The only sounds are our breathing and the thrum of my heart as I reach out, not yet touching—just hovering in the air between myself and the lock.
I feel his thumb brushing slow circles on my arm. I swallow my nerves and take hold. The lock is cold and heavy in my hands. It creaks open. I gasp, only to feel the warmth of Vale’s laugh.
“It’s alright, my flame,” he chuckles. “I told you. It yields to the crown and the crown alone. And you, my love, are the crown.” Old magic recognizing me, I find comfort in the sense of belonging despite the nagging sensation at the back of my mind of a past night not fully remembered.
Vale steps beside me now, still holding the lantern. Its amber glow dances across our faces as he cups my cheek and kisses me sweetly. He then unravels the chain and opens the door.
Each step into the heart of the Sanctum feels new. No longer dragged forward by the call, it feels like coming home.
The chamber glows with golden light from high lanterns and torches, each brought to light with Vale’s careful touch.
Thinking back to the solstice, I search through the fog of that night, trying to hold on to any pieces the fever stripped from me. They feel just beyond my reach, not quite solid enough to grasp.
Before I can grasp anything solid, Vale leads me to the gilded tome resting atop the pedestal at the center. It’s still open to the same page.
I read the words again, feeling my fate burned into them:
Crown of shadow, crown of light,
Will free the lands from endless night.
Steel unchosen, flame unplanned,
Shall rise to heal a broken land.
Duty-bound by blood and pain,
A mighty king shall stand again.
Rewarded by fate with true love found?—
An equal heart, his soul unbound.
King of steel and Queen of flame,
Two hearts that neither time can tame.
Where vow and fire intertwine,
The world remade through their design.
Vale presses his lips to my temple, then whispers, “True love found. Do you believe it now, my flame?”
I lean into him. King of steel and Queen of flame. Could it really be us?
“World remade,” I whisper, his arms linked around me. “Are we meant to change the world?” I chuff at the weight of the words.
The call of something ancient drums silently in the darkness. I lean in, fingers caressing each line of script slowly, reverently. The rough texture of the parchment under my skin. The subtle ink bleeds where the quill lingered. Then I see it, the small discolored mar in the margin. Blood. My blood. No longer crimson, a light aged rust color remains.
I wouldn’t even notice it if I didn’t know.
I glance up at the shelves all around, lined with books, artifacts and scrolls. I lean back into his hold more before my own nerves get the better of me once more.
“Vale… what are all of those?”
“Those are where the words were first written,” he answers, fingers brushing the gold-edged tome. “This is ceremonial. Translated and compiled for the royal family alone. But those,” he gestures to the others, “those are raw. Original. Most can no longer be read. Their language lost. Their memory faded.”
I wonder what truths they still hold. If the translation before me is truth or interpretation.
