The woods outside Veylor were never truly silent.
They breathed.
Wind twisted through the trees like whispers with teeth. Branches creaked as if under the weight of ghosts. Birds cried once—and then never again. Somewhere behind them, leaves shifted under a tread too heavy for deer. Too slow for wolf.
Elira adjusted the strap of her satchel and moved forward, boots sinking into damp earth, every sense tight and aware. Her magic stirred beneath her skin like it, too, knew this place was wrong.
Kael rode a few paces ahead, his body taut in the saddle, sword never far from hand. Behind them, five soldiers followed in uneasy silence, picked by Kael not for noble blood but for something rarer—loyalty.
Elira had studied them by the second hour.
Jareth, the archer with a jagged scar across his nose. Sienna, a mountain of muscle with quiet eyes. Oren, skittish and clever. Thorne, unreadable even to her. And Mira—whose gaze lingered too long and too often on Elira.
Especially Elira.
"She doesn't trust me," Elira murmured, keeping her voice low as they rounded a bend.
Kael didn't glance back. "Mira doesn't trust anyone. That's why she's still breathing."
"She looks at me like I'm going to snap my fingers and light the forest on fire."
"You could," he said. "She wouldn't be wrong."
A flicker of a smirk touched her lips. "Flattering."
"Realistic," Kael said.
They passed under a canopy of twisted trees and emerged into a clearing thick with mist and the scent of rot and old magic. Stone markers stood like forgotten teeth in the moss—some cracked, some half-swallowed by the earth.
One shimmered faintly.
Elira dismounted before Kael could say a word, walking straight to the runed stone at the center.
"It starts here," she said, palm hovering above its surface. "Vael'Harth's outer boundary. The magic's still active."
Kael came up beside her. "Can you break it?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes slipped shut, fingers trembling as they reached for the thread of power coiled beneath the glyph. It wasn't just protective—it was ancient. Wary. Alive.
"This isn't just a ward," she murmured. "It's a blood lock. It demands more than magic."
"Yours?"
Elira opened her eyes. "Not just mine. The old kings didn't want anyone stumbling through by accident. They layered the seal—only a marked descendant, or someone chosen, can pass."
Kael watched her closely. "So what do we do?"
Without hesitating, she pulled the dagger from her thigh sheath, sliced her palm, and pressed her blood to the glyph.
It shimmered. Bright. Hungry.
Then—
The stone pulsed crimson.
And slammed her backward like a blow to the chest.
Kael caught her before she hit the ground, his arms steady as iron.
"You alright?"
Elira winced. Her palm burned. "It recognized me—but it rejected me."
Kael glanced from the stone to her face. "What's missing?"
"Trust," she said softly.
He blinked. "What?"
"There's a second layer. Someone touched the obsidian seal in the Ironwood cave. Someone who carries a trace of him now. I think that someone is you."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. He held out his hand.
"Guide me."
Elira took it gently. Sliced it with the dagger. Blood ran down his palm, hot and human and powerful.
She pressed his hand to the glyph beside her own.
The rune pulsed gold.
And the air trembled.
With a grinding groan, the stone cracked down the center. The earth opened beneath it—steps descending into darkness.
Kael stared into it.
"Of course," he muttered. "Straight into the abyss."
Elira met his eyes. "Welcome to Vael'Harth."
The tunnel descended for what felt like hours. Stone walls pressed in close, the ceiling jagged and sweating. Every step felt like being swallowed by the earth itself.
Cold clung to them—not the chill of winter, but a deeper cold. The kind that knew names and whispered them back.
Even the torches flickered strangely, flames dancing too fast, shadows stretching too long.
"This place is wrong," Mira said behind them, voice sharp with unease.
"It's not wrong," Elira murmured. "It's remembering."
Kael kept close at her side, sword in one hand, torch in the other. "And what exactly are we looking for?"
"A shadow," she said. "Or the scar it left behind."
The tunnel opened into a wide cavern, carved with high arches and inlaid with symbols even Elira couldn't read. At the center stood a raised altar—split down the middle. Dried blood stained its cracked surface.
Elira went still.
"I've seen this before," she whispered. "In the dream."
Kael didn't stop her when she stepped toward it.
Didn't stop her when she reached out.
The moment her fingers brushed the stone, something screamed.
Not with sound—with memory.
It tore through her head like a storm.
Chains. Fire. A woman crying out in a language that hadn't been spoken in centuries. A name carved into her bones.
Eshar. Eshar. Eshar.
Elira staggered back.
Kael caught her again.
Her eyes were wide, violet blazing. "It wasn't him. The seal—it wasn't made from him."
He frowned. "Then who?"
"She was the prison," Elira gasped. "The queen. The Undying King didn't trap himself. He used her."
Kael stared at the altar. "So he escaped. And left her behind."
Elira nodded, breath shaky. "They reversed the ritual. She held the power. And he broke free."
They made camp just outside the temple—if the broken hall and collapsed arches could be called that. The sky above was a slab of gray. The cold had teeth, but the fire they built snapped louder.
The soldiers didn't sleep.
Sienna sharpened her dagger without blinking. Jareth kept his back to the wall, always watching. Oren rambled nervously. Thorne stared into the flames like they held answers.
And Mira? Mira tracked every movement Elira made.
Kael handed her a cup of warm cider. "You've been quiet."
Elira didn't look away from the fire. "The dream—it wasn't just memory. The scream wasn't fear. It was a warning."
"From the queen?"
"I think so."
Kael's voice dropped. "Do you think she's still alive?"
"Not in body. But in pieces, maybe. In echoes. If the Undying King was cursed, then so was she. The chains—" Elira hesitated. "They weren't forged from metal. They were made from her. Her will. Her pain."
Kael's face hardened. "And now that she's broken…"
"He's free. Wearing someone else's skin. Pretending to be a man. But he's not."
The fire cracked between them.
"If you find him," Kael asked quietly, "what will you do?"
Elira looked at him. Her expression didn't falter.
"I'll finish what they couldn't," she said. "I'll end him."
Even Kael's breath caught at the sharp edge in her voice.
"And if he's someone the people already trust? A noble? A prince?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Then I end him louder."
For a long moment, Kael didn't move.
Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not cruel. Not amused.
Impressed.
"You're not what I expected," he said softly.
"Good."
He leaned forward, just slightly, and in that sliver of space between them, the war and the ruins and the weight of fate fell away.
"Elira—" he started.
Then—
A scream.
Real.
From outside the ruin.
They were on their feet instantly. Jareth had his bow drawn. Mira already moved.
Kael and Elira burst into the open air. The wind howled through the crumbling stones.
And there—
Oren.
Collapsed.
Blood pulsed from his neck, dark and endless.
And standing over him was a figure cloaked in ash and smoke, face hidden behind a bone-white mask—carved like a sun split in two.
No eyes.
No words.
Just death.
Then the figure was gone. Into the trees.
Vapor. Shadow. Vanished.
Elira dropped to Oren's side, but it was too late.
Kael's sword was still drawn as he stared into the dark.
"They've found us," he said.
And his voice was no longer calm.
It was war.