“The one who would not only see the Veil, but break it.”
Alarik closed his eyes. It was all coming together.
Maris was the flaw.
The thread. The promised return. And now she was his.
“Where is the rest?” he asked, voice like cold steel.
The second scholar stepped forward, this one robed in shimmering gray, marked by a dozen fate-knots tattooed across her hands. Her eyes glowed faintly with prophetic sight.
She unrolled another scroll. This one newer, but written in the same archaic hand. It wasn’t history, it was warning.
“Should the Breaker awaken before she understands her nature, the Veil shall bleed from within. Nightmares will spill forth from the gods’ prison.”
Alarik stiffened.
“She could destroy everything,” he said quietly.
The prophetess met his eyes. “Or remake it.”
Silence bloomed.
“And you,” she said, voice thinning into something otherworldly, “have tied your fate to hers, King of Calanthe. The dream-thread runs both ways. You entered her, and now you are bound.”
Alarik clenched his jaw.
“So if she breaks, you break with her.”
-Maris-
Evenings when Serenya retired to her own chambers were the worst, silence wrapped in salty mist.
The sea clawed up the cliff face as if it was attempting to swallow the palace whole, inching closer with each crash of the tide. Maris wished it would, she craved escape. She sat on a bench at the windows edge within her borrowed chambers, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes on the horizon — searching for him. For a shadow slipping through fog— a flicker ofmolten eyes.
"Kael," She whispered, voice barely more than breath.
Her jaw clenched. She hated how much she missed him — hated that her heart reached for the bond, only to find whispers of it. No answer. No pulse of shadow. No warmth.
Only this damn polished palace. A cage of golden light.
She released her hold around her legs, and stood. Her bare feet connecting with the warm stone of the chamber floor and turned from the window sharply, her steps hurried. She'd had enough of waiting. Enough of Alarik's game and his too careful glances. She was finished sitting rooms that smelled like sea lavender and old parchment. Done pretending.
She yanked the door open and stalked down the corridor, each pat of her feet slapping softly against the polished floors. A servant blinked at her from the end of the hallway, startled.
"Where is Alarik?" she snapped
The girl bowed quickly, eyes wide.
"I believe the king is in the war chamber, my lady. With Lord Zairon and the scholar from —."
"Show me." She cut.
The servant bowed once more, "Of course, my lady." She started done the corridor quickly, Maris on her heels.
Her magic pulsed beneath her skin, erratic reacting to the storm raging inside her. Doors flew open at her approach, tapestries billowed in her wake. The long halls leading to the war council room stretched before her like a gauntlet.
They suddenly stopped near the end of the last hall. "It is just through those doors, mistress." The female explained timidly.
