Page 81 of Claimed By the Depths

Ignis’ touch found my shoulder. “Hey, tell me what you are feeling.”

“Pain…” I groaned, struggling to point at where it resided. “I can’t… I can’t remember what happened…”

“You just… collapsed,” Kael practically whispered. “We followed you to the floor, and only a second passed before you were struggling to gather air. Maybe that’s on me for not clarifying, as there wasn’t really time for anything to happen in between, and it was more so me asking what could have prompted a blackout.” There was only a brief pause before he prompted, “Have you eaten?”

“Yes… I ate.” Slowly pushing myself up, I let them guide me into a seated position. Back settled against the dark wood, a lengthened exhale fled me as I closed my eyes to fight against the assault the sun was battering my mind with. “I have this weird sense that something did happen, but I’m not sure what…”

Words trailing, a single thought bloomed to life—all five Divari sail together, but the ticking seconds are pushing them toward an irreversible danger.

“A warning,” I breathed.

“Warning?” Kael and Ignis questioned simultaneously.

“Perhaps a deep-seated gut feeling?” Blinking languidly, I glanced between them. “I don’t know, but I just have this sense that, while we know all five Divari are together. Or well, among us, I suppose… There’s a danger we are on the precipice of facing.”

“That danger being Sorva?” Kael’s seafoam irises gleamed with a mix of confusion and unease. “We’re aware of that danger⁠—”

“Not necessarily just Sorva. It’s bigger than that.”

Ignis studied me. “In what way?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something buried in me shifted with the utterance, but the shadows of my existence remained far too potent for it to reveal itself. One thing was certain: the simmering dread that twisted my gut hadn’t been there when we all acknowledged the risks of returning to Serevalen.

No. This… This was different.

CHAPTER 43

Vault of the First Stone

KAEL

Still reeling from Syoran’s collapse, I turned to the privilege he had granted me and began my search for anything that could steer us in the right direction. My connection with the bound parchment we had found tucked behind one of Caspian’s shelves had granted me the title of being the only one allotted time to study it until we all gathered to meet.

Grimoire opened in front of me, I sat cross-legged on the couch in Caspian’s quarters. Everything around me seemed to fade as I traced my finger over the ancient text. Mind traversing the lines carved in prophecy and sprinkled with hints, I focused on the passage I had marked with pertinence.

Five Thrones were raised before the stars could sing. Five Hands forged the world from ash and flame. Five Hearts were sundered, that all might live, yet none may reign forever in one name.

Seek not a god with empty hands, for every Crown remembers its own Key. The Relics five, by blood once sworn, must wake what awaits to be born. When every Heir before their Sire shall stand, and every Relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word unite beneath the Vault of the First Stone.

Then shall the Veils be drawn apart, the Ancient Fires made as one. The Parent yields the deathless spark; the Child receives their potent mark. No sword shall strike. No poison stain. No mortal hand shall claim the Throne. For flesh alone cannot bear the Crown, nor dust inherit what was never sown.

Beware the Seated One unknown, whose soul was kindled beyond said Veil. Born of a covenant left unspoken, hidden where every mortal chart must fail. When twin-born stars at last align, and distant blood remembers blood, the silent sea shall lose its shroud, and forgotten paths shall awaken from the flood.

Five lights shall fade. Five stars ascend. The old shall pass, the new shall reign. Thus turns the Wheel from age to age, through sacrifice, through blood, through claim. Remember well this is final law, lest pride undo what fate has spun—should even one Relic fail its call, then none shall rise… and all are undone.

Every word held weight, my eyes roving over each letter, especially those capitalized with irrefutable attention. They were clues doused in convolutedness, framing the riddle to the point perspective became superfluous, and interpretation straddled the lines of alleviation or damnation.

“Five thrones were raised before the stars could sing. Five hands forged the world from ash and flame…” I ran a hand through my hair, loosening the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “The five gods—Ellira, Elaros, Jaskor, Ysalyne, and Seirdra—and their creation as well as ruling over the lands.”

It was the most logical link amongst the neat scroll, one that my time in the palace granted me the advantage of learning.

The Damned’s uninterrupted reign had once painted Wraelira with peace. Before the Others, and the link of each respectable god, power pulsed through every street, mapped out every landmass, and blanketed each province. Our continent lived and breathed magic for centuries, while the dark entities that now commanded it walked amongst the shadows, butchering the descendants of those deemed ethereal at the time.

As I flipped through volumes in the palace’s libraries and archives, absorbing all I could to aid the shift of good and evil, I began to form my own assumptions. All of them clung to mere chance, not confirmed by written word or historical retelling, but harbored a presumed clue of the Others’ intentions. And, as I stroked my thumb over the worn parchment before me, my younger self screamed as if to confirm every superstition I clung to as an early teen was probable.

Like a part of me had always known.