The prophecy burned itself into her vision, each symbol suddenly clear as daylight.
"When stars fall from the heavens, and shadows stretch beyond the breaking dawn—the wanderers will arrive."
The words escaped her lips unbidden, shaped by a tongue that had never spoken these syllables yet somehow remembered their weight. Her own voice startled her. Too steady Too certain, as if some part of her had been waiting centuries to speak them aloud.
Impossible.
Amriel's pulse echoed inside her head as her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. She tried to swallow, but her throat had gone tight and dry. Her gaze flew across the ancient text again and again, until the pages spread across the grey-stone pedestal began to blur.
Yet while her mind reeled like a leaf caught in a spring storm, the chamber around her remained undisturbed. Morning sunlight filtered through the high, narrow windows, golden and bright. She'd even remarked on the peace she felt entering the antechamber of the Illumination Tower.
That was before she'd laid eyes on the Tome.
The very same tome she had looked at a thousand times before. Except now, she was utterly transfixed by it. Frozen. Enraptured, and terrified, by the words before her. Words no one had been able to read in over a thousand years. Ancient text that now seemed plain as day, as if she had been able to read them all along.
Her lips formed the next part of the prophecy almost against her will. "When that which has been lost has returned to that which has waited—the forest child will awaken."
Fragile dust motes danced around her inside their beams of light. They swayed in the gentle air currents, until some found themselves caught in the invisible lattice of barrier spells that had protected the book for well over a millennium. Now they were caught up in the book, and its Power, just as she was.
"When the hymn of forgotten souls is swallowed by silence—immortality will become a prison." The words flowed smoother now, a river finding its course. "When the last of the Seven Draw Breath—the Door to Eternity shall open."
The chamber's air held that peculiar tang of old Power, the kind that lingered in sacred spaces long after the casters had longed turned to dust. But, even over the centuries, she could tell the enchantment had lost little, if any, of its original strength. The Power protected the tome as strongly now, as it did when the Witch or Warlock had cast it.
Her hand trembled as she clutched at the iron ring that hung about her throat. The metal felt warm, as if it was trying to offer some small comfort, while her eyes drifted down to the familiar brass plaque mounted before the display:
THE TOME OF LYGENESS
Dated to the Late Third Era.
Origin Unknown.
Property of the Illumination Tower
Do Not Touch – This is a Protected Artifact
Late Third Era. Over a thousand years since House Drathex won the Centuries War and discovered the Tomb of Lygeness while excavating foundations for this very tower in Khymar. A millennium of the kingdom's brightest minds attempting to decipher it.
Not a single damn person had succeeded. Until now.
Daeude be damned. She barely kept the curse silent. I don't need this right now. I really don't.
Though was there ever a right time for an ancient prophecy to suddenly reveal itself?
Three nights without sleep, that's all. This is exhaustion, nothing more.
Three sleepless nights tending her neighbor's feverish child had left shadows beneath her eyes dark as bruises. That would explain a hallucination, wouldn't it?
Except something resonated deep in her chest, vibrating like the lowest notes from a temple bell. A shiver ripped through her. Cold sweat beaded on her brow. The iron ring pressed into her palm as she clutched it tighter.
Forest Child. Wanderers. A Door to Eternity.
"Daeude preserve me," she whispered. "What have I stumbled into?"
She needed to tell someone...but who? Her mind raced through options: the Master Archivist? The Head of the Illumination tower, or the Coven Leader? The highest ranked, and most Powerful, Witch in the Kingdom. Would they even believe her?
Or are they just going to think I'm crazy?
As she took a step back, her heel caught on the uneven flagstone and she felt herself starting to fall before she then collided with something solid. Warm. Alive.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, firm but careful, steadying her. The touch sent a jolt through her system, as if reminding her that the world contained more than ancient prophecies and dire warnings.
"Whoa there, Amriel," a familiar voice said, warm with amusement and rich as honey. "Still getting lost in your day dreams and walking into people, I see. Some things never change."
Heat rushed to her face as she turned and found herself looking up into Nikola Helston's dark brown eyes, which crinkled at the corners when he smiled, just as they were doing now.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Today was just turning out wonderful.
Of all the archivists in the Tower of Illumination, it had to be him. Nikola Helston, whose hands lingered a moment too long on her shoulders, whose scent of ink and sage brought unwelcome memories of whispered promises neither had kept. A year had passed, but it hadn't completely dulled the sharp edge of those memories, nor softened the twisting ache they brought.
"You all right, Riel?" His dark brows drew together as he peered down at her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
There it was, that careful, rehearsed kindness she'd grown so used to. The same tone he'd used right up until the day he told her they should walk separate paths. But she couldn't stop her damned, betraying heart from doing a little skip when he used the more intimate version of her name.
"Nikola," she forced her voice to remain steady, "what do you see when you look at this tome?"
His brows rose in surprise before he leaned closer to examine the text, the Archivist in him immediately engaged. The movement brought him close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark reminder of winters spent huddled over ancient texts with his cloak wrapped around them both. She watched as he scanned the page where she had read words of prophecy and doom.
"I see the same undecipherable symbols archivists have been staring at for a millenia," he replied with a half-shrug. "Why? Don't tell me the wild Amriel Vardon is developing an interest in linguistic mysteries now?"
"I've always been fascinated by ancient tongues," Amriel shot back, then immediately cringed at her own words.
The half-smirk spreading across Nikola's face confirmed her verbal blunder. Heat rushed to her cheeks as embarrassment washed over her.
"You can't read anything?" she pressed, desperate to move past the awkwardness. "Nothing at all?"
Nikola's expression shifted from casual interest back to that particularly irritating form of concern—the kind reserved for someone believed to be unwell or mentally unstable. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Amriel, no one can read this text. It's the greatest mystery in Vraycia's history." He studied her face with growing worry, his dark scholar's eyes now analyzing her as thoroughly as any ancient text. "What's going…"
"Nothing. I was just curious," she interrupted, her voice steadier than she expected, drawing on reserves of composure she didn't know she possessed. "That's all. Sleep deprivation makes for strange thoughts." She forced a smile that felt brittle as thin ice.
Before Nikola could press further, salvation arrived in the form of Niamh Liandris and Maranda Hess. A whirlwind and a whisper entering in tandem.
"Riel! There you are!"
Amriel had never been so relieved to hear her best friend's boisterous voice echoing off the stone walls, though Maranda, Mara for short, visibly grimaced at the sound, no doubt mentally cataloguing which Tower rules about appropriate volume and decorum were being violated.
The arched doorway framed Niamh's tall, curved figure, sunlight spilling behind her as if she'd orchestrated the entrance herself. The silver butterfly pin securing her dark red hair glinted in the morning light. Her pale green wool robe stretched slightly across her belly, swollen with her second pregnancy.
Behind Niamh followed Mara, her presence far more controlled. The blonde-haired Archivist acolyte carried herself with a maturity that belied her twenty-one years. Her fitted muddy brown robes matched Nikola's, but she bore a belted chain that marked her as top of her class.
Niamh's sharp pale green eyes flicked between Amriel and Nikola, a knowing smirk curving her generous lips. "Morning, Nikola," Niamh's voice carried barely hidden amusement. "Am I interrupting something?" Her northern accent thickened with her mischief.
"Nothing that wouldn't benefit from an interruption," Mara interjected, adjusting her chain so it fell more clearly for Nikola's viewing. "Your body language suggests discomfort and defensiveness, Amriel. His indicates lingering attachment. The tension patterns are quite obvious from an observational standpoint—" Her words fell off when she noticed Amriel grimacing.
Pragmatic as ever, Mara. Thanks for that.
Nikola straightened and stepped back, clearing his throat. "Good morning, ladies. I was just heading to meet Sarai to prepare for the royal festivities." A flush crept up his neck as he flashed that familiar smile. "See you at the celebrations, perhaps."
Amriel exhaled sharply, watching him go. Damn him for still affecting me like this. And damn me for letting him.
"Fascinated by ancient tongues, hmm?" Niamh's smirk deepened as she crossed her arms over her swollen belly.
"How long were you two hiding there?" Amriel asked with a sigh, ignoring Niamh's cat-like grin.
"Long enough to hear that gem." Niamh's teeth flashed white. "What happened to all those clever retorts you practiced?"
"To be fair," Mara offered, "social eloquence tends to abandon most people when confronted with ex-lovers."
"Don't. Just... don't." Amriel dragged a hand down her face, which still felt too warm, as if she'd stepped too close to a fire. "I don't need your analysis, Mara, or your amusement, Niamh."
Not now. Not with everything that just happened. The tome. Those words still burning in her head...
Niamh continued to grin as she looped her arm through Amriel's, the warm scents of goldthread and cinnamon enveloping her. "You're lucky we came to save you," she said, giving Amriel's arm a squeeze.
"Oh yes, thank the Daeude," Amriel replied dryly, but she smiled despite herself. "Whatever would I have done without you two."
"You're welcome," Niamh chimed brightly. "You're also lucky that I also happen to know exactly what helps in moments like this."
"Oh?" Amriel arched a brow, doubting anything could distract her from the pulsing ancient words that seemed burned into her mind.
"Watching sily grown men beat each other stupid with swords and sticks," Niamh declared, her northern accent thickening with enthusiasm. "Nothing cures a woman's troubles faster than witnessing heavily armored idiots fall off horses for her entertainment."
"They're not performing for our entertainment," Mara corrected matter-of-factly. "It's Princess Mhegan's engagement celebration to the Calavorn prince. The tournaments are traditional ceremonial events."
"Fine, fine—ceremonial events," Niamh waved a dismissive hand, her grin turning wicked. "Doesn't change the fact that it's grown men in shiny armor whacking each other with sticks and falling flat on their arses, all while acting like they're saving kingdoms. Pure entertainment, no matter what fancy name you slap on it."
"You're both insufferable," Amriel said, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Obviously," Niamh grinned. "It's part of our charm." But then her expression shifted, replaced by genuine concern as she took a closer look at Amriel. Somehow it didn't set her on edge the way the same look on Nikola's face had. "Riel, you've got that weird look, the one where you're smiling but your eyes are all wide and distant. What's wrong?"
"Yes, it is telling. That's the same expression you had when you first told us you could see Power, " Mara added. "And when your father died."
Amriel's breath caught on the second part as the reminder sent a pang through her chest, sharp as a blade between ribs. Her father's iron ring suddenly heavy against her skin.
"Sweet Daeude, Mara," Niamh groaned, "sometimes your honesty is brutal." But Mara only shrugged, unbothered.
"It's all right," Amriel said when she finally found her voice. "I…" Her throat closed once more around the words, as if the ancient language she'd read had sealed her voice. How can I explain something I barely understood myself? That a prophecy about Falling Stars, Wanderers and a Door to Eternity, whatever that was, had burned itself into her mind, searing away all other thoughts?
She wanted to tell them, but the present moment didn't feel right. Not here, with the tome looming behind her. Not with the weight of its revelations still settling into her bones like winter frost.
"I'm fine," she said instead, forcing a brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just tired from tending to a little one's fever. Three nights with barely a wink of sleep."
"Are you sure?" Niamh's eyes narrowed on her for a moment.
Amriel nodded, even as she knew neither friend was buying any of it. "We should get going before we miss the opening ceremony."
Niamh studied her for a moment, then sighed and squeezed Amriel's shoulder. "All right, fine. Think about it and tell me later. Tonight, over wine."
"Wine? You're pregnant!" Mara stated flatly, her gaze dropping to Niamh's belly.
"Wine for me to sniff longingly while Riel drinks it all, obviously," Niamh said with an exaggerated eye roll. Her bright smile returned, though concern still lingered in her eyes. "But you're right, we need to get moving. I am not missing the opening ceremonies."
As they departed, Amriel cast one last glance at the Tome of Lygeness, its ancient words now seared into her memory.