"Why can I see magical script that others cannot?"
Kaelen stared at the wall where flame-text had blazed moments before.
"What am I becoming?"
The symbols remained beneath layers of paint. Faint. Dormant.
"Tonight, I find answers."
She turned towards her chambers and stopped.
The corridor stretched empty in both directions. Too quiet for the evening shift change.
Where are the guards?
Footsteps echoed from the main corridor. Multiple guards, moving fast.
"There she is!"
Marcus rounded the corner with two guards, hands on sword hilts.
"Senior Scribe Virelle."
"Captain Marcus." Kaelen kept her face neutral. "Is something amiss?"
"Routine inspection."
Silence.
"We have had reports. Strange lights in this section. Glowing where there ought be none."
Kaelen turned back to the wall. "I see nothing unusual here."
"No?" Marcus stepped closer. "What about voices? Speaking in tongues that should not exist?"
"I hear only our conversation, Captain."
Marcus approached the wall where the flame script had blazed. His nose wrinkled.
"Peculiar smell. Like heated metal."
"The braziers need fresh charcoal."
"Do they now?" He studied her face.
"The Council requires your presence tonight."
"When?"
"After evening prayers."
"May I ask the purpose?"
"Questions concerning your recent assignments."
"My regular duties?"
"Snow falling when it never has. Prisoners attempting escape. Strange times, Miss Virelle."
"Escape?"
"Briefly successful. We found him in the lower archives searching records. Old bloodlines. Binding agreements from centuries past."
Marcus glanced at his guards.
"That remains to be determined." He gestured to the guards. "Escort Senior Scribe Virelle to her chambers. For her protection."
"Protection from what, precisely?"
"From asking questions that might prove unhealthy."
The guards stepped forward.
As the guards led her away, Kaelen glimpsed movement in the courtyard below. A figure in black stood beneath her window. Watching.
The guards locked her door from the outside. Snow continued falling.
. . .
Kaelen sat on her narrow bed, gaze fixed on the locked chest.
Did she leave you anything? Letters? A journal?
Halden's words.
She rose and walked to the mirror, reaching behind the glass for the brass key—cold metal against her palm.
The lock opened with a soft click.
Inside: a journal bound in red leather, initials carved deep. M.V.
Maera Virelle. Last of the Great House bloodline.
Kaelen opened the journal.
The first pages held mundane entries. Ink purchases. Weather observations. Archive gossip.
Then, three-quarters through:
Day 1,847. Councillor Frost questioned my research today.
Kaelen stopped. Councillor Frost. The same councillor who had summoned her tonight.
She turned the page. Her mother's handwriting grew rushed, desperate.
Day 1,851. The flames respond to me. They recognise something.
The pendant grew warm against Kaelen's throat.
Day 1,852. Drae bloodline—restricted texts mention 'ice and flame, bound by compact.'
Drae. The prisoner's family name.
She turned to the final entry.
Day 1,855. They know. I must hide this where K might find it.
The writing ended mid-sentence. Seventeen years ago. The day her mother died.
Kaelen closed the journal. Her mother had known the Council was coming. Had known they would kill her, and had left clues, not answers.
A knock at the door.
"Senior Scribe Virelle. The Council requests your presence."
"I thought after evening prayers—"
"The schedule has changed. You are wanted immediately."
Kaelen tore three pages from the journal—map, bloodlines, translations—and folded them into her robes.
"I shall be ready shortly."
She slid the journal beneath her pillow.
. . .
The door opened. Two Council guards entered—crimson cloaks over black armour.
"You will come with us."
"Where—"
"You will come with us."
They turned. Kaelen followed.
The guards led her through unfamiliar corridors, past doors marked with symbols from her mother's journal. The air grew colder with each step downward. Down spiral stairs to an iron-bound door.
"How deep do these passages extend?"
"Deep enough for our purposes."
One guard produced a key covered in flame script. The chamber beyond was vast—high ceilings, shelves heavy with texts. At the centre: a table of black stone surrounded by seven high-backed chairs.
Six held hooded figures in deep blue robes.
The seventh sat empty, a symbol carved into its back: silver flame wrapped around a quill.
Her mother's chair.
"Kaelen Virelle." The centre figure lowered his hood—silver hair catching torchlight. "Last daughter of a fallen house."
Councillor Soren Frost.
"Councillors." Kaelen inclined her head. "How may I serve?"
"Serve?" A soft laugh from one hooded figure. "Child, you have already served. The question is whether you shall continue."
Kaelen looked at each councillor in turn.
A second figure revealed himself—burn-scarred face, grey beard.
"Councillor Thaddeus Ashford. You know the name?"
"By reputation, my lord. You tolerate neither fools nor traitors."
"Clever child." His mouth curved. Snow falls for the first time in decades. Walls blaze with responsive script. Prisoners speak of binding spells."
"I do not understand."
"Do you?" Councillor Frost raised one hand. "A young scribe carries her mother's secrets without comprehending their weight."
"We mean you no harm," said a gentler voice.
The eldest councillor showed white hair braided with silver. Councillor Cordelia Vale, near eighty years old.
"You are not to blame for your bloodline's sins. Yet you are... required."
Vale folded her hands.
Councillor Frost gestured towards the empty chair. "Seventeen years past, we interrupted your mother's research. She sought answers we now desperately need."
Kaelen glanced at the empty chair.
"How to keep this city from falling."
Ashford leaned forward. Scars pulled tight across his cheek. "The sun-stone weakens with each passing season, and its wardlight fails to protect us. Each winter brings fresh catastrophe."
"Such as snow."
"Such as death," Councillor Frost corrected. "Without intervention, Erathil falls within the year."
Kaelen wrapped her arms around herself.
No one spoke.
"Complete your mother's work," Vale said softly. "Unlock what she died protecting."
"And if I refuse?"
Councillor Frost's pale gaze held hers. "Then you join her. This night."
"What precisely did my mother discover?"
"Study her laboratory." Councillor Frost rose. "You have until dawn to choose. Whether this city lives or dies."
The guards stepped forward.
"Come, Senior Scribe. Your work awaits."
As the guards led her from the chamber, Kaelen saw a familiar figure in the shadows. Grey hair. Wire spectacles. He looked away.
"Halden?" she called. "What brings you here?"
He looked up at last. "Preparing you, child. As I have done these seventeen years."
Kaelen stared at him.
"For this moment. For this choice."
"Which is?"
"The same your mother faced."
She waited.
"Save the city by destroying yourself. Or save yourself by letting everyone else perish."
. . .
The guards descended deeper into the Archive's foundations, past doors marked with flame script that pulsed softly.
Kaelen tried to memorise their route.
The guards stopped before a heavy door bound with iron. A brass plate bore her mother's name: M. Virelle - Research Laboratory.
"Your mother's workshop." The guard gestured. "You have until dawn."
The guards took their posts outside. She heard the lock turn.
. . .
The laboratory was three times the size of her chamber. Charts and instruments covered every surface. Her mother's writing filled the walls—notes, diagrams, calculations in scripts Kaelen barely recognised.
"What were you seeking, Mother?"
She approached the largest table. Maps showing territories she had never heard named spread across the surface. Family trees tracing bloodlines back centuries—script translations in her mother's careful hand.
At the centre lay a drawing of the wardlight. Notes filled every margin: Power source unknown. Fluctuations match winter cycles. Is ice magic necessary for stability?
"Ice magic. Like the prisoner's abilities."
A soft sound made her turn.
Riven Drae stood beside a bookshelf as if he had never left. The violet collar was gone. Snow melted in his dark hair.
"Hello, Kaelen. Are you prepared for the truth?"
She braced herself against the table. "How are you here? Marcus said you were recaptured."
"Your mother taught me shadow-walking before the Council killed her."
Kaelen took a breath. "Tell me about my mother."
He turned away. "I should have protected her. The same Council members who would use you now."
Kaelen turned back to a large map on the wall. Most of the land was shaded blue. Only a small circle around Erathil remained gold.
She moved closer.
"Truth."
He touched the blue areas. Ice spread where his finger had traced. "Everything your wardlight devoured."
She traced the blue borders with one finger. "The outer kingdoms. Gone. Frozen. Fed to your light to keep Erathil warm."
She pulled out her mother's pages and compared them to the laboratory maps. Perfect matches.
"Mother knew this was happening."
"She tried to stop the feeding. The Council killed her for it."
Kaelen stepped back. "Why did she not expose them?"
"To whom? The Council controls everything."
Footsteps echoed outside. Different boots. Moving quickly.
"The Council returns."
Riven's form began to shimmer. His outline wavered, fading.
"Follow your mother's map. Find the Flame Sanctum."
Kaelen lunged forward. "Wait—"
"You must complete her work."
The footsteps grew louder. Closer.
"The binding." Kaelen spoke faster. "What did she discover that requires me?"
Riven's gaze held hers. "She found the secret to stabilising the sun-stone: the Ice and Flame Binding. Your magic alone cannot secure the sun-stone and restore its wardlight." He gestured between them. "We need both our bloodlines working together."
Both bloodlines. Fire and ice. Life and death. Me and him.
"The only way to save Erathil from the endless winter starting tonight."
"What does the ritual cost?"
Every spell demanded payment. Every power had its price.
Riven looked at her the way her mother used to before bad news. "You will survive, Kaelen."
A pause. Too long.
"But know this: the binding will consume your flame completely. Your power will be gone forever, a sacrifice to secure this city's life."
Riven reached out. His fingers brushed her hair. Ice spread across her skin.
"Now go. Before the Council comes for us both."
He vanished.
Kaelen stood alone in the chamber. The footsteps outside stopped. Silence.
Save the city. Lose myself. Or save myself. Lose everything.
The door handle began to turn.
. . .
The door scraped open.
Councillor Frost entered with a stranger. Hooked nose, silver-streaked hair. Robes of deepest black.
"Senior Scribe Virelle." The stranger inclined his head. "I am Elder Thane Blackmere of the High Council."
Kaelen bowed. "My lord. I was not expecting—"
"These disturbances have grown beyond local concern." Councillor Frost gestured to the walls. "Glowing walls throughout the Archive. Prisoners claiming impossible abilities."
"High Senior Scribe Halden has provided context." Blackmere stepped deeper into the laboratory.
Kaelen folded her arms.
Halden entered behind the councillors, still looking away.
"Your mother believed she could repair the sun-stone's instabilities and restore its wardlight." Halden cleared his throat. "Yet her methods required... living magical sources."
Kaelen stepped back.
"Combining different magical essences." Councillor Frost studied the research-covered walls. "Dangerous without proper safeguards."
"We propose a controlled approach." Blackmere paused. "Supervised restoration using reliable components. The ice-magic prisoner we recently captured. Only your cooperation remains necessary."
"I require more time to study Mother's work."
"Time we lack." Blackmere's tone hardened. "Each day the sun-stone weakens, its wardlight fades—bringing more frozen territories, more death."
"Nevertheless, you have until dawn to prepare." Halden finally met her eyes.
"Prepare for what?"
"To choose." Councillor Frost's gaze remained steady. "Your mother's path or ours."
"What was Mother's path?"
"Ruin of all we have built. The kingdom would fall."
"And yours?"
"Continuation. Survival. Order."
Kaelen looked directly at Councillor Frost. "Every choice demands payment, child. The question is whether you are willing to make it."
. . .
After the Council departed, Kaelen stood alone amongst her mother's research.
She pulled out the map and studied the symbol marking the Archive's highest tower.
The Flame Sanctum. Where the ward-builders worked.
Outside, snow fell. Dawn remained hours away.
Time to learn what Mother truly died for.
She gathered her mother's notes and approached the door.
Tonight, she would face the Council.
End of Chapter 2
. . .
Next Chapter Preview: The Flame Sanctum
In the Archive's highest tower, Kaelen uncovers the wardlight's terrible purpose and faces a choice that will determine the fate of kingdoms. But when Riven reveals the true cost of the magical binding, she realises some prices are too high to pay—and others, too high not to. The Council's patience is running out. And dawn approaches faster than she thought.