The path toward the sacred circle was veiled in silence. Each step Velastra took echoed with something older than memory, older than even the soil that carried her. Orren walked beside her, not saying a word, his ash-colored robes stirring faintly in the air as if the very world respected his presence. The Immortals flanked them, their expressions unreadable, their footsteps soundless.
They walked beyond a vine-draped threshold into a vast stone garden. Tall monoliths arched skyward in a circle, each one etched with flame-scripts and oath-bound runes. At the center, under a halo of flickering amber light, stood a woman—still as a statue, robed in twilight and ash.
Velastra stopped.
She knew.
Her hair, though silvered, was gracefully beautiful and fell in sheets like silk. Her eyes shimmered not with color, but with clarity—deep, timeless, like a soul that had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms. A quiet presence radiated from her, calming yet firm—the Soul-Watcher.
Or rather, one of them.
As the light pulsed and shifted, figures emerged from the edge of the circle. One. Two. Three. They kept coming until they were twenty-five. Twenty-five Immortals, each different in bearing and aura, yet all cloaked in garments of layered gray and red, each marked with a sigil Velastra had never seen.
Her breath caught.
They stood like sentinels around her. Not judges. Not spectators. Watchers. Bearers of fate, of time, of soul and memory.
Orren broke the silence first.
"She is of my flame," he said, voice solemn. "Velastra, bearer of the broken bond."
The woman in twilight nodded once, her gaze sweeping over Velastra.
"Child of Oath and Ash," she said, her voice low and thick with age, yet gentle as a lullaby.
"You were more like your grandfather, but soul eyes like Serathe."
Velastra looked deeper at the woman. She looks nothing like her mother. Her eyes are gentle. Her voice is comfort. Her touch is compassion. There is no arrogance in the air she warmth.
Then, unknowingly, she asked, "Are you my mother's mother?"
The woman nodded. There is no deception.
Then, the woman stepped forward. And held Velastra's hand.
"Ash-Shene, who do you want to find?"
Velastra looked at the woman, she never had a grandmother, and now being called Ash-Shene, a name that resonated with profound affection to granddaughters.The words wrapped around her like a warm embrace, evoking a bittersweet blend of sorrow and beauty.
"I've come to find them."
A pause. Then, a voice from among the twenty-five:
"Name those you seek."
She swallowed. "Orion... my brother in pact. And Cael... my other."
The circle darkened for a moment. Not in shadow, but in gravity. As if the very names pulled the breath from the wind.
The Soul-Watcher stepped forward, robes trailing like smoke.
"Then step into the center of the monoliths, Velastra. The Cinderspire shall open only for those who dare its mirror."
As Velastra moved, her eyes flicked to Orren. He gave a slow nod, and calmed her heart to trust and obey. Then, Velastra offered a hand, asking her grandfather to provide a palm.
Orren took it.
His touch was warm.
And in that warmth, Velastra felt every generation that had come before her—felt the sorrow and triumph of all those who had lit the fire of rebellion and sacrifice. She stepped into the circle.
The twenty-five began to position themselves behind each monolith, matching the runes with their sigils. Then, they started to hum.
Low. Resonant.
The ground beneath her pulsed.
Then, in unison, they spoke:
"Let her pass. Let her see. Let the souls unnamed become known."