The candle on Rewald's desk had burned low, wax pooling in uneven rivers along the brass holder. Outside his chamber window, the hold was quiet—its night watch making slow, careful rounds in the fog-smeared dark.
Rewald sat hunched over parchment, quill in hand, robes loose around his shoulders. He had washed the worst of the Hollow Valley's dust from his skin, but the scent of scorched stone and old magic lingered like a phantom.
He began without flourish.
[To Linalee of the First Circle,
Chief Advisor to His Majesty King Alight,
Eyes and Ears of the Crown.
As per your standing request for intelligence regarding rift activity and related anomalies, I submit the following account of our recent expedition to the Hollow Valley Ruins.
Commander Arasha and I entered the lower sanctum beneath the western ridge, a chamber preserved beyond reasonable expectation given the valley's instability. The walls bore murals etched into obsidian and inlaid with silver, still faintly resonant with enchantment. The craftsmanship and preservation suggest shamanic origin—pre-Imperial, possibly pre-human.
Several panels were damaged—whether by time, battle, or deliberate destruction remains uncertain—but the surviving scenes were… troubling.]
He paused, dipping the quill again, considering how much to reveal in writing. Words, once sent, could not be unsent.
He continued:
[The murals depicted rifts opening over burning cities, inhuman entities of titanic scale, and winged beings of intense radiance in combat with horrors possessing innumerable eyes. Of particular note, a recurring figure appears throughout—armed, armored, and always at the center of the depicted conflicts. Her likeness matches Commander Arasha with unsettling precision, though the armor and weaponry vary.
One partially preserved scene showed a descending godlike entity surrounded by radiant figures. Among them, the Arasha figure stood apart, blade embedded in the earth, expression mournful. Beneath her feet was an inscription in Old Shamanic: "Seraphine and the Anchor."
When questioned, Commander Arasha did not recognize the scene. I provided my initial assessment that "Anchor" in this context may refer to a stabilizing force in fate or time itself—metaphorical or literal.]
He wrote the next section more slowly, letting the ink dry between lines.
[Before further study could be made, the chamber was breached from above by rift cultists and mutated creatures. Their battle cries referenced "awakening the Anchor" and breaking a seal. Their focus was not on us, but on a marble statue at the chamber's center. The statue bore Arasha's likeness, though garbed differently, and stood upon a dais of active shamanic magic.
The statue began to fracture during the assault, releasing pulses of energy synchronized with Commander Arasha's crest resonance. Despite our defensive efforts, the statue ruptured entirely.
The resulting magical discharge was… unprecedented. A cleansing wave obliterated cultists and creatures alike, regardless of proximity, reducing them to ash. The energy bore hallmarks of both divine and rift-aligned magic—an impossible combination under current theory.
In the aftermath, we found a young man lying unconscious where the statue had stood.]
Here Rewald hesitated, tapping the quill against the page. He kept his personal impressions out of the official language, though they pressed against his thoughts—the way the man's arrival felt like the closing of one story and the start of something far more dangerous.
[The man, identifying himself as Kane, appears to be human. His origin is unknown. His presence, however, was foreseen—if the murals are to be believed. I recommend immediate, discreet observation, and restricted dissemination of this report.
I will forward my sketches of the murals via secured courier.
Respectfully submitted,
Rewald]
He sanded the parchment, sealing it with wax and his personal sigil, then with the deeper imprint of the Hold's crest—proof it was no forgery.
The letter lay before him, its surface clean and official. But as he leaned back in his chair, Rewald stared at it with a tight jaw. He knew that what he had written was only the surface.
The truth of what happened in that chamber—what stirred when the statue cracked—was not something he could trust to ink and parchment.
No, those words would have to be spoken in person.
****
The tower chamber was silent except for the soft hiss of rain against the high crystal windows.
Linalee sat alone at her long mahogany desk, its surface littered with scrolls and arcane maps, but her focus was on the sealed parchment bearing the crest of the Western Hold.
She broke the wax with a flick of her fingers, the faint scent of Rewald's ink and travel-worn parchment rising as she unfolded the letter.
Her eyes scanned the words swiftly, her mind dissecting every phrase, every omission, the way a master duelist reads the angle of an opponent's blade.
The account was detailed, precise—exactly as she expected from Rewald—but it was also… restrained. She could feel the careful limits in his wording, the deliberate walls he had built around certain truths.
Her gaze lingered on certain lines:
"Recurring figure… likeness matches Commander Arasha with unsettling precision."
"Anchor… may refer to a stabilizing force in fate or time."
"Unprecedented discharge… divine and rift-aligned magic."
"Identifying himself as Kane… origin unknown."
She sat back in her chair, fingertips tapping a slow rhythm against the armrest.
Rewald was not a man to mince words without reason. If he had chosen parchment over crystal relay for something this urgent, and still written with such caution, it meant two things:
First—someone might be listening.
Second—what he truly wanted to say could not survive on paper.
Her eyes drifted from the letter to the rain-smeared window. In her mind's eye, she saw the Hollow Valley as she had last read of it in ancient texts—scarred land, cursed to bear wounds that refused to heal.
The old prophecies she had spent decades cross-referencing stirred uneasily in her memory: fragments of Seraphine, The Anchor, and the coming of a second sun that would burn the world before mending it.
She folded the letter with deliberate care, sliding it into a locked compartment of her desk.
There was more. Much more. She could feel it in her bones, in the same way a mage feels the crackle of lightning before it splits the sky.
Rising, she crossed to the crystal relay—a tall, faceted obelisk humming faintly with attunement to other relays across the realm. Her fingers traced the carved runes, activating a private channel keyed to Rewald's personal signature.
Her voice, when it carried through, was calm and clipped.
"Rewald. Your report has been received. We will speak in person. At once. I'll have a secure transport prepared to bring you and Commander Arasha to the capital. No others. And, Rewald—" she hesitated, just enough for her words to carry weight—"I trust you understand this audience will not leave the confines of my warded chamber. The King will not be informed until we have the full truth."
She released the connection, letting her hand linger against the cool crystal for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Something had been uncovered in that fractured cavern—something older than kingdoms, older than the wars that built them. And if her instincts were correct, it was not merely an artifact or prophecy.
It was a trigger.
One that had already been pulled.