As if hearing my thoughts again, the onyx-haired woman says, “Welcome to The Lost Kingdom of Cindralis, Lightborne.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
ELYSSARA
The onyx-haired womanturns and strides forward with controlled, graceful movements. Her spear taps the ground with every step, her shoulders pulled back in quiet, unyielding confidence.
We follow without question, flanked by her kin, spears gleaming and ready.
Seren edges closer, gripping my hand. I glance at her.
Glimmering stone flickers faintly beside her, winking with each step like a memory trying to wake.
The woman glances over her shoulder. Her gaze snags on the light, lingers a breath too long, then snaps forward.
Seren stumbles, her hand slapping the wall for balance. And the stone ignites.
Light blooms around her hand in a burst of white and turquoise, the wall responding as if it knows her.
The woman watches silently. Then turns. Says nothing.
We move on.
The caverns wind tighter. Children peer out from behind curved walls. Strangers stare too long. Recognition flickers in their eyes like a secret passed down through generations.
The woman slows again, casting another look toward the glimmering wall just ahead of Seren.
Seren releases my hand and quickens her pace, closing the gap between them. I recognize that look on her face—desperate curiosity, hot and wild.
She clears her throat. “What do you know? Why is it doing that?” She gestures sharply at the glowing stone.
“These walls hold memory,” the woman replies, her tone almost bored. “They whisper to those who carry the blood.”
“The blood?” Seren echoes, voice lifting an octave. “What does that mean?”
“You’re Veilborn.” She flicks her night-black hair over her shoulder with practiced indifference.
“Veilborn?” Seren is nearly shrieking now, her brows furrowing in disbelief.
The woman exhales sharply, annoyed. “Yes.”
“Why do these walls respond to me?” Seren demands. “Why do they know me?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Why do I feel like I belong here?”
The woman’s gaze sharpens. “Veilborn blood does not forget its homeland.”
Homeland.
She turns to me. “Yes. Her homeland. The girl is born of Cindrali blood.”
Seren steps forward, fire in here eyes. “The girl is me. Tellmeof my homeland.”
“I owe you nothing, child,” the woman says coolly. “But she—” she jabs her spear toward me, “is Zhari.”
She slams her spear into the ground twice.
The sound echoes like thunder through the stone. Just like the Vaythari.The rhythm reverberates in my bones.
The Vaythari are their sister tribe.Their kin.
