The teleportation ended in darkness.
Illyria opened her eyes and saw nothing. The forest, the river, the echo of her cries—all were gone.
Instead, she stood inside a cavern vast as the sky, yet heavy as a tomb.
The Hall of Silence.
Its walls bled with runes, faintly glowing crimson, each pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick, filled with the scent of iron and incense. Chains hung from the ceiling like the ribs of a monster, dripping with mist that froze the breath in her throat.
Her small body shivered. She stumbled, feet scraping against the black stone, and whispered the only word her trembling lips knew:
"...Dad?"
The chamber swallowed her voice.
And then the circle beneath her feet lit, burning scarlet.
---
Blood-lines surged across the floor, racing into sigils, weaving the vast circle alive.
Illyria's eyes widened in terror as chains slithered from the shadows like snakes. They wrapped around her wrists, her ankles, her chest—cold, unyielding, crushing. She struggled, kicking, pulling, but the chains lifted her into the air, suspending her like a helpless doll.
"Dad! Dad, help me—"
Her cry cracked into sobs.
But no one came.
The court above watched from the shadows.
---
Duke Malrick's voice rasped from the dark. "So this is her? The god's weapon?"
"She looks like nothing," sneered Vaelor Kryne, his thin smile twitching. "A child. A pitiful child."
"She cries too easily," muttered Baron Ulrich, shifting uneasily. "How can this be the one Azeriel kept hidden?"
Elvaris Nyx's cold eyes narrowed. "Do not mistake frailty for safety. What is fragile today may burn us tomorrow. Strip her of memory—all of it. Then she will belong to us."
Murmurs swirled, a chorus of greed and fear.
At the center, King Veythar raised his hand, silencing them. His gaze, sharp as steel, never left the girl bound in the circle.
"She was Azeriel's secret. His prize. His weapon. But no longer. Here, she will forget him. Here, she will forget everything. When she rises from this hall, she will not be Illyria. Not Selene. She will be mine."
The court bowed, though shadows of doubt flickered in their eyes.
---
The circle flared, and the first thread of memory tore away.
Illyria gasped as something slipped from her mind. She saw a forest of silver leaves—the place where she had once chased fireflies, laughing with someone tall and warm—then the image dissolved into smoke.
"No—no, don't take it!" she cried, thrashing against the chains.
Another thread pulled free. The stars above the forest, the voice that once told her stories of constellations—"That one is yours, little one. That light will never leave you."—slipped into silence.
Her tears streamed faster.
"Please, I need it! I need him!"
The hall hissed, satisfied. The runes blazed brighter with every memory devoured.
---
The next thread tore deeper.
A memory of warmth: rough hands lifting her when she stumbled, the low hum of a lullaby against her ear. She reached out desperately—
"Dad! Don't go! Don't leave me, please—"
The words cut off. Her voice cracked into silence, stolen mid-cry. She tried to scream again, but nothing came. Her throat moved, her chest heaved, but the hall had swallowed her voice whole.
Her wide, tear-blurred eyes darted in panic. Her lips formed the word again, but there was only silence.
The chains rattled as her small body trembled, suspended like a broken marionette.
---
Inside her head, everything was unraveling.
The forest—
Gone.
The night sky—
Gone.
A smile, a story, a voice—
Gone.
She clawed at them in her mind, tiny hands reaching through the dark, but the threads slipped faster, faster, until she could not even remember what she was reaching for.
Who had she been calling?
Why did her heart ache?
Only an ember remained. A faint warmth that whispered she had once been loved.
Her tears fell into the blood circle, vanishing as soon as they touched the stone.
---
Duke Gareth's arms folded across his chest. "It works. Too easily."
"Too easily," Baron Calista echoed, unease in her eyes. "If everything is erased, what will remain? An empty husk is no weapon."
Elvaris' lips curved in a thin smile. "Not empty. Purged. Every memory of Azeriel is poison. Strip her of it, and she will be pure steel. A blade that cuts only for us."
Vaelor chuckled under his breath. "For us? No—for him." His hand twitched toward the king. "The blood in the circle is his. The blade will belong to Veythar alone."
The king's gaze flickered, silencing all. His voice was low, sharp.
"Would you rather she belong to Azeriel? Would you rather she rise one day with his will in her veins and destroy all you hold?"
The dukes and barons lowered their heads, swallowing their resentment. None dared speak further.
---
Illyria sagged in the chains. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, shuddering breaths.
Her lips still shaped the word, though her voice was gone.
"...Dad..."
But she no longer remembered why.
The last of her memories slipped away, dissolving into nothing.
She hung limp, trembling, eyes glassy with tears that no one in the hall cared to see.
Only silence remained.
---
King Veythar stepped closer, the circle flaring in recognition of his blood.
"Behold," he said softly, but the chamber carried his words like thunder. "The Spirit Princess, no longer Azeriel's. No longer anyone's. She is ours now. Mine."
He stretched out his hand. The chains glowed crimson, resonating with his will.
"When the realms remember her, they will not call her daughter. They will not call her princess. They will not call her Illyria."
His smile was sharp, merciless.
"They will call her weapon."
---
The Hall of Silence swallowed the last of the child.
Her voice, her memories, her fragile cry for her father—all lost in chains and stone.
And the court of Crimson Dominion turned away, their eyes gleaming with greed, never seeing the tragedy that hung before them:
A little girl, broken, hollowed, grieving for someone she could no longer remember.