A hush settled over the archives, broken only by the soft creak of old leather bindings, the whisper of parchment turning, and the hum of protective wards.
We collected our chosen tomes and scrolls, the four of us settling around the long table like scholars instead of soldiers. The air grew thick with dust and ink and the silent tension of purpose. Zander flipped through a series of weathered journals while Cordelle skimmed intricate genealogies and Remy scrawled something across a sheet of parchment with tight precision.
The quiet stretched into an hour, broken only by the rustling of pages and the creak of the table as we shifted positions. My eyes ached from reading by lamplight, and I rubbed them as I stifled a yawn. Zander’s sudden intake of breath cut through the stillness like a sword unsheathing.
I looked up. “What did you find?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the parchment again before flicking toward Remy, who was already watching him with narrowed focus.
Zander finally spoke, his voice hushed. “Information on Alahathrial.”
I straightened as a chill ran through me.
Zander continued, reading from the page. “It says here he was a prominent member of the Light Fae court. Not just a warrior—he was their lorekeeper. A shadow scholar. Keeper of secrets and forbidden knowledge.”
Cordelle’s head snapped up, and even Remy stilled his pen.
“He was tasked with preserving their most sacred histories. But there’s a note here…” Zander tapped the side margin. “It says he vanished after the war. Not fled. Not exiled. Vanished. As if the court couldn’t even find him.”
“Because he didn’t want to be found,” Remy said softly, his voice edged with thought. “He was hiding. But how did he end up in the dungeon?”
I felt the weight of the vial under my armor.He was hiding… or protecting something.
“What else does it say?” I asked.
Zander looked at me, something unreadable flashing in his expression. “Just that he was an ally and had promised to do anything in his power to stop the Blood Fae.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I turned the page of my own text, the delicate script catching the glow of the nearby lantern like threads of moonlight stitched into parchment. The blood in my veins hummed louder as my eyes locked on the header written in bold, curling ink.
Heir to the Crimson Line shall rise, bearing both ruin and redemption.
The Blood King’s line.
I froze, heart hammering as I ran my fingers just beneath the curling script of the paragraph below it, only to realize I couldn’t read the rest. The letters weren’t in any language I knew. They shimmered slightly, as if they existed just beyond the reach of reality.
“I found something,” I said, and the edge in my voice drew Zander immediately to my side.
He leaned in over my shoulder, brow furrowing. “That passage… it’s in Ancient Fae. But older than anything I’ve seen in our records. I’m not sure anyone can translate it.”
A whisper stirred at the edge of my consciousness.Let me see, little storm.
Kaelith?I breathed her name in my mind, and suddenly I felt her—not just hovering at the edge of our bond, but anchoring deeper. A new tether threaded between us, not of words, but of sight.
She was seeing through my eyes. Reading the runes with a clarity I didn’t possess.
You should not have found this yet,she said, almost gently.But it is yours, nonetheless.
What does it say?I asked.
Kaelith was quiet for a moment. Then the translation came in her voice, each word burning into me with complete certainty.
“The Storm-born child of two thrones, descended of Light, heir of Blood, shall rise when the twin moons bleed. She shall awaken the sleeping flame and silence the final ward. She may rule with mercy… or burn the world for its sins.”
The breath caught in my lungs.
Kaelith added, softer this time,It speaks not just of your potential to save this realm… but to claim the Blood Throne for yourself. You could be their queen, Ashlyn. Not through conquest. By right.
I felt Zander’s hand gently touch my shoulder.
