. Under the needle she found a narrow strip of paper, the writing calm and without any apparent haste:
Someone is holding on. Hold on too.
No seal. No name. No clue as to the sender. Only the familiar click of a distant window latch behind her, as if the Wave Runner wanted to read the mysterious lines too. Kaelira carefully tucked the needle away, looked over at the harbor, where the masts stood like dark hands against the clearing sky, and nodded slowly into the night, as if answering an unasked question.
"See you tomorrow," she said to Stormreach, and the city breathed in the soothing rhythm of the towers.
Chapter 21: Learn or burn: The Norak'el lesson
Chapter Text
Date: 14 Ignatis (333 n.K)
Location: Pyrelis on the continent of Ignirion
Characters: Serika Mirathen & Norak'el Velkaran.
Pyrelis pulsed like the beating heart of a volcano that evening. Torches flickered on every street corner, their flames casting dancing shadows on the volcanic stone walls. Drumbeats boomed through the sultry air, a rhythm so deep and powerful that Serika could feel it in her ribs. The heat enveloped her like warm water, at first oppressive, then surprisingly soothing—as if the city itself were welcoming her.
Serika Mirathen was here for the first time, a pilgrim from cool Thal'vareth, where quiet libraries full of ancient runes rested in eternal silence. But Ignirion assaulted her senses without mercy. Smoke from roasted meat mingled with the sweet scent of spices and the earthy aroma of lava bread crackling in hot stone ovens. Each breath seemed to make her more alive, as if the fire of the city was flowing through her veins.
The crowd pressed together in front of the blacksmith's stage, body to body, all faces turned toward the same spectacle. Serika fought her way through the throng until she could finally see what had the people so captivated.
There he stood. Norak'el Velkaran. A man as if Ignirion himself had forged him from fire and iron: shoulders broad as an anvil, dark hair pulled back tightly, every movement fluid and powerful. When his hammer struck the glowing metal, sparks exploded like fallen stars, and the crowd roared with excitement. His smile was effortless, radiant, magnetic—the expression of a man who knew the world was at his feet.
Serika stared at him, completely captivated by this display of raw power and elegance. She was so engrossed that she didn't notice the elbow digging into her ribs. Her cup slipped from her fingers.
A strong hand caught it before it could hit the floor.
"Careful, little flame," murmured a deep voice, warm as molten gold. "You don't waste good ember wine like that."
Serika looked up—and found herself staring directly into the eyes of Norak'el Velkaran. They were brown like polished mahogany, with golden flecks that sparkled in the torchlight. Her mouth went dry.
"Oh... thank you," she stammered, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.
He handed her back the cup, his fingers brushing hers—warm, a little rough from work, surprisingly gentle. "You're not from around here, are you? Your skin is too pale for our sun."
"I'm Serika, from Thal'vareth," she replied, still breathless.
"Thal'vareth!" He laughed, a sound like crackling fire. "The city of eternal books. Then you are educated. There are more parchments there than trees." His eyes scanned her with undisguised curiosity. "Are you a scholar?"
She nodded hesitantly. "I was supposed to teach at the Rune Academy soon."
"Ah, that explains your gaze." He took a step closer, close enough that she could smell the iron and sweat on him. "You see things as if they hold secrets. As if you could see into their souls. Dangerous for men like me."
"Dangerous?" A laugh escaped her, light and surprised.
"We live by strong arms and hot blood," he explained with a crooked grin. "But clever words? They can cut deeper than any blade."
The compliment made her heart flutter. No one had ever described her intelligence as seductive. In Thal'vareth, she had been the serious student, respected but never desired.
"And what brings a rune master to the Trial of Flame?" he continued. "It's not for the faint of heart."
"I wanted to experience it once," she confessed honestly. "Even though I'm hardly used to the climate. It's like stepping into bathwater that's too hot—impossible at first, then you never want to get out."
His laughter was so infectious that she had to smile herself. "That's exactly what Ignirion is like. Too much for the first taste, then addictive for the rest of your life."
"And you?" she ventured to ask. "What does this festival mean to you?"
His expression became more serious, almost reverent. "Everything. It's the beating heart of this city. Here, everyone shows their worth—blacksmiths, warriors, merchants. Today, we forget about wars and business. Today, the fire makes us all equal."
He took her cup, tasted a sip, and grimaced slightly. "Too sweet. Have you ever tried real ember wine?
"Not yet."
With a fluid motion, he waved to a merchant, exchanged coins for two small cups, and handed her one. "Careful—it's sweet at first, then it burns like hell. But it warms you from the inside."
She took a sip and grimaced before she had to laugh. "By all the continents, it really burns!"
"But it makes you brave," he replied, raising his cup. "To the flame that led you to me, Serika."
The sound of her name in his voice made her shiver. They clinked cups, and for a heartbeat, only the heat between them existed.
The drums grew louder, more urgent. The crowd pushed closer to the stage, bodies pressed against each other. Serika, smaller than most, could see only backs and shoulders.
"Wait," Norak'el said.
Before she could protest, he put his hands around her waist and lifted her effortlessly, as if she were made of feathers. She gasped in surprise, then laughed when she suddenly found herself looking out over everyone's heads. The shower of sparks above the anvil, the raging crowd, the golden glow of the entire city—everything lay at her feet.
"Better?" he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
"Much better," she whispered. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure he must hear it.
As the sparks danced like shooting stars above them, Serika knew with crystal-clear certainty: she was lost. Hopelessly, irretrievably in love.
The crowd was still cheering when Norak'el gently set her on her feet. Her knees felt soft as warm wax, but his hand on her back kept her upright.
"You have the eyes of someone who wants to devour the world," he said with a smile that took her breath away, "but doesn't always get the best seat. We should change that."
He offered her his arm—not demanding, but as if it were the most natural invitation in the world. As she hesitantly placed her hand in it, she felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the strength of the muscles beneath.
He guided her through the crowd with an elegance that was impressive. People didn't just make way for him, they greeted him, patted him on the shoulder, called his name. Norak'el returned every greeting, smiled, laughed—and yet Serika felt that his entire attention belonged only to her.
"You have to try this," he said as they passed a stall with steaming skewers. Meat and red peppers sizzled over glowing lava rocks, the fat hissing and crackling. "Fire tongue. Hot enough to wake the dead."
She took a cautious bite—and tears immediately sprang to her eyes. "By all the gods! This is liquid lava!"
Norak'el laughed and quickly handed her his cup. "Here, ember wine helps. Now take another bite—this time you'll taste the sweetness behind it."
Hesitantly, she tried again. Indeed—behind the wall of fire, a surprising fruitiness emerged, complex and delicious.
"You were right," she gasped.
"Of course," he teased. "I'm a blacksmith. I understand fire in all its forms."
Later, he took her to a stand with dark, flat breads that were softened in steam basins. "Lava bread. It's perfect when it's warm." He broke off a piece, dipped it in a bowl of reddish paste, and held it out to her. "Trust me."
The spicy flavor exploded on her tongue—complex, powerful, with a warmth that spread through her chest.
"Ignirion doesn't want you to be full," Norak'el explained as he watched her. "It wants you to be happy."
She looked at him, feeling the weight of his words. "And you? Do you want me to be happy too?"
His eyes became intense, drilling into hers. "Nothing else."
Her cheeks burned hotter than the lava bread.
New drum rhythms began, faster, wilder. Couples streamed onto the square, reaching for each other's hands. Norak'el bowed slightly to her.
"May I?"
"I'm not a good dancer," she confessed.
"Then let me lead.,"
His hand found her waist, pulling her into the circle of dancers. He moved with an elegance that no one would have expected from a blacksmith—fluid, confident, his lead so clear that she didn't have to do anything but let herself go. He whirled her through the air, caught her, let her fly.
"You're doing this on purpose," she gasped as he caught her in a complex turn.
"Of course. I wanted to hear you laugh."
The tingling in her chest became a blazing fire as he pulled her closer, just for a heartbeat, before letting her swing wide again. The drums, the cheering of the crowd, the sparkle of the torches—everything merged into a golden frenzy, at the center of which only he existed.
When the song ended, he held her in his arms for a moment, their faces only inches apart.
"See, you're better than you think," he whispered.
Tears burned in her eyes—not from sadness, but because it was too beautiful to be true.
"Norak'el..." she began.
He gently placed his finger on her lips. "Not now. Tonight, you just have to feel."
As the next fireworks lit up the sky above Ignirion in gold, Serika Mirathen knew with frightening clarity: her heart no longer belonged to her.
After the dance, Norak'el led her away from the raging crowd, through a narrow alley where the torches were smaller and the voices sounded only as distant murmurs. Here, the warmth was gentler, like a silken cloak around her shoulders.
"Sometimes," he said as they walked side by side, their steps in unison, "the most beautiful thing about the festival is not the fire itself, but the silence between the flames."
Serika nodded, feeling the truth of his words. "It feels as if the city is still breathing, but more quietly. Like after a deep sigh."
He stopped, looking at her from the side. "And you? Do you breathe easier here or in Thal'vareth?"
The question struck her unexpectedly deeply. "Thal'vareth is familiar. Orderly, like a rune circle. But here..." She searched for the right words. "Here I feel more alive. As if my blood is flowing properly for the first time."
"Because Ignirion sees you," he said simply. "Because I see you."
Her steps faltered. The intensity in his voice made her heart race.
"You are very skilled with words," she whispered.
He stepped closer until their shoulders were almost touching. "Because you deserve someone who can find the right ones for you."
The air between them crackled like before a storm. He raised his hand, brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering gently on her cheek.
"Stay longer tonight," he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "Ignirion has more secrets than one night can reveal."
Serika knew she had already made up her mind. Her reason might protest, but her heart had already surrendered.
The weeks that followed passed like a fever dream. They met almost every day—in the bustling markets, in smoky taverns, on walks along the lava flows, where the ground glowed like a band of stars beneath their feet at night.
Norak'el was a master of seduction, without ever seeming pushy. He laughed with her at stories from Ignirion, gently teased her about her paleness, listened to her as if there were nothing more fascinating in the world. He introduced her to the secrets of Ignatharian cuisine, explained the meaning of blacksmith symbols, and showed her how to hold a blade over the flame without dulling it.
He never spoke disparagingly about her origins. On the contrary, he peppered her with questions about runes, the philosophy of silence, ancient languages. He made her believe she was the most fascinating creature he had ever encountered.
Serika floated through those weeks as if intoxicated. Every day began with the anticipation of seeing him, every night ended with his name on her lips. She was certain: this was what true love must feel like.
But time was relentless. The day of her planned return to Thal'vareth approached like a threatening storm.
One evening, as the lava flows pulsed deep red beneath them and the air flowed around them warm as velvet, Norak'el suddenly stopped.
"Serika." His voice was serious, urgent. "Your departure is approaching."
She nodded, a lump in her throat. "In two weeks."
"And you really want to go?" He turned to her, took her hands in his large, warm ones. "Your professorship, your academy—is that really more important than what we have?"
"It's always been my dream," she whispered, but her voice sounded uncertain.
"Dreams can change." He leaned toward her, looking deep into her eyes. "Stay with me, Serika. Move in with me. I only want one thing: for you to be happy. For you to wake up smiling every morning. For you to never have to be alone again. Everything else is just stone and parchment. But we—we are living fire."
Tears burned in her eyes. She knew she should find arguments, let reason prevail. But his gaze, his voice, the warmth of his hands—everything melted her resistance like wax before a flame.
"I..." The words stuck in her throat.
He kissed her forehead, tenderly, almost reverently. "Don't think, Serika. Feel. And tell me—hasn't your heart already decided?"
At that moment, with the lava glowing beneath them like the blood of the earth itself, Serika knew: she was ready to give up everything for him. Her future, her dreams, her old life—everything seemed meaningless compared to the power of the feeling that drove him into her arms.
Serika stood in front of Norak'el's house and could hardly believe that this was now to be her home. The building was typically Ignatharian—built of dark volcanic stone, crisscrossed with shimmering metal veins that glistened in the eternal torchlight of the street. It smelled of iron and oil, of hard work and a warmth that did not completely disappear even at night.
"Welcome home," Norak'el said with that irresistible smile that made her weak every time.
He lifted her over the threshold as if she were light as a feather. She laughed as he gently set her down, his hands lingering on her waist a moment longer than necessary.
The first few days were honey and fire. He cooked for her—simple, hearty meals that he prepared with the same care he put into his blacksmithing. He told stories from Ignirion, made her laugh, listened to her when she talked about rune theory. Serika was convinced she had made the right choice.
But after a few days, when she opened her chest to put away her clothes, she stood perplexed in the middle of the room.
"Norak'el," she began cautiously. "Where could I put my things? The closet doesn't seem to have any room."
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her neck. "Oh, little flame, don't worry about it. My work clothes need the space—I use them every day. Your fine clothes are safer from the city's soot in the chest." His voice became softer, seductive. "Besides... when I look at you, I don't need fancy clothes to see your beauty."
She blushed, flattered by his words. Still, something gnawed at her—a tiny prick of unease.
Another time, when she suggested sprucing up the small balcony, he waved her off. "Serika, you should relax. I don't want you to bother with such trifles. Let me take care of everything."
"But I'd like to do it," she ventured to object.
He tilted his head, smiled gently, but there was a new undertone in his voice. "If you constantly want to change everything, it sounds like you're not satisfied with what I give you. Am I not enough for you?"
A shock ran through her. "Yes! Of course you're enough. I just wanted to..."
He kissed her before she could finish her sentence. "Then trust me. I know Ignirion, I know what works here. I just want you to be happy."
She nodded, her conscience gnawing at her chest. How could she doubt his care?
That's how it began—small shifts, barely noticeable, charmingly packaged in concern and love. Every time she brought something up, he skillfully turned it around, making her the ungrateful one and him the loving protector. Serika laughed with him, slept by his side—and didn't notice how the space around her was getting smaller.
It was late at night, later than Serika had expected. The streetlights had long since burned out, leaving only a faint glow. No more hammer blows echoed from the smithies. Even Ignirion was asleep, as far as this city could ever come to rest.
Serika sat by the window, her knees drawn up, a thin cloth around her shoulders. She had been waiting. First with a smile, then with growing concern, and finally with a knot in her stomach.
The door finally opened. Norak'el entered, his coat thrown carelessly over one shoulder. He smelled of smoke and something sweet—not ember wine, not the forge. Something unfamiliar.
"Norak'el." Her voice trembled despite her best efforts. "It's the middle of the night. Where have you been?"
He stopped, looked her over—and smiled. Not apologetically, but calmly, controlled. "I didn't want to wake you, little flame. Was out with friends. A party, a few too many drinks... nothing more."
She stood up, stepped closer, searched his eyes for the truth. "With friends? Why didn't you say anything? I was worried."
His head tilted slightly to the side, his smile softened – and somehow became more dangerous. "Worried? Serika... don't you trust me?"
"Yes!" The intensity of her own reaction startled her. "But I thought... if you come home so late, maybe... maybe I've become too much for you."
He stepped toward her, took her face in his hands. "Stop that. You're not too much. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
"Then tell me the truth," she whispered. "If you don't want me anymore, tell me. I can't stand being kept in the dark."
Norak'el laughed softly and kissed her forehead. "You're cute when you doubt me. But you see ghosts where there are none. I come home late because I work hard—for both of us. So that you're safe, so that you don't have to go without anything. And what do I get in return? Mistrust."
Serika took a step back, her heart aching. "That's not fair. I only ask because I want to know where you are. Because I love you."
"And I love you," he replied immediately, with a warmth that almost hurt. "But your questions sound like you want to chain me down. Is that what you want? Do you want to suffocate me?"
"No! Never!" She shook her head, tears burning in her eyes. "I just want to be honest with you."
"Honest?" That smile again as he gently pulled her toward him. "Honesty also means trusting each other. I'm not doing anything to hurt us. Just believe me."
She rested her forehead against his chest, feeling his calm heartbeat beneath her cheek. The knot in her stomach tightened, even though his words sounded so convincing.
"If I ever leave," he whispered into her hair, "it will only be because you push me away with your doubts. Don't let that happen, Serika. Let's remain fire, not ashes."
She closed her eyes, desperate to believe him. He sounded so sure, so loving—she was almost convinced that the problem lay with her, not him.
But the question remained like smoldering embers in her heart. And deep down, she knew that embers could turn into an inferno at any moment.
The days in Ignirion remained warm, but a shadow grew in Serika's heart, darker than the smoke from the forge fires. It was the little things, seemingly insignificant, that gathered like drops to form a raging torrent.
One evening, while sorting the laundry, she discovered something on his coat that made her blood run cold: fine hairs, golden like sunbeams, completely different from her own dark strands. They hung in the fibers as if they desperately wanted to be seen.
Serika held them between her fingers, her breath catching. When he came home, she stood there—with the evidence in her hand.
...
come back next week for part 2
Chapter 22: Learn or burn: The Norak'el lesson (Part 2)
Chapter Text
Serika held them between her fingers, her breath catching. When he came home, she stood there—with the evidence in her hand.
...
"Norak'el," she began, her voice controlled even though her heart was racing. "Where did these hairs come from?"
He glanced at them briefly, then laughed as if it were the most harmless question in the world. "Oh, little flame. From the festivities, of course. You know how crowded it gets. Someone got too close to me in the crowd—a dancer, a friend of friends. Inevitable with the crowds."
"But they're all over your coat," she insisted.
He stepped toward her, gently took the hair from her hand, and let it fall to the floor as if it were dust. "And now they're gone. Do you really want to hang our love on a few meaningless strands?"
Guilt crept up inside her. "I'm only asking because I need clarity. If there's something... please tell me. I could handle honesty, but not lies."
Norak'el placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned so close to her that she could feel his breath. "Lies? Serika, listen to yourself. I work hard every day, provide for us, hold you in my arms at night—and yet you think I'm lying to you?"
"I—"
"You know you're the only one for me. But sometimes, when you talk like that..." His voice softened, becoming more vulnerable. "...sometimes I think you want to lose me. As if you distrust me so much that you push me away yourself."
Tears welled up in her eyes. "I don't want that. I just want to be sure that I'm not indifferent to you."
"You are never indifferent to me," he said immediately, pulling her into his arms. "You are my heart, Serika. But your distrust burns hotter than any forge fire. Don't let it come between us."
She pressed her forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat—calm, steady, as if it could never lie.
But thoughts swirled in her head like sparks in the wind. The strange hairs on his coat. The sweet, unfamiliar scent that had clung to his skin the other day. His late returns home, which he explained with vague excuses. Everything pointed to the same painful truth.
And yet: his words, his gaze, the warmth of his arms around her – they made it almost impossible not to believe him.
"Maybe... maybe I'm just imagining it," she whispered against his chest.
"Of course you are," he said gently, stroking her hair. "You're just tired. Too much heat, too many worries. I'm here, that's all that matters.,"
And so she found herself back at his side, while a war raged within her between what her eyes saw and what he made her feel.
Ignirion knew no true sleep. Even in the deepest hours of the night, the distant hammering from the forges penetrated, and the red glow of the lava flows cast flickering shadows on the stone walls. Serika had been lying awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and listening to the steady breathing beside her. Norak'el was "with friends," as so often lately. She hadn't asked, not wanting to hear again that it was she who doubted too much.
But tonight, the feeling wouldn't leave her. An inner pull, a whisper in her stomach that forced her to get up. She wrapped a thin cloth around her shoulders, stepped out into the still warm alleys, and followed the voices and laughter echoing from the tavern "The Glowing Anvil" at the edge of the smithy halls.
The heavy oak door was ajar. Warmth, smoke, and laughter poured out like spirits from a bottle. She stepped closer, her heart pounding like hammer blows on hot iron.
And then she saw him. Norak'el Velkaran.
He was not alone. In his arms lay a woman with golden hair that shimmered like molten ore in the torchlight. His hand rested on her waist, his mouth so close to her neck that Serika could almost feel his warm breath.
The world around her froze. For a moment, she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Everything she had felt, doubted, and thought about during sleepless nights for weeks now stood before her—crystal clear, like a rune carved in stone.
"Norak'el," she whispered.
He flinched as if struck by a whip and looked up. But instead of showing guilt, that practiced, charming smile appeared on his face—the smile that had once made her melt. "Serika! Little flame, it's not what you think..."
"Not what I think?" Her voice cut through the laughter in the room like a sharp blade. "I see you, Norak'el. I see you with my own eyes, and you still dare to tell me that I'm imagining ghosts?"
The conversations fell silent. The woman in his arms hastily withdrew, but Norak'el reached out to Serika as if he could appease her with a gesture.
"Listen to me, please. She just..."
"Shut up!" Her voice trembled with suppressed anger. Weeks of self-doubt, nights spent thinking that she was the problem, erupted from her like lava from a volcano. "I believed you when you said I was overreacting. I convinced myself that my eyes were deceiving me. But they're not deceiving me. You're deceiving me."
He started again, his words sweet as honey, smooth as warm oil. "Serika, you know you're everything to me. I've made mistakes, yes, but only because I..."
"Because you only love yourself," she interrupted him. Her hands clenched into fists, tears running down her cheeks, but her voice was strong as forged steel. "You wanted me to doubt myself. You wanted me to feel small so that you would appear bigger. But I'm not small, Norak'el. I never was small."
The air in the room seemed to freeze as she spoke the words that had burned inside her for so long.
She raised her hands, and her voice became clear and sharp, carried by the power of all the runes she had ever studied. "You want to be fire? Then be fire. But with every shameful desire, with every stir of your inflated ego, you shall stumble, you shall fall—and the whole world shall see how weak you truly are."
A soft crackling sound rippled through the room, as if the air itself were electrically charged. It was not a visible fire, not a glaring flash, but something much more subtle—a feeling as if the universe itself had held its breath. Norak'el's eyes widened as he felt something invisible and relentless reaching for him.
"Serika, what have you done?" he whispered, and for the first time she heard genuine fear in his voice.
She stepped back, her voice hard as granite. "I gave you what you will never be able to bear: a mirror."
And with those words, she turned and left the tavern. Her footsteps echoed on the cobblestones like a death sentence. Behind her, Norak'el remained—proud, beautiful, strong, yet afflicted by a curse he did not understand. Not yet.
Serika stormed through the winding alleys of Ignirion, the lava flows beneath the stone bridges glowing red like her anger. The heat of the city, which usually oppressed her, suddenly felt like a warm embrace—as if Ignirion itself shared her rage.
In Norak'el's house—for she now realized it had never been her house—it was as quiet as a grave. She went straight to the chest that still stood locked at the edge of the room, full of clothes that had never found a place in his closet. How symbolic.
She tore it open and packed her things with quick, decisive movements. No hesitation, no sentimental pauses. Her hands trembled not with weakness, but with the power of her decision.
When the chest was closed, she tied it with a strong rope and dragged it out, step by heavy step, until she stood in front of the trading house of the **Golden Thread**. It was late, but the lights were still on there—the merchants of this guild were famous for their discretion and their willingness to do business at any hour.
A middle-aged man in dark clothing with a golden thread in the hem opened the door. "Can I help you, mistress?"
"Yes," Serika hissed, her voice sharper than any blacksmith's blade. "I need a carriage to Thal'vareth. Tonight. And a room to sleep in until departure. Payment will be made immediately."
The merchant looked from her to the tightly lashed chest, then back at her. He sensed the heat that seemed to radiate from her skin and nodded quickly. "Of course, right away. The carriage will be ready at dawn. The guest room upstairs is empty."
"Good," she growled, pushing the chest inside and not once giving the impression that she was asking for permission.
The merchant led her up the creaking stairs, and when she was out of earshot, he muttered to himself, shaking his head, "By all the gods... that woman is explosive. Who on earth could provoke such anger in someone?"
He paused, then snorted softly. "Probably a man."
At the same time, in the tavern, Norak'el sat leaning back on the bench, a mug of steaming ember wine in his hand, his face still flawless in the light of the torches. Some friends had joined him, laughing at some crude joke.
"You see," he said with a careless shrug, "some women are just... unpredictable. You do everything for them, give them warmth, attention, fulfill their wishes—and then they go completely crazy over trifles. A few hairs on your coat, an evening with friends... and suddenly you're the monster."
His companions laughed in agreement, one of them patting him on the shoulder. "You're lucky, Norak'el. Others would fight for a woman like that, but you have several to choose from."
Norak'el grinned smugly and raised his cup in a toast – then he flinched.
A strange, burning sensation shot through his body, deep and painful. He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. "Nothing, everything's fine."
But when the woman with golden hair walked past his table and gave him a seductive smile, he felt his body react—and at that moment, his legs gave way.
He fell abruptly forward, the cup of wine spilled, his friends' eyes widened in shock. "Norak'el?!"
"Damn it!" He gasped, struggling to get up, but his face was contorted with pain. "I... I just slipped."
Roaring laughter erupted at the neighboring table. "Norak'el Velkaran, the great blacksmith – falls over like a child taking its first steps!"
"Shut up," he growled, trying to maintain his composure. But the redness in his face betrayed that it was more than a simple slip.
And deep inside, hidden from everyone else, he sensed that something was wrong. Something had changed fundamentally.
It took several agonizing days for Norak'el to understand the true extent of the curse. In the morning, while forging, he felt as strong as ever. In combat training, he was invincible. But as soon as his thoughts drifted in a certain direction—toward a woman, toward touch, toward physical desire—the curse struck mercilessly.
He first noticed it consciously when he helped a young spice merchant at the market carry a heavy sack. She thanked him with an enchanting smile and gratefully placed her hand on his arm. He grinned, ready to drop a few of his famous charming words – but as soon as he felt that familiar tingling sensation in his body, a pain like burning needles shot through him.
"By the blacksmith's fire!" he yelled, doubling over, and the sack fell to the ground. The precious spices scattered across the street like colorful rain.
The merchant stumbled back in shock. "Are you all right?"
"Yes! Of course!" he gasped as he struggled to stand upright, his teeth clenched in pain. "Just... tripped."
The woman nodded skeptically, and the giggles of the market visitors spread like wildfire.
A few evenings later, in the same tavern, he made another attempt. A red-haired bard had winked at him, her voice so melodious that he could hardly resist. He pulled her toward him, ready to conquer her with one of his legendary kisses—and at that very moment, the hellish pain shot through him again, almost knocking him off his stool.
"Ahhhh, by all the Monsters!"
The bard's eyes widened in horror and she hastily stepped back. "By the holy flames, what's wrong with you?!"
His friends burst out laughing, one of them drumming on the table. "Norak'el! The strongest man in Ignirion – defeated by his own desire!"
The laughter swept through the tavern like a tidal wave, and Norak'el wished he could sink into the floor.
It got worse every day. Even a fleeting thought was enough to send the pain shooting through him, causing him to stumble, groan, and collapse.
While training with his brothers in arms, when he watched a female fighter stretching.
When walking through the streets, when someone smiled flirtatiously at him.
Even at night, when he lay alone in bed and his body developed natural desires—the curse struck relentlessly, and he rolled around moaning in pain.
During the day, he could still play the proud blacksmith, but slowly a rumor spread throughout the city. Everywhere, people whispered: "Have you heard? Norak'el can't... well..." "He falls down every time he even tries." "The most beautiful woman in the world could dance naked in front of him—and he'd still be lying on the ground whimpering!"
And more and more often, he heard that derisive snicker behind his back.
Norak'el Velkaran—once the most radiant hero of the trial of flame—had become the living punchline of Ignirion.
The journey back to Thal'vareth was long, but Serika felt no exhaustion. The air grew cooler and clearer the further she traveled from the scorching heat of Ignirion. Where the silence of the academy halls had once weighed heavily on her, it was now a welcome, healing calm.
She rented a small house near the academy in Arkanis—simple, but sun-drenched. She deliberately placed her chest in the middle of the room, this time as a symbol that her life was finally her own.
The lecturers at the academy welcomed her with open arms. They remembered her extraordinary talent, her sharp mind, her ability to shape energy and bring it to life. And yet... something in her had changed fundamentally. She was no longer just the brilliant scholar. She was a woman who had gone through fire and emerged stronger.
One evening, while experimenting with a complex binding rune, something fascinating happened: she captured the magical sound of the curse she had placed on Norak'el. It glowed faintly like a trapped spark in a small glass vial.
Serika stared at it for a long time, then a satisfied smile spread across her face.
The next market day, she offered the vial for sale, labeled with an elegant rune. "A little teaching curse," she explained with a laugh to curious buyers. "Teaches unfaithful men an unforgettable lesson. Don't worry—it only works when it's really deserved."
People were fascinated, amused, and paid good money for it. Soon, the whole of Thal'vareth was talking about the woman who sold curses in bottles. Each bottle was a piece of justice, a tool against arrogance, a reminder of one's own strength.
Serika was not only respected—she was loved. Her colleagues admired her, the common people trusted her. She had lost her heart, but she had regained her dignity and so much more.
Meanwhile, in Ignirion, Norak'el fought desperately to maintain his old life. He still forged, trained diligently, laughed loudly in the taverns. But more and more often, a single glance, a coquettish giggle from a woman, a chance touch would make him falter.
"Ahhh—damn it!" he gasped, doubled over, fell to the ground.
And people laughed. First furtively, then openly and mercilessly. Children turned it into a game: "Play Norak'el!" they shouted, throwing themselves theatrically to the ground and clutching their crotches.
The women who had once admired him now looked at him with a mocking twinkle in their eyes. Men who had once been jealous of him now toasted him with malicious grins.
And when Norak'el desperately tried to smile it away, to save the situation, everything only got worse. Because everyone in Ignirion now knew: the proud fighter, the irresistible charmer, had been struck by a mysterious curse that he could neither explain nor break—unless he was willing to change himself.
The years in Thal'vareth fundamentally transformed Serika Mirathen. The young woman who had once sacrificed everything for a supposed love became one of the most influential masters on the continent.
Her modest market stall was long gone. Today, she ran an entire empire: a sprawling workshop, several stores, and a network of agents that spanned all of Ikaril's major cities.
She sold not only curses, but everything that the high art of runes made possible:
strengthening runes for warriors who went into dangerous battles.
Healing seals for the wounded and chronically ill.
Protective amulets for merchants traveling through bandit-infested areas.
Custom spells – from subtle love spells to powerful wards against spies and assassins.
Serika had not only become a merchant – she was a key figure in the complex power structure of Ikaril. Merchants, warriors, nobles, even members of secret brotherhoods sought her advice and services. Those who knew Serika had access to an information network that spanned the entire continent.
And she used this power wisely—never out of pure greed, but to empower herself and others who deserved it. Her anger had long since turned into crystal-clear clarity. She knew exactly what she wanted and had learned that she would never again accept less than she deserved.
In Ignirion, however, Norak'el's once-glorious name had become a citywide joke. Where once people had reverently shouted "Norak'el Velkaran, the Great!", now they heard mocking laughter: "Here comes the man who falls faster than he can strike."
His workshop grew increasingly empty, and lucrative commissions became rarer. He was still an exceptionally talented blacksmith—perhaps even one of the best technically—but he had lost his credibility. He drank away his evenings in gloomy taverns, desperately seeking entertaining distractions, and every time he tried to get close to a woman, he collapsed amid derisive laughter.
One evening, however, as he sat drunk in a run-down tavern, he heard a well-traveled merchant from Thal'vareth boasting.
"Have you heard of her? Serika Mirathen! She doesn't just sell runes and healing spells—she now controls an entire network of mages and informants! Her influence extends as far as Elythar and the Noctari, or so they say. Some already call her the Rune Empress of Ikaril. Anyone who wants her help must pay months in advance and undergo a test."
Norak'el froze. The name struck him like a hammer blow on cold iron.
"Serika..." he whispered into the void.
At first, he felt only anger. Burning anger that she had left him. Anger that she was now successful and powerful, while he had become the laughing stock of the whole city. He clenched his fists as if he could crush the pain with brute force.
But then... something else came. A quiet, persistent thought that would not go away.
_Maybe... maybe she was right.
He stared at his hands—strong, skilled hands, capable of shaping the hardest metal. And yet he had never used them to create anything of true value. Everything he had ever done had been for the moment—a fight, a party, a kiss, a conquest. He had never taken seriously what really mattered.
"I could have been the greatest blacksmith in all of Ignirion," he muttered into the smoke-filled tavern. "But I gambled it all away for... for nothing but empty vanity."
His companions laughed and toasted him, making more crude jokes about his misfortune. But Norak'el did not laugh this time. For the first time, he felt the yawning emptiness inside him. The crushing weight of his own insignificance.
Serika had risen to something greater than she could ever have been alone. Norak'el had been left behind, broken by his own pride—and with the bitter realization that he deserved every bit of pain.
The years wore Norak'el down, but they also purified him. He gradually stopped frequenting taverns and focused on his forge with renewed intensity. At first, people laughed when he suddenly seemed serious and focused. Then they gradually fell silent. Eventually, they came back to look at his work—and had to reluctantly acknowledge that his blades, his armor, his skillfully crafted tools were among the best Ignirion had ever produced.
But even more than his hands, his heart changed.
He learned to live with loneliness. Without women, without superficial laughter, without the game of seduction he had perfected for so long. For the first time in his life, he heard the sound of true silence – and in that silence, he saw clearly all the suffering he had caused. The doubts he had sown, the tears he had shed, the hearts he had broken. Especially hers.
One day, he met a woman. Not a dazzling bard, not a merchant who admired him because of his name. A simple, pretty healer with calm, honest eyes and a voice that never lied.
He felt the familiar tingling sensation – and unconsciously held his breath, expecting the usual pain. But it didn't come. Instead, a warm, deep feeling spread through him, calm and genuine.
For the first time in his life, he didn't want to conquer anything. He wanted to get to know her. He didn't ask to appear charming, but because he really wanted to hear: Where she came from. What she loved. What she feared. What she dreamed of. And she laughed, looked at him as if he were not a famous hero, not a fallen name, but simply a human being among humans.
Norak'el fell in love – honestly, deeply, without any calculation. And when he realized this, when he understood for the first time what true love meant, he felt something break deep inside him.
The curse.
No more pain, no more humiliating falls. Only silence and a peace he never thought possible.
The streets of Ignirion shook to the hypnotic rhythm of the great drums. Sparks flew from the ceremonial anvil on the main stage, and the crowd cheered ecstatically. The Festival of Flames was more magnificent than ever before—merchants, warriors, and scholars from all corners of Ikaril had come to witness the spectacle.
Norak'el stood slightly apart at the edge of the square, his hands calmly clasped, his gaze serene. He was no longer the young, pompous man who had needed to bask in the attention of every crowd. Today, he enjoyed the spectacle in peace, as one of many.
Then the crowd parted like water before a ship's bow. A small procession emerged – two bodyguards in dark robes, a banner bearer with the symbol of the Golden Thread, and in their midst a woman in deep red silk, her dark hair artfully interwoven with silver clasps. Her gait was upright and confident, her gaze sharp as a polished blade, and the people whispered her name reverently.
Serika Mirathen.
Norak'el felt his heart skip a beat. She was more beautiful than he remembered, but in a completely different way. It was no longer a youthful delicacy, but an aura of power and self-determination that was almost tangible.
Her eyes scanned the crowd—and met his. For an endless moment, everything around them was just noise. The thunderous drums, the enthusiastic laughter, the crackling of fireworks—nothing was as intense as the electrifying silence between them.
Hesitantly, he stepped forward. The bodyguards immediately tensed, their hands on the hilts of their weapons, but Serika simply raised her hand slightly. "Let us."
They now stood facing each other, while the crowd flowed around them like water around two rocks in a river. He bowed his head respectfully. "Serika."
She returned the gesture with cool elegance. "Norak'el."
"You've changed," he said quietly, and there was no coquetry in his voice, only sincere amazement.
"I had to," she replied with a small, knowing smile. "Otherwise I would have disappeared in your shadow. I know who I am now. And what I'm worth."
They were silent for a moment, then he nodded slowly. "I've heard your name echoing throughout Ikaril. The merchant whose network even kings respect."
Serika smiled, and it was neither bitter nor triumphant. "People like to exaggerate. I work hard—and yes, I am alone. But I am happier this way. Free. And you?"
Norak'el nodded, and there was neither envy nor bitterness in his gaze, but a quiet acceptance. "My work has finally taken on meaning. My forged works are worn in all countries, and they are valued for their quality, not because of my name. And..." He hesitated briefly, then smiled sincerely. "I married a woman. One who loves me not for my appearance or my reputation, but for the man I have become."
Serika blinked in surprise, then a genuine, warm smile spread across her face. "Then we both found what we were really looking for—just in different ways."
"Perhaps exactly as it should be," he replied thoughtfully.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked – not with old longing or unfulfilled desire, but with mutual respect and a touch of melancholy for what they had both had to learn.
Then they both laughed at the same time, lightly and almost conspiratorially.
"Ignirion shaped us both," Serika finally said. "But we made it what we wanted it to be."
"Yes," he nodded. "And this time without curses."
A brief, meaningful silence ensued, filled with old memories. Then an almost mischievous smile crossed his face. "You didn't have to make the curse quite so... precise, you know."
Her eyes flashed, and a soft, melodic laugh escaped her. "Oh, yes. If I had made it weaker, you probably would never have learned anything. You've always been stubborn."
He snorted, half amused, half ashamed. "Yes... you're probably right." He glanced briefly at the floor, then back at her. "I deserved it. Every single moment of pain."
Her bodyguards exchanged confused glances, as if they didn't understand what the two were talking about. But Serika just smiled gently. "Then the curse wasn't a punishment, but a lesson."
"The hardest one I've ever had," he replied with complete honesty. "But also the most valuable."
She looked at him intently, saw the calmness in his features, the seriousness in his gaze. "You've really changed."
"I had to," he replied simply. "Otherwise I would have gone under. I now know what true love is. And how frighteningly little I understood it before."
For a moment, silence returned—but this time it was not heavy or painful, but light and conciliatory, carried by a deep, mutual understanding.
Then they both laughed again, warmly and almost amicably.
"Ignirion made us both what we were meant to be," Serika finally said. "It just took longer than we thought."
"Some things take time," he nodded. "Even if the path is painful."
She turned to leave, her companion discreetly following her. But as she passed, she briefly, almost tenderly, placed her hand on his arm. "Take good care of yourself, Norak'el."
"And you, Serika," he replied with a sincere smile, "make sure no other man has to be as foolish as I was."
She laughed again—a sound like silver bells—and then disappeared into the crowd. A powerful woman who had found her place in the world. He remained behind, but not with regret or longing, but with a deep, quiet satisfaction.
Because this time, everything that needed to be said had truly been said.
Chapter 23: The Father's Fire
Chapter Text
Date: 12 Sylvaris (350 A.K.)
Location: A trade route in the Betweenlands
Characters: Ignis Rath'Mor
The wind carried the smell of hot dust and wet ash, as if rain had fallen on glowing coals in the far east, still bubbling beneath the earth. Three fires flickered in the hollow of the old trade route. Two of them were cooking soup and giving the merchants false courage. The third simply burned, staring back into the darkness like an eye that never blinked. Ignis sat in front of it, one breath too close. His back was straight, his hands resting on his knees. The crackling of the flames seemed to answer him, as if he understood a language that only skin could speak. His skin knew every word of it.
Behind him, cups clattered against wood. Leather stretched over goods, ropes creaked under the weight, a wheel scraped rhythmically against a bent spoke. Voices reached out to each other like hands seeking support in uncertainty, finding only air instead. The entourage was small: merchants with tired faces, two families whose children whimpered in their sleep, three freed people on their way to naming ceremonies in Stormreach. Ignis had been hired for this section to secure the route. Nothing to brag about in taverns. Just something that had to be done right. He had chosen the job because he wanted to hold on. Not burn. A test to see if he could control the fire within him so that it warmed without consuming.
"They signed it in Stormreach," said one at the wagon, his voice rough like an old anvil that had heard too many blows. "Aerion Vael'Thir and Aeri'Vel. They say slavery is broken. Just like that. With ink."
"Paper burns," growled another. The bitterness in his voice was thick enough to taste. "And the runes? I heard that on the night of the coup, the protective symbols just... fell asleep. Whole houses went blind. The Silent Voices sang an old song. A song that tires binding magic, like a man after three days without sleep."
"Nonsense," interjected a woman who wore her cloak as if it were a coat of arms from better times. "It was his own children. Blood against crown. Aerion and Aeri broke the chains—with an oath in the name of the Cycle. A new oath against old seals. That is power that comes from more than just songs."
"Oaths are chains too," said the first. "More beautiful, perhaps, but they cut just as deep when you pull on them."
"And the merchants?" The man with the anvil in his voice laughed briefly, without joy, a sound like breaking wood. "They talk of contracts now. No more slaves, only services. You sign willingly, they say. Willingly—when you have no name and no place and your stomach is so empty you can hear your own thoughts."
"Aeri wants naming ceremonies," the woman said more quietly. "Give back identity, they say in Stormreach. Names, rights, history. As if you could pack a life into a word and give it back to someone like a forgotten glove."
"And in Zephyris? In Lutharion? In Gildenspire?" The anvil man spat in the sand. "Rights cost. Freedom costs more. And who pays when the coffers are empty?"
Ignis let the words run over him like rain on hot iron. What remained were the places where they hit with a hiss and those where they evaporated before they got wet. Sylvaris was the month when the elders expected healing, when the Cycle should actually breathe calmly. Since morning, healing had felt like a needle pulling the wrong thing out of a wound while the patient remained awake and felt every prick. The Cycle was breathing differently. Crookedly. It was as if someone far out on the edge of the world had drawn a line, and all the lines suddenly ran toward unfamiliar intersections, meeting where they should never have met.
Before night had fully settled, they had come: four men, clean enough not to be robbers, dirty enough not to be officials. "Service bonds," they said with smiles that tasted like old iron. "Voluntary." They held parchments that smelled of oil, as if they had been touched too often with unwashed hands.
Ignis had stood up before one of the merchants could stammer out a polite sentence. He stepped between the men and the entourage, raised two fingers, and with his other hand drew a narrow, glowing line across the dry ground. Not a wall. A border. The flame did not even flicker. It held, calm and firm as a judgment.
"Voluntary," Ignis said without laughing, though the urge was there, "means you can leave when I say yes." He grinned after all, narrow as a blade that had just been sharpened. "Today, I say no."
"Hey!" One of the men took a step forward. The line responded with a single hard hiss, short as a snap, but the heat behind it was palpable. The man stopped as if someone had placed his foot in a memory he would rather forget.
"We are here for order," the one in front tried. His voice carried the weight of someone accustomed to being heard.
"Order without chains?" Ignis asked kindly, almost gently. "Then you don't need contracts here. And if you do have them, stick them where you can read them when you run."
They weighed him with their eyes as if he were a prize to be appraised. The ground glowed beneath his words, but not high, not wide—exactly. Precise as a cut that only scratches the skin but feels the blood beneath. The men decided that there were too many eyes today that would ask too many questions later. They left, slowly, with the dignity of men who convinced themselves that they had chosen it themselves. Someone behind Ignis exhaled too loudly. Someone else muttered a thank you, as if he had confused a request with a command.
Ignis sat down by the fire again as if nothing had happened. That was the real struggle: not to encourage what wanted to blaze. Warm, don't burn. Today was a good day to hold on.
"The priests say the circles are stumbling," whispered someone, a boy whose voice was not yet sure which subject it wanted to focus on. "Bonds are slipping. Spells are coming too late. Or too early. As if magic itself no longer knows when to come."
"Magic is pretending to be in control now," growled the Dry One. "Like the lords. Pretending they have everything under control while their fingers are trembling."
A spark coin leapt from the fire, struck Ignis on the back of his hand, and bit down. He let it bite, feeling the familiar sting, the burning that came and went like an old friend who never knocked. The hiss sounded like a door closing so that another could open. He exhaled, and the flame nodded as if it had understood and accepted an argument.
"By the Flames," he said softly into the embers, his voice meant only for the fire, "when the world stumbles, it may finally learn to walk."
The wind blew through the red hem of his cloak, making it flutter like a flag without a realm. The gold rings in his ear clinked softly, undecided between jewelry and seal, between memory and promise. Ignis moved his left, ungloved hand closer to the heat. The scars on it responded with a dull glow, not boasting, but rather stubbornly breathing beneath the ashes. During the day, he had been mischievous, loud-mouthed, mocking "paper shackles" and encouraging the entourage with words that came easier than truths. At night, he became silent. That was his mistake. Or his salvation. He didn't know which yet.
Behind him, a wagon wheel rumbled into a hole, a curse flew through the air, and someone declared with the certainty of a man who had seen many uncertain things: "The king is dead, the chains have become words, the priests sing new songs, the runes sleep—and yet everyone acts as if they have a plan. As if they know where the road leads."
The corners of Ignis's mouth twitched. Hypocrisy, if you will. He tightened the black glove around his right wrist. The seam scratched like a vow you wear so it rubs when you forget.
Someone by the fire said that magic now pretended to be tamed. Hypocrisy, he called it.
Ignis laughed because laughter was easier than truth – and in the same breath he felt the embers on the back of his hand respond. A spark bit deeper than the others, the scars humming softly like strings someone was plucking, and the smell of wet ash dust shifted to metal, oil, coal. Today's Sylvaris took a step back, uncertain and shy. Another stepped forward, wearing heavy boots. The present leaned on his shoulders; the past took him by the hand.
The forge was not a room. It was a temperament, a mood of heat and iron.
"A temple without priests," his father had said, his voice deep as the rumbling of a hearth fire. "Hammers are its bells. And those who pray here pray with their hands."
It had been the day of Ignis' baptism of fire. Seventeen years lay in his bones like a sword that had grown too big for any scabbard. Sweat stuck to his back, thick and salty. Sparks had long since learned to treat him like a relative: with respect and a certain cheekiness that only family members were allowed to indulge in.
"Today you forge more than steel." His father's voice carried the weight of a beam that two men had to lift. "Today you forge yourself."
"Then it will be quick," Ignis had replied, his grin narrow and too sharp, like a blade that still needed to be sharpened.
The master stood in the corner. Arms relaxed, eyes still, carved from stone and yet not cold. No blood in his veins, but a rock from which water learned not to devour everything. He remained silent until silence meant something, until it gained weight and stood in the room like a fourth person.
They fed the stove with coal and broken bone quartz, a sign of those born in fire. Ignis raised his hand and called his fire. It came to him like a dog on a long leash: too joyful, too fast, too impatient. He kept the leash short. Tenderly. Firmly. The balance between love and discipline. The flames licked at the raw steel, and the ore smelled as if it had a tongue, as if it could speak if you listened closely enough. The Cycle hummed, not in his ears—in his bones, deep inside, where he couldn't ignore it. Today it vibrated unevenly, as if a foreign heart in an old body were trying to take over the beat.
"Slow down," said his father.
"I know what I'm doing," replied Ignis, too quickly, the words like sparks that jumped too soon.
"Your fire doesn't know the work yet."
"My fire knows me. And I know the work."
"Work knows patience. You don't." The words came without sharpness, but they cut nonetheless.
Ignis breathed, and his heat responded with a very quiet, silly triumph, as if it had won a point. "By the Flames..."
Yellow turned to orange. Orange was the song in which heat began to sing, in which metal softened and revealed its secrets. The first blow fell too hard—sparks leapt up indignantly like children who had been awakened too roughly. The second too soft—the steel laughed at him with a dull, false sound. The third was just right. The rhythm took hold: heart, hammer, forge. A beat that could only be lost if one tried to possess it instead of surrendering to it.
He opened his mouth. "I could—"
"Do it right," said the father, not loudly. It might have sounded tender if the tone hadn't been as purposeful as a hammer head falling exactly where it should.
Words could be blows. Ignis' jaw tensed, his muscles contracting like ropes under strain. The master raised two fingers, barely visible, a gesture that was easy to overlook: Stop. Ignis stopped, the blade at an angle, the tongs firmly in his hand, his knuckles white.
"Why?"
"Because you hear yourself," said the father calmly, "and not the steel. You listen to your impatience, not the metal."
"I hear both."
"You are louder. And loud is not always right."
Ignis laughed, but there was sharpness in it like splinters in honey. "I am fire."
"Then learn to glow instead of blaze."
"Blazing brings light. Blazing is life."
"And eats roof beams. And houses. And sometimes the people in them."
The master stepped forward, touching the rough edge with the small hammer as if stroking a stray cat that didn't quite trust him. "Your strike pulls," he said in a voice that sounded as if it had already had a thousand such conversations. "You try to lead before the blade can follow. Let it take the step. Leading is first listening, then guiding."
Ignis pressed the tongs tighter, as if a thought could be held if only his hand were strong enough to grasp it.
"If I give in, the steel loses its shape," he muttered.
"If you force it, it loses its shape too," replied the master. "Breathe. Feel it. Then strike."
Ignis breathed. Once. Deeply, until the air reached his stomach. Once more. His fire, which had danced with joy at the beginning like a child at the first snow, laid its ears back. It knew his hand, it liked it—but it liked the freedom behind it more, and sometimes that was a problem.
"Continue," said the father. Not letting go. Just wiser in the direction, like a compass that never lied.
Ignis raised the hammer. The blow landed. Clean. Another. The blade took on line, form, intention. A good weight settled on his chest like a hand that didn't press, but was simply there, reassuring and true.
"There," he murmured, and the heat moved within him like a satisfied breath that had finally found peace.
"Ignis." Just his name. But in it lay: Hold yourself back. Don't fly. Not now. Not like this.
The name tingled on his skin like a grain of sand under a bandage that couldn't be removed. "Father, stop restraining me."
"Restraints save your bones," said the master in a voice that brooked no argument. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing!" He didn't need to shout it. But the anger inside him didn't like quiet affirmations, quiet answers. The hammer fell a touch too fast, the edge pulled too hard, the steel sounded wrong—a dissonant note that ran through his arm like mockery. Something opened up in his chest. Sweet and hot and very, very familiar.
The flames at the forge stretched as if they had been hoping to finally be released, to finally be allowed. Their tongues became sharper, hungrier, and the embers took on a color that was not just heat, but will. Intent.
"Slow down," said the father, and this time there was warning in his voice.
"Stop it!" hissed Ignis, the heat pent up in his throat like water behind a dam. "I've got it under control."
The air rippled. No bang, no more sparks than usual—just the impression that the Cycle had closed its eyes for a moment, like an old man who misses a step and only feels the impact in his knee when it's too late.
Then the flame ignited. Not higher—more alert. More conscious. A fan jumped across the workbench, found a shiny trail that should have been wiped away yesterday, a carelessness that was now taking its revenge. Oil remembered his love of fire. The stove made an internal crack, invisible but audible to skin that had learned to listen to the whisper of danger. The fire pricked up its ears and leapt. Hungry. Joyful. Free.
"Ignis!" His father was there, faster than his age allowed, one hand on the tongs, the other on Ignis's shoulder, holding him tight. "Back!"
"Let go! I—"
"Breathe," said the master, already beyond the heat, the tongs on the blank, his forearms firm as two new beams supporting a roof. "Now."
"By the Flames, I—"
"Breathe."
Ignis breathed, but the inhalation was red-hot, and the exhalation was a rumble, and his anger—oh, his anger loved the movement of air like a blacksmith loved the ring of a well-sharpened hammer. The flame hung on the blade like hunger, lashing out at the beam above the hearth. Wood responded with a yes that should never have been, an agreement that changed everything.
"By the Flames—" He heard himself, and hearing only made the heat louder, angrier.
His father pushed him away, hard and without polite words, without regard for pride. A roof beam screamed like dying cattle, broke with a sound you never forgot, and sent a cloud of glowing splinters through the air in slow motion, each one visible as if time itself had decided to stretch this moment. The master looked at Ignis. There was no fear in his eyes. Only calm. A man who drinks even though the water is measured out, even though he knows it is not enough.
"Breathe," said the master calmly, and the moment Ignis took a deep, desperate breath, the air around him seemed to swell with it.
The fire in the stove responded.
A soft rumbling, deep and primeval, as if an invisible lung were breathing with him, as if man and flame had become one.
Ignis felt the pressure in his veins. Every pulse was a flame, every heartbeat a spark.
"Slow down," his father warned, but it was no longer a command. It was oil on embers.
Ignis' jaw tensed, his teeth gritted. They always wanted to restrain him. Always this "slower, more careful, calmer." How could you tame fire when you were fire yourself? How could you breathe when every breath burned?
He drove the hammer down. One blow too strong. Then another, harder, louder. Sparks rained down on the floor, dancing across the runes in the stone, which should have been cold long ago, extinguished, safe. But the runes began to glow—barely visible, just a slight pulsation, as if the floor was reacting to his mood, as if the world itself were an instrument he was playing.
"Ignis," warned the master, and this time there was real urgency in his voice. "Your fire—"
"—is under control!" he hissed, and that was exactly the lie the fire wanted to hear, the confirmation it had been waiting for.
The air shifted.
A rustling like a breath that did not belong to him, coming from the floor, from the walls, from the hearth itself.
Then a soft crack—not wood, not metal, but something deeper, more fundamental.
Something in the Cycle itself had struck the wrong note, a note that did not belong in the melody.
The flames in the forge reared up, bright as molten gold, blinding, casting long shadows that moved like living beings. They seemed alive. Angry. Joyful. Both at once.
Ignis wanted to retreat, but the fire came toward him—not in tongues, but in a stream that nestled against his chest as if it had known him for millennia, as if they were old friends finally reunited. His skin glowed. His veins became lines of light, golden paths beneath his skin. He tried to call the fire back, but his anger was faster. The flames listened to it, not to him. They followed emotion, not reason.
"Breathe!" shouted the master, stepping between him and the forge. He raised the tongs, wanting to pull the blade from the embers, to break the flow, to sever the connection—and at that very moment, the embers broke.
A scream without a voice.
A flash without light.
The fire burst forth like water that had been held back too long, like a river breaking through its dam—a shock wave of heat and sound that not only burned, but was. The world was suddenly nothing but white, a nothingness of glaring brightness.
Ignis fell, raised his arm, wanted to ward it off, wanted to protect – but the fire came through him. It wasn't just flame, it was feeling. Anger, shame, pride – everything that burned within him now burned him, returning to him like a debt that had never been paid.
He could still see the master spreading his arms as if to catch the heat, as if it could be held like a bird – and how the fire accepted him. Like an old debt finally coming home. Like a bill that had to be paid.
Then silence.
Only the metallic wheezing of the forge, the breathing of hot stone and cooling flames, and a smell that suffocated all memory, burning into his nose and lingering there.
Ignis coughed, gasped for air, felt his skin glowing. Not burned, not destroyed – marked. Changed. Where the flames had touched him, lines appeared, dark and light at the same time, like glowing letters under the skin, a text that only he could read. They throbbed in time with his heart, pulsing like a second life.
He crawled to the stove and saw the blade – half melted, half finished. One side smooth, shiny, flawless like a mirror. The other side was warped and cracked, as if the metal itself had been scarred, as if it had felt the same pain as he had.
He lifted it up, and the embers inside reflected in his new scars. For a moment, it looked as if he and the sword were made of the same metal, just hardened differently, shaped differently.
"You're alive," his father gasped. Blood at the corner of his mouth, a thin trickle that he did not wipe away.
Ignis looked at him, trembling, filled with shame deeper than any wound. He did not know if he heard or read the words, but they burned into him like the scars on his skin.
The Elder stood at the door, suddenly there as if he had stepped out of the shadows. He saw the fire still hissing, the Master lying motionless like a felled tree, and spoke the words no one wanted to hear.
"The fire has chosen."
Ignis laughed briefly, a sound between pain and defiance, bitter as burnt ashes. "I did not choose it."
The elder looked at him sharply, his eyes like polished glass that had seen too much. "No one chooses the fire. You choose who you are in it."
The father lowered his gaze. A small, heavy no that weighed more than any punishment that could be pronounced. In this world, affection was rarely loud—it retreated when it burned too brightly, when it became too dangerous.
Ignis raised his blade, saw the line between beauty and flaw, between what could have been and what was. "Better to fight and lose than not to fight at all," he said quietly, the words more for himself than for the others.
"Fire obeys those who do not burn," whispered his father, his voice hoarse and broken. "Learn to glow."
Ignis nodded. But something else was glowing inside him. A new flame. One that could no longer be extinguished. One that he would either master—or that would consume him until nothing remained.
The smell of metal, oil, and coal wiped itself from his nose, fading like smoke in the wind. The street receded into the frame of his eyes, the present pushing itself in front of the memory like a curtain. The fire in front of him flickered as if it had enjoyed his own memory, as if it had been listening. Ignis let his shoulders drop until the leather strap of his glove slid back into the right groove, until the tension left his neck.
By the cars, the conversation had shifted, as it always did. It went around in circles, searching for answers, finding none, starting over. It always did that. It never clarified anything. "There are already new houses," said one with a voice that sounded tired, too tired for hope. "They call them service unions. Voluntary." He spat out the word like something rotten. "Aeri does naming ceremonies. Gives them back their names, their identity, their history. But names don't buy loaves of bread. Names don't fill stomachs."
"Aerion is negotiating with the nobles," replied the woman in the cloak, her voice a mixture of admiration and doubt. "Half of them want the new order, believe in it. The other half are waiting for an opportunity to hide the old one, to disguise it, to repackage it in new words."
"You can hide runes in contracts," nodded the anvil man. "Not every cage has bars. Some have seals. Some have signatures and witnesses and fine words."
"The silent voices," interjected a boy, his eyes wide as if he were talking about ghosts, "have reportedly sung again. This time in Lutharion. Entire camps... the signs have failed. Just... silent. As if someone had blown them out like candles."
"When binding magic grows tired," said someone with the certainty of a man who had heard too many theories, "someone else awakens it again. For a price. There is always a price."
Ignis did not look at them. The fire in front of him was more than wood and flame. It was a mirror. Hypocrite all you want. I know the way hands act calm while fingers tremble. I know the lies you tell yourself.
He pulled off his glove. The scars on the back of his hand glowed as if they had been practicing to speak on their own for years, as if they were a language only he understood.
"By the Flames," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, "chains are thoughts too. And thoughts you don't examine are back on your skin faster than any iron. Heavier sometimes."
"Ignathari?" The boy suddenly stood closer, too tall for his years, as if his body didn't yet know how big it wanted to be, as if he were lost in his own limbs. "Is it true... that... when the Cycle stumbles... you can hold your fire? The priests say the circles are restless. Everything is shaking."
Ignis looked up. Attention was a weight; he laid it on the boy, not hard, just real, just honest. "You don't tame fire," he said in a voice that was calm but firm. "You hold out your hand to it. If it knows you, if it understands you, it might not bite. Maybe."
"And if it bites?"
"Then you learn not to bite back, because you always lose. You don't win against fire with anger. You win with patience."
The boy swallowed the answer as if he had to sink it into his bones, as if he had to store it there for later. "And slavery? Is it... really over?"
Ignis thought of Stormreach, of ink on parchment, of seals and oaths. Of names put back on people's tongues so they could taste themselves, so they could remember who they were. Of merchants who forged contracts from chains and made services from obedience. Hypocrisy and restraint were brothers; they wore the same cloak until one sweated, until one collapsed.
"It's over," he said, choosing his words carefully, "in words. Words are tools. Some are hammers that build. Some are masks that hide. It depends on who wields them. And why."
"Thank you." The boy nodded slowly, as if the nod had to be approved by his skin first. And as if he were only pretending to understand, as if he would only comprehend the answer later, when he was alone.
Ignis turned back to the fire. The spark bite was now just a dark spot on his skin, a small reminder. He held his hand closer, felt the heat listening to his pulse, knowing him. Heat didn't lie. It hurt or it felt good. Never both. Never at the same time. He heard his father say, "Learn to glow." And in his memory stood the master, simple, the mask of flames on his face like a second skin, saying, "Breathe."
He stood up. The movement made no sound that feigned importance, no grand gesture. He pulled the half-melted blade from its sheath. The good side caught the light, shining like a promise. The melted side swallowed it, absorbing it like a secret. "I am both," he thought this time without defiance, only with moderation, with acceptance.
"The world is stumbling," he said in a low voice, more to himself than to the others. "The Cycle is faltering. The masters play strong, pretending they have everything under control. The merchants invent new words for old chains, beautiful words with ugly meanings." He pushed the blade back into its sheath, the metal singing softly. "I will not fall. Not like this. Not today."
The Dry One looked up from his cup. "You talk like someone who has already burned. Like someone who knows how it feels."
Ignis' mouth narrowed into a smile without teeth, without joy. "I didn't just burn. I was the hearth. I was the flame that consumed everything."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to be the blacksmith. The one who shapes. The one who creates."
He slipped the glove back on, slowly, deliberately, as if tying a rope to which was attached something he knew and respected. The fire crackled louder, as if to protest that someone who spoke its language, who understood it, was leaving. Ignis did not turn around. Sometimes leaving was not betrayal, but the only obedience that mattered. Sometimes distance was respect.
He stepped out of the circle of light. The intermediate lands welcomed him like a field that knew shoes, that was accustomed to wanderers. The sand beneath his boots was cool, but not hostile. Far to the south, the dark line of a blacksmith's fortress loomed, as if the horizon had already wrested a spark from the morning, as if work were already underway there. He did not go there. Temples without priests could suffice for themselves—or not. He was not a priest. He was just a man who carried fire.
With every step, the blade reminded him of his hand, of his responsibility. Not heavy. Just true. In the distance, something rolled that was not thunder, more like the shifting of furniture in history, the moving of great things. Stormreach had opened a door. Zephyris, Lutharion, Gildenspire whispered through cracks, murmured behind cupped hands. Naming ceremonies, he thought. Names were runes for the tongue. He liked the image and didn't trust it. Names weren't enough. But they were a start. Better than nothing.
He placed his left hand flat on his chest, where the scars lay like starless paths, like trails only he could see. The warmth beneath was as reliable as his breath, as constant as the beating of his heart. Above him, the sky spread out as if it wanted to appear larger than it was, to cover the edges of unrest, to pretend that everything was fine. The world played control like a bad actor played dignity: loud, hard, with too straight a back, with too firm words.
"I decide," Ignis said into the night, his voice firm, "what fire I am."
A gust of wind lifted the red hem of his cloak, made it flutter, then fall like a finished sentence, like the end of a thought. Behind him, the voices by the wagons took up new material—rumors, fears, clever sayings with which people stuffed the cracks between fear and hope.
He laughed softly, a sound without joy, only realization. "By the Flames," he murmured, "I burn until I glow. And then I glow until I understand."
He walked down the street that asked no questions, leaving the circle of light behind him until the embers no longer chanted but hummed. The moon, a crooked plate in the sky, hung too high to be helpful, but at least it gave the world an edge, a boundary between here and there. Footsteps. Breath. Heat that lingered even when the flame was no longer visible. In his mind, he placed the blade on the anvil once more, without striking it. Sometimes not striking was the only art one really needed to learn. Sometimes restraint was the greatest strength.
It took a while for morning to draw a thin line across the horizon, hesitant, as if unsure whether it was welcome. In the pale light, he saw the forge again: his father's hand on the anvil, as if checking whether the world was strong enough to bear his sentences. "You are alive." That was not enough. Back then, it was a blow, hard and direct. Now it was a rope that held him, but also bound him. Life was the beginning. What you did had to be enough, even if it hurt.
He saw the master and the thin sound of breathing, the last flicker. He saw the flames, and he saw—surprisingly—something at that moment that he hadn't been able to see back then because it had been hidden under the light, under the chaos: the tiny movement of lips that formed not a scream, but a word. No, not a word. A command. Not to him. To himself: Stop. The man hadn't defeated the flame. He had only held out his hand to it and decided not to flinch. He had chosen who he was in it.
Sometimes standing firm wasn't loud; sometimes it was a quiet gaze in a direction where everything was screeching. Ignis lifted the blade a finger's breadth from its sheath, just to hear the soft metal whisper that had been telling him for years: I am here. I am part of you. He pushed it back. He would need it. Not to show how hot he could burn, but to prove that he had decided how he wanted to glow.
He thought of the cities, the oaths, the attempts to play order while the Cycle changed the melody, while everything fell out of sync. He imagined naming ceremonies being held in Stormreach—voices bearing names like freshly forged chains that didn't want to be chains, that promised freedom but were perhaps only new forms of bondage. He imagined merchants polishing words until they tasted of freedom and yet smelled of obedience, sweet and bitter at the same time. He imagined priests speaking in runes that frayed at the edges because the lines in the stone were new, because nothing was as it had once been.
Control, he thought, was a word for outsiders. For those who watched. Inside, it meant: Stop.
He stopped. He walked. He glowed.
When the first light brushed the edge of the world like a brush across canvas, his scars responded. No glow to show, no boasting. Just the stubborn, reliable breathing of embers under ashes. A promise that was not written in ink, that needed no witnesses. An oath that needed no seal because it was written in flesh and fire.
While in Stormreach paper weighed heavier than iron and in the Middle Lands people acted as if their hands were still, as if they knew what was coming, Ignis Rath'Mor stepped to the edge of the camp, where the road became a thought that could be walked. He was here to protect. When the "service pacts" reappeared with their beautiful words and ugly truths, he would show them boundaries. When fear bit the camp, when the night grew too long, he would warm. Not burn. And when his old fire reared its head, when it tried to overwhelm him, he would hold out his hand to it—and not flinch. That was the difference. That was all.
He would not be the man who always raised the flames when the world screamed louder. He would be the man who decided when they could speak. He would hold out his hand. Not to force. To lead by listening first. Understanding first. Then acting.
The fire within him hummed its agreement. Quietly. But there.
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Mira_Solen on Chapter 19 Wed 10 Sep 2025 11:26PM UTC
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