I wake in the morning with my stomach still tight with nerves. The estate is quieter than I expect, and after getting ready for the day I make my way to the dining room for breakfast.
Mother and Baron Elenvar are already seated when I enter. The Baron offers me a small smile before speaking.
"I must apologize again for Captain Carver's impudence, my Lady. He is a capable man, not easily replaced. Yet he has never been fond of elves. Even with my own son he is needlessly strict."
I force a polite smile, though inwardly I sigh. I appreciate the gesture, but my stomach is already knotted with nerves. I have no patience for this theater of courtesy, even if it is meant kindly. Sometimes I wish we could speak plainly, so I could simply tell him I hold no ill will toward his family.
"Is that why so few of your men are here?" I ask, keeping my tone gentle to show I understand.
"Precisely," he replies with a nod. "I've sent them ahead to the temple to prepare. Captain Thalen and his men will escort you safely—sometimes smaller numbers are less conspicuous than a large group."
As Mother and Baron Elenvar resume speaking, I let their conversation fade into the clatter of silverware against dishes, my thoughts already drifting toward the ritual. By the time we set out, my stomach is tight again, and the temple's spires rise ahead.
Despite being repurposed, it still looks like a fortress to me. The walls glare down with their narrow slits, like eyes that never blink. The towers are jagged against the sky, stubborn reminders that this place was built for war, not worship. Even the gates creak like they'd rather keep us out. Two flags hang above the entrance. Ours snaps in the wind, the Baron's just beneath it.
I can't look at those walls without thinking of my lessons in history. Vaeroth—his own men turned on him here, allowing him to be sealed inside the stronghold he thought unbreakable. His former sanctuary became his prison, its defenses repurposed to guard the seal.
As we pass through the gate, I see the Baron's men milling about: some bent to menial tasks, others clustered in easy chatter with the priests. Captain Carver worked alongside a group shoring up a wall where the mortar had begun to crumble. No one seemed hurried; it was just another task among many.
Mother and I step into the ritual chamber, where the seal itself provides half the light in the room. A handful of softly glowing blue rings spin around an invisible center. They look carved from glass, solid and sharp, yet they slide through one another as if they were smoke. The air hums faintly, a vibration I feel prickle along my skin. As a child I often felt drawn to them, tempted to test whether my hand would vanish inside that impossible glow—but of course, I never dared.
"Take some time, Liriel. Soak in the lingering magic of this place, let it center you," Mother suggests.
Taking her advice, I wander the halls, making my way back toward the entrance. I avoid others, not wanting to force polite conversation while I'm so tense. As I enter an old bedroom that has been converted to storage, I find a chalk drawing, and for the first time today I smile. The soldier had wiped away his drawing too quickly last night for me to get a proper look, but clearly he snuck away sometime this morning to practice again.
The drawing is hardly a masterpiece. It looks rushed, surprisingly lacking in passion. A simple sunrise, with three rays of light drawn in careful detail while the rest of the image feels arbitrary.
Though I feel a flicker of relief at the sight, I wrestle with its appropriateness. His enthusiasm is harmless enough, but sneaking away from duty to draw even here shows a troubling lack of focus. I don't want to betray his trust, yet perhaps I will need to speak with Captain Carver after the ceremony about keeping a closer eye on him.
I push these idle thoughts out of my head and make my way back to the ritual room. I sit and watch the seal as others begin filtering in, priests murmuring prayers as they take their places, forming an oval half‑circle around it. I tamp down my nerves as I take my place across from them, behind the seal. I exchange a nod with Captain Carver and Mother, then begin the ceremony.
Once the words start, my nerves finally ease. They flow easily, and I picture the rings thickening, their glow sharpening. I swear I see them brighten. I don't even notice the guard moving toward the seal until Captain Carver shouts.
"Oi! Get back in line!" He lunges to intercept.
I hardly have time to register the impropriety before his voice twists into a chant.
"Down!" Captain Carver cries, diving—but too late. The explosion rips through the chamber. I stumble, ears ringing, the scent of copper flooding the air. Soldiers scramble to rise, but priests lie still. The guard is gone in a spray of ruin, and Carver—who tried to stop him—is torn apart.
I can't make sense of it. Two of the guards turn on those closest to them, cutting down their former allies, the shouts muffled behind the ringing in my ears. Worse, a pressure fills the room, heavy as water, dragging at every movement. Panic surges where nerves once lived. I search for Mother. She's on the ground, wounded but alive, and a guard is bearing down on her with sword drawn.
I throw myself over her, raising a barrier as the blade crashes down. It holds, but thinly—like a shell under a hammer. Each strike rattles through me, the suffocating pressure pressing harder. Through the shimmer I see the guards shifting, reforming lines, as dark‑clad figures slip in through the confusion, cutting down anyone who rises. As the sword crashes down again my attention is drawn to the guard attacking me, and I recognize him. It's the guard I spoke with last night. His face twisted, lips curled in a snarl—not madness, but hatred.
The ringing fades enough for Mother's voice to reach me.
"The seal, Liriel! Leave me and finish the ritual!" she cries, teeth gritted against pain, but I can't see anything past the soldier. The sword slams down again, and I can feel the cracks forming in my flimsy barrier. My hands shake, my eyes search desperately for someone, anyone to help me.
I see some of our house guard moving in, swiftly reinforcing the Baron's faltering men, but it's too late. The pressure collapses inward, vanishing so suddenly it feels imagined. Then I see it: the rings cracked, crumbling, and a silhouette standing in their center, watching the chaos. Eyes I can't see seem to bore into me, and my mouth goes dry.
The shadow takes a single step forward, and the weakened rings cannot withstand it—their lingering tethers snap to dust. The silhouette fills with color—black hair, and eyes blue as a storm‑tossed sea. My despair peaks as I recognize him. My barrier splinters, shards of light scattering as I lose focus.
"No…" The word escapes as a whisper.