The monastery looked nothing like the grand sanctuaries of the upper district.
No gold, no stained glass. Just gray stone, crooked crosses, and the quiet hum of something ancient beneath the floorboards.
The Lower Quarter called it St. Rion's Refuge—but Camden's research called it something else:
> "The final safehouse of the Flamebearers."
I arrived cloaked in servant robes, with only Dahlia at my side. We passed unnoticed through the market, through the gates, past the robed novices who barely looked up.
Inside, I requested audience with the scribe master. I was told he was praying. I insisted.
Finally, an old man with ink-stained fingers met us in a cold antechamber filled with books too worn for the Royal Library.
"I was told a copy of this document," I said, sliding the forged arrest order onto the table, "came from here."
He glanced at it.
Then at me.
"I know who you are," he said calmly. "But I also know you're not here to arrest me."
"No," I said. "I'm here for a name."
His eyes flicked to Dahlia, then back to me. He studied me with the kind of gaze that saw behind masks.
"You're too late for him," he said. "But maybe not… for her."
He rose. "Follow me."
---
He led us down a narrow spiral staircase into a chamber lit by copper lanterns and lined with ash-colored banners. A sigil I didn't recognize—a sword wrapped in flame—hung above the altar.
"In the war after the Pact," the scribe said, "some bloodlines scattered. Others were hidden. Rosen Ashborne left behind no official heirs… but his blood survived."
He pulled a scroll from a locked drawer and handed it to me.
> Elyra Ashborne.
Born in exile. Raised by monks.
Now: Novice Elen of the 7th Ward.
A novice. A child in plain robes. Invisible to the court. And the key to the Vault's unraveling.
"Where is she now?" I asked.
The scribe hesitated. "She ran."
"Where?"
"We don't know. But she left something behind."
He offered me a wooden box, light but sealed in a symbol I recognized from the Vault.
I cracked it open.
Inside lay a single pendant.
Obsidian and silver. Carved in the shape of a flame.
The moment my fingers brushed it, pain bloomed across my arm—glyphs flaring to life beneath my skin. The pendant pulsed. Recognized me.
Blood to blood.
She was real.
And I wasn't alone.
---
Elsewhere, Kael stood in the Queen's private solar, staring at the woman he had called mother for 26 years.
"You knew," he said. "You knew about House Vale. About the Pact. About the bloodline magic."
Queen Amelthea didn't deny it.
"I was bound," she said softly. "Not by magic. By survival. I married into a house built on lies and salt. I stayed alive because I kept my mouth shut."
"You're the Queen."
"I'm a prisoner with a crown," she said. "And if you try to expose the Vault, they will turn on you faster than you can draw your sword."
"They already have."
She stepped forward. "Then listen to me: whatever you and that girl are uncovering, whatever fire you think you can contain—it will consume you both if you're not careful."
Kael's voice was a whisper. "Then let it consume the throne first."
---
Back in my quarters, I turned the pendant in my fingers. I'd wrapped it in silk, layered it with runes, and still it pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat echoing across centuries.
The Vault was waking.
The descendants were stirring.
And somewhere out there… Elyra Ashborne was running.
But not from me.
From what she was becoming.
------------------------------------------------------