Dust moved where no air stirred.
Archivist Maeron, the last to remember the truth, stood in the lower sanctum of Vaelgard — the place called The Quiet Flame, buried deeper than records dared to go. Here, where no sun had ever touched, where even gods turned blind eyes, he came to remember what had been made forbidden.
Before him stood the Ash Wall — a seamless, pulsing surface of pale obsidian that seemed to breathe beneath flickering soulflames. Upon it were scratches older than language, runes faint as memories.
He did not come to record. He came to listen.
With a whispered invocation in the dead tongue, Maeron placed his palm upon the wall.
The stone pulsed.
And then—
In fire he fell, not for power… but for love.And two lights shall stand before the Throne of Night.
Only those two lines emerged — sparse, yet charged with unbearable gravity. The air trembled. The soul-candles hissed, guttering in a wind that wasn't there.
Maeron reeled, not from volume, but from weight — as though the words themselves pressed against the bones of his skull.
He staggered back, breath shallow. "It's beginning again," he whispered.
Behind him, the door groaned open.
Seralyn entered first, followed by Kaelen, their eyes wide, their presence undeniable. Maeron did not speak.
They stepped forward, drawn by something beyond reason. Something calling.
The wall shimmered faintly, but offered no more.
Seralyn spoke, her voice dry. "I've dreamed this…"
Kaelen placed a hand on the hilt of his blade. "What does it mean?"
Maeron turned, gaze ancient. "It means what the gods buried is not dead. It breathes. It waits."
He hesitated before continuing.
"And what you've seen... is only half. The other half lies where the flame was stolen and the heart was shattered — in the place where she was offered."
"Who?" Seralyn asked.
Maeron's voice was low. "The one the gods feared the most. The one whose name they dare not speak."
Kaelen furrowed his brow. "You mean—"
Maeron's silence was answer enough.