The morning light crept in slow, brushing the stone walls with pale gold.
Kaydence stirred beneath the blanket, groggy and restless, the remnants of his dream clinging to him like smoke.
"Varrick."
The name still pulsed in his thoughts, a bruise beneath the skin.
With slow, deliberate movements, he pushed himself upright, careful not to strain the wound stitched across his side. The ache was still dull from the tonic, but he moved with the caution of someone who'd learned pain's language too well.
The room was quiet and Meisha was gone.
Her cot lay empty; the blanket folded with care. The fire had been stoked, its warmth steady, and a faint scent of herbs lingered in the air.
On the nightstand, a folded note waited, weighted by a smooth river stone.
Kaydence reached for it, fingers brushing the parchment. Her handwriting was precise, steady.
Gone to tend the morning rounds. There's leftover stew warming near the hearth and fresh bandages if you need them. I'll see what information I can get out of the town soldiers. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Rest as long as you need. I'll try to return before midday with firewood and to check on you.
—Meisha.
He read it twice, then set it down gently.
She hadn't asked questions.
She'd simply offered care—and space.
Kaydence exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let the quiet in. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cool stone floor, and sat there for a moment, staring at the fire.
The dream still pulsed behind his eyes.
A war tent. His father's voice. "Lord Varrick of Duskmere. Keep an eye on him…"
Duskmere.
The name curled around his thoughts like smoke—familiar, but distant. A border town, if he recalled correctly. Trade-heavy. Politically slippery. The kind of place that wore loyalty like a borrowed cloak.
The pieces were shifting.
And Meisha—whether she knew it or not—had just stepped into the heart of it.
He sat there for a long moment, letting the fire's warmth seep into his bones, grounding him against the chill that memory had left behind.
Kaydence rubbed his face with both hands, then reached for the bandages Meisha had left. He didn't need them yet, but the gesture felt grounding—like touching something real when everything else felt like fog.
He rose slowly, testing his balance, then crossed the room to the hearth. The stew was still warm, just as she'd promised. He poured a small bowl, the scent of root vegetables and smoked meat stirring something tender in his chest.
She'd thought of everything.
Even in absence, Meisha's presence lingered—quiet, steady, intentional.
He ate slowly, eyes drifting to the window. Snow still clung to the edges of the glass, but the light outside had shifted—brighter now, clearer.
Somewhere out there, she was moving through the estate and the town, gathering whispers from soldiers who didn't know they were being listened to.
The stew warmed him from the inside, but it did little to quiet the unease stirring beneath his ribs.
Kaydence moved slowly through the basement quarters, the bowl of stew warming his hand as he scanned the space. It was modest, almost austere, but every detail spoke of intention. Shelves lined the walls, filled with dried herbs, glass vials, and books whose spines bore the wear of years.
He scanned the titles, searching not just for knowledge, but for a thread—something that might explain why the daughter of a renowned ember caster and healer is in a life of solitude and stone.
His eyes traced the titles—some medical, some magical, some personal. But one book stood out.
Smaller than the rest. Bound in deep green leather. No title on the spine.
He pulled it from the shelf, returned to the bed, and placed the now empty bowl stew on the nightstand. Then he opened the book.
The first page held a name, written in delicate script.
Meisha Emberwyn.
His breath caught.
"This is her diary." He said out loud to himself.
Kaydence didn't want to be rude, but he needed answers.
Daughter of a great Alyra Emberwyn was being locked in the basement. Why does she have on a magic suppressing bracelet- and working as a servant to a town lord of all things?
He turned the page.
The ink was faded, but the words were clear. The first entry was dated nearly two decades ago.
Garrue Forest. The day the sky burned red. Mother stood at the edge of the clearing, her hands glowing with violet ember light. I remember the way she looked at me—not afraid, not even sad. Just… certain. The goblin king had already entered into a fierce battle my mother. The hoard of minion goblins attacking at every chance to break her defenses. She told me to run and not look back, but I did and I had witnessed my mother- bold, fearless, and undaunting. When I finally returned with soldiers for backup. There, I saw her laying in the middle of the forest with the remaining magic fading from her hand.
The fire took mother that day. And the goblin king. And the rest of the goblins along with portion of the forest. They said she save the town and called it a victory. I called it a wound that never closed.
I blamed myself that day and every day after. I didn't listen to her and went beyond the forest's ridge. I just wanted to be like my mother.
I miss my life before losing her. Before taking Lord Varrick Hennis's deal to save our farm. Before having this awful bracelet placed on my wrist.
This wasn't just a diary.
It was a reckoning.
A record of grief, of legacy, of a woman who had watched power destroy the one person who wielded it with grace.
Kaydence contemplated for a moment, thinking over Meisha's journal entry.
"Something isn't right?" He spoke to himself. "How did King Adle end up in the Garrow forest? Monsters dwell with demons beyond the Ashen Vale."
Kaydence stared at the page, the ink blurring slightly as his mind raced.
King Adle. Garrue Forest.
It didn't make sense.
The goblin king was known to dwell far beyond the Ashen Vale, deep in the demon territories where no human dared tread without an army at their back. His presence in Garrue Forest wasn't just unusual—it was impossible. Or it should have been.
He ran a hand through his hair again, the ache in his side forgotten for the moment.
Why would Adle cross the Vale? How did he cross the Garrue Forest?
He flipped to the next page, searching for more.
Lord Varrick Hennis came to our farm three years after mother's sacrifice. He didn't offer condolences. He offered a contract. "Your mother's sacrifice will be remembered," he said. "But your family's debt will not be forgiven." I was fifteen. My father was broken. The farm was falling. The town's people tried to help in whatever way they could. The void of my mother's absent was too big to fill. He gave me a choice: servitude to save the farm. I chose trying to mend what I'd broken as best as I could. I thought I could endure it. I thought I could stay quiet. But something still stirs beneath my skin. And sometimes, I dream of fire.
Kaydence's jaw tightened.
He sat with the journal open in his lap, the last entry still echoing in his thoughts.
"I thought I could endure it. I thought I could stay quiet. But something still stirs beneath my skin. And sometimes, I dream of fire."
He traced the edge of the page with his thumb, the leather soft from years of use. Meisha had been fifteen. A child forced into servitude to save what was left of her family. Her possibility of possessing magic bound, her voice quieted, her legacy buried beneath duty.
Kaydence turned another page, the leather creaking softly in his hands.
The next entry was dated two winters after the last.
His name was Thalen.He was a junior steward—barely older than me. Kind eyes. Quick hands. Always humming when he worked. I was seventeen and he was twenty.He noticed the bracelet first. Asked questions no one else dared to ask."Why would a healer wear a suppressor?" he whispered once, while we scrubbed the hall floors.I didn't answer. I couldn't.But he kept watching. Kept listening.One night, he brought me a book—The Ember Lineage: Forgotten Flames. Said it was banned in Duskmere. Said he'd stolen it from the Lord's private collection.I didn't know what to say. I just held it. And for the first time in years, I felt seen.Two days later, Thalen was gone.They said he'd been reassigned to the borderlands. No warning. No farewell.But I found the book in the fire pit behind the stables before I could truly read it. Burned. Ashes scattered.I never saw him or the book again.
This wasn't just grief.
It was deception.
He pondered about the bracelet on her wrist—magic-suppressing, cold, cruel.
"Meisha must have powers that are still dormant."
Something isn't right.
He glanced toward the window, the light outside growing brighter.
Meisha was out there, gathering whispers.
And he was here, gathering truths.
The pieces were shifting.
Kaydence sat with the journal open, the name of the book still echoing in his thoughts.
The Ember Lineage: Forgotten Flames.
He'd never read it, on heard about it in ledgend.
He wasn't even sure it truly existed—most records of the Emberwyn bloodline had been sealed after the war, buried beneath layers of political silence and rewritten history. But if Thalen had found it in Lord Varrick's private collection, it meant the truth hadn't been lost.
Just hidden.
Kaydence rose from the bed, pacing slowly, the journal still in hand.
"Why would Varrick keep a book like that?"
Not for study.
Not for reverence.
For control.
Knowledge was power—and in the wrong hands, it was leverage.
He imagined Thalen, young and curious, slipping the book from the shelf, heart pounding, believing he was doing something noble. And Meisha, holding it in her hands, seeing her lineage laid bare for the first time.
And then—ashes.
Thalen had risked everything to bring it to Meisha. And Lord Varrick had burned it.
Not just the pages.
The possibility.
The legacy.
Kaydence's gaze drifted to the shelves again, scanning for any trace of it—another copy, a hidden fragment, something Thalen might've left behind. But the space was too neat. Too curated. If Meisha had salvaged anything, she'd hidden it well.
He turned back to the journal, flipping to the next entry, hoping for more.
I only read one page before they took it.It spoke of the Emberwyn line—how our fire wasn't born of conquest, but of communion. How our magic responded not to dominance, but to truth."The flame bends to those who listen."I remember that line. I remember how it felt—like my mother's voice, echoing through the ink.Thalen said the rest of the book spoke of forgotten techniques. Of healing through flame. Of casting without harm.I never got to see it.But I dream of it still.
Kaydence closed the journal gently, fingers lingering on the cover.
The flame bends to those who listen.
It wasn't just power Meisha had inherited.
It was a philosophy.
A way of being.
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The market was alive with the hum of morning trade—vendors calling out prices, children darting between stalls, the smell of smoke and spiced root stew drifting through the air. Meisha adjusted the basket on her arm, her cloak pulled close, and began her rounds.
She moved first to the grain merchant, selecting barley and dried lentils for the cook. Then to the herb stall, where she added thyme and nettle to her basket, slipping in a small pouch of chamomile for herself. Every choice was deliberate—necessity for the kitchen, comfort for her own quiet sanctuary.
As she turned toward the butcher's stall, three familiar figures appeared at the edge of the square—patrolling soldiers she'd come to know by name.
"Morning, Meisha," called Joren, the tallest of the three, his voice carrying easily over the crowd.
She smiled faintly, dipping her head. "Morning, Joren. Morning, Calen. Morning, Risa."
The trio slowed their pace, forming a loose circle around her as if casually guarding the space. They had always looked out for her—not openly, but enough to make her feel less alone.
"Busy day?" Calen asked, eyeing the basket.
"Cook's list never ends," Meisha replied lightly. "And I needed a few things for myself."
Risa leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Word is Lord Varrick sent riders out before dawn. Southeast road."
Meisha's brow furrowed, though she kept her tone even. "Strange time of year for travel."
"Strange company too," Joren added. "Not merchants. Scouts. Armed."
She tucked that detail away, nodding as if it were idle chatter. "Perhaps he expects trouble."
Calen shrugged. "Or he's looking for someone."
They moved with her as she stopped at the butcher's stall, where she purchased marrow bones and a strip of salted pork. The vendor handed her the parcel with a knowing glance, but said nothing.
As she walked on, Risa spoke again, softer this time. "There's talk of fire near the ridge on the other side of the Vale in the demon territory. Too clean. Too fast. The men say it wasn't natural."
Meisha's grip tightened on the basket handle. She forced her voice steady. "Fire spreads quickly in the cold. Dry brush, brittle trees."
But inside, her pulse quickened.
The soldiers exchanged looks, but said no more. They knew when to stop.
Meisha thanked them quietly, then parted ways, her basket heavier now—not just with food and herbs, but with whispers.
By the time she reached the edge of the square, she had gathered enough to confirm what Kaydence suspected.
Lord Varrick was moving pieces.
Meisha moved with quiet precision, her basket balanced against her hip. The pantry swallowed the cook's items first—barley stacked neatly, marrow bones wrapped in cloth, salted pork hung on its hook. Her own purchases she tucked aside: chamomile, lavender, honey. Small comforts hidden in plain sight.
The east wing was hushed, its stone walls carrying the faint echo of footsteps. As she turned the corner, she found Sunya folding linens near the stairwell, her hands moving with practiced rhythm.
"Morning, Sunya," Meisha greeted softly.
Sunya looked up, her expression warm but cautious. "Morning, Meisha. Back from the market already?"
Meisha nodded, pausing. "I thought I'd ask—has Lord Varrick requested me while I was gone?"
Sunya's hands stilled on the linen. She shook her head. "No. He's been too preoccupied."
Meisha tilted her head. "Preoccupied?"
Sunya lowered her voice, glancing down the hall before speaking. "A message invoice arrived from his father, Duke Noren Hennis. And from his proxy—Warren Hennis, the elder brother. He's been pacing ever since."
Meisha's breath caught, though she kept her face composed. "The Duke… and Warren?"
Sunya nodded, folding the linen tighter. "Whatever was in that message, it unsettled him. He hasn't called for anyone. Not even you."
Meisha thanked her quietly, then continued down the corridor, her steps slower now.
The names weighed heavy. Duke Noren Hennis—the patriarch whose reach stretched across Duskmere and beyond. Warren Hennis—the elder brother, sharper, colder, known for his ruthless dealings.
If they were sending word, it meant something larger was moving. Something beyond Varrick's restless pacing and riders on the road.
And Meisha, bound in silence, was caught in the middle.