The flame had dimmed—but not gone out.
After the Name-Eater unraveled, one ember remained.
A pulse. A flicker.
Faint, but steady.
And it didn't burn in the vaults.
It burned below.
Deeper than even the Flame-Keepers went.
Deeper than the sealed records.
Into the forgotten dormitories.
"No one lives down there anymore," Merin said, frowning.
"They were cleared after the Severance. Too many memory collapses."
Keiran was already descending.
"Then someone was left behind."
The lower levels of the Concordium felt older than stone.
The walls were wrong—not built, but remembered.
Not designed, but recalled, like fragments of dreams stitched into place.
Candlelight didn't reach here.
Keiran didn't need it.
The flame on his wrist guided him.
Soft. Blue-tinged.
Following the tether.
Following her.
He found her in the 3rd sublevel corridor.
Curled beneath a collapsed alcove of shattered glass and crumbling tapestries.
No bed. No blanket.
Just chalk markings drawn in circles around her—glyphs for protection, for silence, for memory-lock.
She was maybe nine.
Small. Pale.
Eyes wide and colorless, like fog trapped behind glass.
And she said nothing.
Keiran knelt.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't move.
Just stared at him.
Then slowly—carefully—she reached out and touched his wrist.
Her fingers brushed the candle-scar.
And her flame flared inside him.
Not heat.
Not pain.
A memory.
But not his.
He saw Lys—
Younger. Laughing.
Hair tucked behind her ears as she leaned over a young girl drawing crooked runes on the floor.
"That one's for sealing nightmares," Lys said gently. "But yours seals everything."
"Is that bad?" the girl had asked.
"No," Lys whispered. "It means you remember what matters."
The vision faded.
Keiran gasped.
The girl pulled her hand back.
Still silent.
Still watching.
But now… crying.
One tear. One blink.
That was all.
"Who are you?" he asked softly.
She didn't answer.
Not with voice.
She reached into her ragged sleeve and pulled out a torn ribbon.
Faded red.
Charred at the edge.
Embroidered in the old Concordium style.
Just one word:
Lys.
Keiran's breath caught.
"You knew her."
She nodded.
Then pointed—not at him, but at the flame on his wrist.
Then to herself.
Then back again.
He understood.
"You… carry part of her."
Not in soul.
Not in mind.
But in silence.
She had not spoken since the Severance.
Because her voice wasn't hers anymore.
It was Lys's.
Merin arrived minutes later, stunned to find them there.
"This is Elah," he said, recognizing her instantly. "She vanished the day of the purge."
"We thought she was lost to the collapse."
Keiran shook his head.
"She survived because Lys sealed her."
"And gave her… what?"
He looked to Elah again.
She met his gaze.
Then, with trembling fingers, she wrote a word in the dust:
"Anchor."
Keiran froze.
Of course.
In all memory rites, something had to bind the fragments.
A person. An object. A thread.
Lys had chosen her.
A child with a silent voice and perfect recall.
The last vessel of a name that the world had tried to forget.
Merin whispered, reverently:
"She's the anchor to Lys's soul."
"That means Lys can still return."
Keiran met Elah's eyes.
"Can you show me the rest of her name?"
She blinked.
Then nodded.
And reached for his hand.
This time, when she touched him—
He didn't see a vision.
He entered one.
A chapel. Empty. Moonlit.
The air heavy with silence.
And there—etched across the wall—
Thirteen runes.
Twelve broken.
One whole.
Lys's true name.
Valemir, yes. But more.
A name lost to records. Spoken only once before it was torn from the world.
"Lysandria Virell Valemir."
Keiran whispered it aloud.
The flame on his wrist roared.
Back in the physical world, Elah collapsed into his arms.
Not hurt.
Exhausted.
Tethering memory cost more than magic.
It bled the soul.
Keiran held her gently as her breathing steadied.
The candle on her wrist flickered once—
then split into two flames.
Her own.
And Lys's.
Side by side.
"You did it," Merin said in awe.
Keiran didn't answer.
He was still staring at the name etched in his mind.
Lysandria Virell Valemir.
A name not just remembered.
But awakened.
And somewhere, far beyond the Veil—
A pulse.
Soft.
Warm.
Alive.