Serenya didn’t wait for permission. She claimed a seat at the table, her chin lifted in defiance and immediately began to study the patterns. The guards shifted uneasily, their hands twitching toward their weapons, but Vaelrik’s presence at her back kept them silent.
Her eyes narrowed as she traced the markers. At first glance, the devastation seemed like a random spiral. But then she saw it. A pattern. A curse sigil etched in blood and shadow. Someone—or something—was guiding the shadow-plague with precision and purpose, directing it like a conductor leading a symphony of destruction.
Her breath caught, a chill skittering down her spine. She recognized the sigil, faintly but unmistakably, from the ancient texts she’d studied in the Gloamspire Library. It was a design that hadn’t been used in centuries. A signature. A calling card. And it pointed, unerringly, toward the Gloam.
“This isn’t just chaos for the sake of chaos,” she murmured, her voice cutting through the din. “It’s a master plan.”
Vaelrik leaned closer, his warmth palpable even at a distance. “What do you see?”
She grabbed a piece of chalk from the table and began to connect the markers. The spiral took shape—a perfect curse sigil, precise and deliberate. The room fell silent as the Council elders and guards turned to watch, their faces etched with unease.
“This shadow-plague,” she said, her voice sharp with authority, “it’s being taught—shaped—to behave like a living organism following a command structure.” She circled the center of the curse sigil pattern, the chalk screeching against the polished obsidian. “The Gloam. It’s all pointing there.”
Vaelrik’s jaw tightened, his shadowfire flaring briefly through their shackle bond in response to her words. “I’ve seen battle tactics like this. Pressure. Weak-point testing.Coordinated sequence. Someone is directing these shadows like an army.”
The Council murmured among themselves, their voices a discordant blend of fear and denial. Serenya ignored them, her focus narrowing to the map. She reached toward the center of the spiral, her palm hovering just above the surface, and her lumen sigils blazed to life, their white-gold glow illuminating the room. The chalk on the map turned white-hot, the symbols she’d drawn flaring with an eerie light.
She jerked her hand back, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The lumen sigils pulsed beneath her skin, a violent reaction to the shadow-plague’s curse sigil. It was as if this plague recognized her—or remembered her. A dangerous thought, one that made her stomach churn.
“It reacts to you,” Vaelrik said softly, his hand brushing her shoulder. “Like it knows you.”
She nodded once, her throat tight. “It does. But how?”
Archon Serect stepped forward, his crimson robes sweeping the floor with a theatrical flourish. His molten-gold eyes flicked over the map, the chalk, and the glow still fading beneath Serenya’s skin. His expression was calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
“This investigation is over,” he declared, his voice ringing with finality. “No expeditions toward the Gloam are authorized. The risk is unacceptable.”
Serenya started to rise, anger flaring hot and bright in her chest, but Vaelrik’s hand pressed lightly against her arm. A warning. Or protection.
“Witch Serenya,” Archon continued, his gaze narrowing, “will remain confined to Citadel grounds until we determine whether the shadow-plague contamination inside the Citadel today has affected her judgment.”
Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with rage. The shackle at her wrist pulsed, a sharp reminder of the Council’s control. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but Vaelrik stepped forward, his presence shifting like a storm gathering on the horizon.
“If the shadow-plague is spiraling toward the Gloam,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “then she is the only one who can read its movements, and we are the only ones who can contain it.”
Archon’s face paled, his composure cracking for the first time. “You forget your place.”
Vaelrik’s smile was cold and borderline feral. “My place,” he murmured, “is wherever she stands now.”
The room froze. Serenya’s pulse leapt. Archon seethed, his composure unraveling. “Fine. But your blood is not on my hands.” He stormed out, his robes billowing behind him, leaving everyone in stunned silence.
The Council chamber emptied after Archon’s departure in a slow bleed of muttering voices and trailing robes, leaving only the echo of panic clinging to the obsidian walls. Serenya sank back over the map, her hands still shaking. The Gloam. The heart of ancient magic. The birthplace of sigilcraft and Gloamrot. The place where the evolving shadow-plague wanted to drag Vaelrik like bait on a hook.
Her voice was steady when she finally spoke. “We go to the Gloam. It’s the only path to ending this.”
TWELVE
VAELRIK
Vaelrik watched the last of the elders file out of the Council chamber, their fear trailing behind them like smoke. Cowards. They’d rather bury their heads in politics than face what was coming for all of them.
Serenya remained hunched over the map, her fingers tracing the spiral pattern she’d drawn. The chalk marks still glowed faintly where her lumen sigils had reacted, and Vaelrik could feel the residual magic through their bond—sharp, electric, and dangerous. She trembled as she stared at the center point. The Gloam.
Vaelrik stepped toward her, his boots echoing against the polished stone. He could feel the exhaustion radiating from her—bone-deep weariness masked by stubborn determination. She was running on fury and fumes, and that wouldn’t sustain her through what waited ahead.
“Then we’ll leave at dusk,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had commanded armies. “Not before.”
She blinked, confusion flickering across her features before stubborn refusal tried to surface. Her jaw set in that familiar line that meant she was about to argue with him. “We don’t have time to delay?—”
