The Vault trembled again, this time hard enough to rattle the tea cups.
Eloryn stood, her fingertips crackling with threads of glowing light—golden, violet, and deep blue. The "weaving" wasn't something she understood yet. But it responded to her thoughts.
Pennrick calmly slurped his tea. "Ah yes, nothing like a little breach to inspire self-discovery. No pressure, of course."
"Any idea who is trying to break in?" Maren asked, already gripping his staff.
Pennrick scratched his chin. "Oh, probably an Echo Hunter. Sent by the Inquisition or the Chain. Nasty temperament. Wears far too much leather."
The stone wall behind the desk exploded inward.
A shadow stepped through the dust. Eight feet tall. Wrapped in layered cloaks that rippled like smoke. Its face was a mask of mirrors, and from its back flowed a cape of broken pages.
"Yep," Pennrick said cheerfully, tossing his teacup over his shoulder. "That's the one."
Eloryn didn't flinch. She closed her eyes, reached inside herself—and pulled.
Threads of memory unraveled around her, forming a shimmering loom.
Images spun into existence: her as Ilven, standing atop the Citadel of Glass; her as Nyra, stealing a crown; her as someone else—older, sadder, wiser. All her past lives, raw and luminous.
The shadow lunged, claws gleaming.
She wove.
And the air between them twisted, catching the Hunter mid-leap. The Vault itself groaned in protest, but the memory-thread snapped taut—and suddenly the shadow staggered, blinking, confused.
"You just made it forget it was attacking," Maren whispered.
"No," Eloryn said. "I made it remember when it was afraid."
The Hunter howled, backing away, disoriented.
Pennrick clapped. "Oh, very elegant use of trauma as defense. Ten out of ten!"
Eloryn's hands trembled, the weave flickering.
"It's… hard to hold. The more I use, the more I remember things that aren't mine."
Maren stepped beside her. "Then share the burden."
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and for a moment, she felt grounded—anchored.
With renewed focus, Eloryn snapped the threads tight. The Hunter screamed as its mask cracked.
Then it fled.
Silence returned, broken only by Pennrick muttering something about scorched upholstery.
Eloryn sat down hard, the glow fading from her hands. "Okay. So I can weaponize memories now."
"Only if you want to," Pennrick said. "You'll learn balance. Eventually."
Maren handed her a flask. "That was incredible. Also mildly terrifying. Mostly incredible."
She took a sip. "Thanks. I think."
Pennrick nodded. "You've only begun. A Dreamwright doesn't just fight with memory—they heal, shape, and protect with it. The real power lies in what you choose to remember… and what you're brave enough to forget."
Eloryn met his gaze. "Then teach me."
He smiled. "Tomorrow. After I nap. And find the kettle."
****************