The tunnels beneath the Bloodroot House groaned like the bones of ancient beasts. Each step Aelira took sent echoes spiraling through the dark, like spirits fleeing her presence. The torch in Kaeln's hand flickered, casting long shadows that danced along the damp stone walls. The passage narrowed, ceiling dipping low, forcing them to move slowly, silently.
They had escaped Vyra—for now. But the memory of her power still pulsed through Aelira's bones. The High Priestess had found them in the catacombs, had almost killed them both. If not for the strange, sudden shift of magic in the walls that disrupted her strike, they would've been ash and silence.
And now they were running. Deeper into the forgotten.
"We shouldn't be here," Kaeln muttered, eyes sweeping every crevice. "This path hasn't been used since the schism."
"Then why does it call to me?" Aelira whispered.
The mark on her palm flared with heat.
Ahead, the tunnel widened into a chamber carved with runes. At the center sat a bowl of black stone, filled with still, silver water. It shimmered without light.
Kaeln stepped forward slowly. "An oracle pool," he said. "But it shouldn't be here."
Aelira stared into it. A voice whispered in the back of her mind:
Touch it.
She hesitated only a breath, then dipped her fingers into the water.
The world shattered.
---
She stood in a forest of stars.
Above her, constellations spiraled like living veins of light. Around her, voices—whispers, laughter, screams—all at once, yet none her own. She saw Saelwyn, cloaked in fire, screaming as a circle of witches closed in. But she also saw Kaeln, on his knees before the Council, tears burning his eyes as he held the execution blade.
The vision twisted.
Nessa stood at the edge of a cliff, her eyes white as snow, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. Blood ran down her arms in sigils Aelira had never seen.
Mother Vyra, cloaked in black, whispered into a mirror. On the surface of the glass, Aelira's face stared back—but the eyes were not hers.
Then the sky cracked.
From the void beyond, a creature moved.
Massive, ancient, wrong. Horns like twisted branches. Wings stitched from smoke. It turned toward her—and she woke.
---
Aelira gasped, falling to her knees beside the pool.
Kaeln caught her before she hit the stone.
"What did you see?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Everything… Nothing… It wasn't just the past. It was the future. Fractured. Something's coming."
Kaeln helped her to her feet. "We need to get out of here."
A low hum trembled through the chamber.
They weren't alone.
From the shadows behind the runes, figures stepped into view. Hooded. Robed in silver-threaded black. Eyes like mirrors. Seers.
Aelira stepped back. "Are they…?"
Kaeln nodded. "The Lost Prophets. They vanished during the Bloodroot schism. They were said to have seen too far, too clearly."
One of them stepped forward. Her voice was soft, as if made of wind:
"You were not supposed to find us."
Aelira stood tall. "Then fate is already broken."
The seer turned her head. "She awakens… and the forest remembers. The fire that burned her will burn again."
Another seer raised a hand, revealing a twisted shard of glass. It glowed faintly. "You seek the truth. But truth requires sacrifice."
Kaeln stepped in front of Aelira. "She's given enough."
The seer looked through him. "Not yet."
Suddenly, the torchlight bent inward—as if pulled by an invisible force. The ground shook. From the far end of the chamber, a sigil on the wall ignited.
Aelira's mark burned in response.
"She has been marked by fate," whispered the seer. "And fate is never gentle."
The ground split open.
Aelira screamed as the floor gave way beneath her feet—and she plunged into darkness.