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My mother moves closer and reaches for the frozen surface, her hand hovering above the ice. “What is this about?”

“Your daughter,” the Oracle says.

My mother’s hand flies to her stomach. “I am with child?”

The Oracle’s gaze shifts, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as though she’s looking past my mother. Looking at me. “Not yet.”

Without further hesitation, my mother presses her palm firmly to the ice, and the Oracle mirrors her. The cavern darkens, the glow of the frozen pool flaring like lightning against the edges of the walls. When the Oracle speaks again, it’s not with her voice. This one is deeper, ancient.

“The realm will shatter, and she will rise.

Daughter of the Tempest, fury of the skies.

The Winds will gather, the veil will break,

And through the storm, the Keeper shall wake.

To end the chaos, a choice must be made,

A sacrifice given, or all shall fade.”

The words carve themselves into the air, into the stone, into me.

Light swells, and the cavern dissolves into a brilliance so blinding it swallows everything. And with a gasp, I plunge back into the void.

The world re-forms slowly, like the first light of dawn creeping over the shadows in my mind. My chest rises and falls unevenly; breaths caught between control and collapse.

I blink up at the cavern ceiling, then push myself upright. Around me, the chamber looks unchanged. Still. Cold. Only the frozen pool appears different, empty of the strange vitality it had before.

“What—” I rasp, then clear my throat. “What was that?”

“A vision,” the Oracle says.

“It was more than that. It was a memory. But you saw me.”

The Oracle’s pale eyes hold mine. But it’s Sphinx who speaks.

“Memories are threads that tie us to what came before and what may yet come. The Oracle sees through them, as she sees through time.”

“So what does it mean?” Frustration hums through my veins. “You said, ‘a choice must be made’? What choice?”

“I am only a messenger of fate, I see only what I am shown.” The Oracle straightens, her expression tightening. “Too much light blinds the seer.”

Her pale eyes flicker. A crack in her mask of indifference.

“You wanted me here. You wanted me to know this, so don’t sit there and pretend you’ve said all you can.” My voice carries the weight of months clawing at the edges of answers just out of reach. “What is the veil? And who is the Keeper?”

The Oracle’s mouth flattens, and for a heartbeat I’m sure she’ll let the chamber swallow my questions whole. The pool’s light trembles along the carved grooves like a held breath. She says nothing.

I push back from the cushion, palms braced on my knees, anger tightening into resolve—then her gaze slips to the side, toward the oldest tapestry. The one with four winged figures bent at the knee before a fifth whose face has been rubbed to threadbare shadow.

“Have you heard the tale of how the Anemoi came to this world?” she asks.

Her words conjure memories from the opening ceremony of Eretria’s Royal Trials—colorful lanterns strung between canvas tents, troupe performers putting on a show for the eastern courtiers, and a story, told by the Troupe Master with smoke and shadow.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “They came from…elsewhere.”

I hadn’t put much faith in the tale. What is elsewhere? Lands beyond the Solorai and Seleni Seas? If such shores existed, some sailor would have washed up with proof. There is only here. Only the Empyrieos.