The room was silent and Sylvera sat there, quiet, her ears still ringing.
They hadn't come from the room. No voice followed them.
And yet The words You don't belong here was in her mind, heavy and sharp, like it had been pressed straight into her thoughts.
Her breath caught.
Sylvera sat back down on the edge of the bed without meaning to. Elbows on her knees.
Fingers were caught deep into her hair.
She didn't realized at first how hard she must be gripping until it hurt but she still didn't let go.
she found herself staring at the floor.
Light reflected faintly off the marble, soft and pale. Her breathing was uneven. She counted anyway. One. Two. Too fast. She slowed it down again.
Nothing changed.
After a while how long, she couldn't have said she lifted her head.
Her eyes moved slowly across the room. Almost carefully. Pale curtains hung by the windows, barely moving. The walls were smooth and clean. The wardrobe was half open, gowns folded kept inside neatly and carefully . Sleeves tucked in. Colors muted and calm.
Everything looked arranged,untouched and fine.
That was the problem.
It all looked fine, Too fine.
"If Lyria was a mage," she whispered to herself, "then why is there nothing related to mages here?" her voice too soft and shaky.
The sound of her own voice startled her. It felt wrong in the stillness. Like she'd said something forbidden.
She waited.
Nothing answered.
She pulled herself out of the bed and stood there for a few second, feeling quite dizzy. The floor of the marble was feeling cold under her bare feet. She focused on that sensation until the slight spin in her head eased.
Then she began to pace.
Slow steps at first. One end of the room to the other. Then back again. The room wasn't large, but she crossed it again and again, as though movement alone might shake something loose.
Her fingers brushed the desk. Smooth wood. Polished. Empty.
She dragged her hand along the back of the chair it was Velvety, Soft , Lifeless.
She leaned closer, checking everything because she didn't trust what she was seeing at this point. She pressed her palm onto the wall. Then the desk again. Then the window frame. Each time she paused, waiting for something. Heat. Resistance. That faint wrongness magic always left behind.
Nothing.
No symbols carved into the wood. No grooves scratched in and sanded down. No books stacked carelessly. No loose pages tucked into corners. No bottles hidden behind drawers. No charms forgotten on hooks.
Nothing.
Her chest tightened suddenly, sharp enough to make her stop.
She crossed the room again, faster now. Opened drawers she had already checked. She checked under the bed anyway even though she knew nothing would be there. She pulled the curtains open and ran her fingers along the stone.
Still nothing.
"No," she muttered. "That's not right."
Her voice shook. She hated that it did.
"I saw her," she said, louder now. "I heard her."
Her throat tightened.
"I felt her magic."
She stopped in the center of the room and turned slowly, eyes sweeping the space again. Slower this time. Careful. Like the truth might slip up if she gave it time.
"I know she was a mage."
That certainty didn't waver. It sat heavy in her chest. The memory of Lyria's presence. The pressure in the air. The way the room had felt fuller when she was there.
Sylvera could still feel it if she focused.
But this room held none of it.
Not even a trace.
The doubt came anyway.
She moved to the window and hold on to the sill with both hands. Her fingers were tight around the stone. Outside the window it was beautifu beneath a clear sky. Clouds drifted lazily. Birds crossed them without care. The gardens below bloomed in neat rows, bright and controlled.
It was beautiful.
It made her uneasy.
Her jaw tightened.
"How am I supposed to find the truth like this?" she asked herself. "What am I supposed to believe?"
She waited.
No whispers answered her.
No voices slipped into her thoughts. No chill crept up her spine. No warning sparked under her skin.
Only silence.
It settled in her chest, heavy and hollow. She couldn't tell if it felt more like safety or abandonment.
Her hand drifted to her collarbone.
The mark there no longer burned. Not like it used to. That sharp, consuming pain was gone. But something remained. A dull, steady throb beneath her fingers. Slow. Constant.
It was always there now.
She winced.
"This mark is still here," she muttered. "Still alive."
Her voice dropped lower.
"Is it tied to her… or to him?"
The question lingered. Then another followed. Then another. They stacked up fast, pressing in until the silence felt less like peace and more like a cage.
She turned toward the door.
"Do I keep looking," she asked herself, "or do I leave?"
The door stayed shut.
Sylvera let out a breath that shook despite her efforts. She rubbed her temples, hard. Her head ached. Her chest felt tight in a way she couldn't shake.
She couldn't stay frozen.
She had to choose.
Soon.
Because something about this place wasn't right.
Something was hiding beneath all that beauty.
On the other side
When Lorian reached the gates of the palace, it was almost very dark .
Thick clouds were flowing overhead pressing the sky down. His boots pressed onto the gravel with every step he took. He moved fast. His jaw was very tight and the muscles in his neck sore from holding himself back for too long.
Seeing the castle hit him hard.
The towers still stood tall and untouched. Cold. Proud. Watching.
Just like the man who once ruled from them.
Something felt wrong before he even reached the steps.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
There were guards.
Three of them stood outside the iron doors, black and gold catching the last of the light. They straightened when they saw him.
"Where is he?" Lorian shouted.
Violet sparks snapped at his fingertips, leaking out with his anger.
The guards moved to block him.
They didn't get the chance.
Lorian surged forward. His fist slammed into the first guard's chest, driving the air from him and sending him crashing into the wall. The sound was dull. Final.
The second guard swung his blade. Lorian caught it with his bare hand.
Purple light flared.
The metal warped and melted in his grip.
He flung it aside and drove his elbow into the guard's jaw. Blood sprayed. The man crumpled.
The third guard turned and ran.
Lorian lifted his hand without slowing.
Energy tore through the air and struck the man in the back. He hit the ground hard and didn't move again.
Lorian took the steps two at a time and shoved the doors open. They slammed into the walls with a booming echo.
"ARTHER!" he roared. "COME OUT!"
No answer.
Only silence.
He moved inside. Boots striking marble. The floors were spotless. Too spotless. The air smelled old, stale, like stone that hadn't known life in a long time.
No Sylvera.
No Arther.
Just empty halls and his own breathing.
A guard rounded a corner.
Lorian didn't hesitate. He tackled him, fists coming down until the body went limp. Another rushed him from behind. Lorian spun and threw him into a pillar. Stone cracked.
Blood streaked the floor.
Room after room, there was nothing.
Gone.
Erased.
He stumbled into a war room. Empty.
A bedroom. Bare.
A study. Shelves torn out. Ink dried black on the floor.
"WHERE IS SHE?" he roared, punching through a wall.
Dust filled his mouth.
No answer.
They had taken everything.
The rage drained out of him all at once, leaving something colder behind. He stood in the ruined hall, blood dripping from his knuckles, the air thick with dust and metal. Bodies lay around him. Some groaned. Some didn't.
And still, he was no closer.
His hands shook.
Violet light pulsed beneath his skin.
All this power. All this damage.
And it hadn't been enough.
"They're gone," he muttered.
He slammed his fist into a pillar. Stone cracked. Dust rained down.
"I will find him," he said. "I will find her."
The air shifted.
Cold wind crept across the floor. Wrong. Sharp.
Shadows rose between the columns.
Tall. Faceless. Closing in.
"Not now," Lorian muttered.
One stepped forward.
"You came running," it hissed. "And Arther is still ahead of you."
"So this was a trap," Lorian said.
The creature smiled.
They lunged.
Violet light exploded outward.
Lorian fought, magic tearing through the first wave, shadows burning apart. More filled the gaps. A claw ripped his shoulder. Pain flared. He destroyed it and kept moving.
*This was never meant to kill me.*
The thought hit hard.
*Just delay me.*
"I won't stop," he growled.
"Even if it kills you?"
"Even then."
He turned and broke through the nearest wall.
He didn't look back.
He ran.
Broken halls. Burning doors. Shadows screaming behind him. He kept going. Every step hurt. His chest burned. He had to get out. He needed another way.
Cold air hit him hard.
He didn't look back.
Because now he knew.
Arther was hiding.
Sylvera was with him.
And the next time they meet , one of them wouldn't walk away.