"Is there a problem?" Fhenadove asked, her head tilted slightly to the side.
Zuren exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "The Grand Duke Solléonis… How exactly am I supposed to explain this to him?"
"Oh! You don't have to," Fhena said with a small wave of her hand. "My rebirth will be kept secret from him and everyone in House Solléonis. Only you and Sager know who I truly am."
Zuren blinked, caught off guard. "I see…" he murmured. But then, as if remembering something, his expression shifted. He flinched slightly, then leaned forward, offering a gentler smile. "I… I heard about what happened to the young miss. The whole capital was talking about it. I wanted to ask—are you alright?"
Fhena returned a calm, sincere smile. "Yes. I've recovered."
Zuren's shoulders eased, and his gaze softened. "That's a relief to hear." he paused. "I've heard a lot about Nyala Nkosi—her rough childhood. And now… seeing you…"
Before he could continue, Fhena leaned over the table and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "It's all in the past now," she said gently. "We must live for what is now, and prepare for tomorrow."
Zuren nodded slowly, his smile returning. "Of course."
A spark returned to Fhena's eyes. "Now then—has Aefhen said anything about a mission?"
Zuren furrowed his brow, leaning back thoughtfully. "No… not exactly. He only told me you would come to the magic chamber, and that I was to take you in and guide you. But… now that I know who you truly are, I wonder if simply 'taking you in' might be a bit beneath the gravity of it all," he chuckled at himself.
Fhena giggled, "Well… if I told my father—the one I have now—that I have magic, wouldn't he allow me to train with you?"
"I… suppose he would?" Zuren replied, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed.
"Was the former Grand Duchess without magic?" she asked, curious. "She's a Talmerein, isn't she?"
"Oh, Grand Duchess Lyssa?" Zuren nodded. "She had magic sensitivity. That means she could sense magic—where it came from, how strong it was, even sometimes the intent. But she couldn't wield magic herself. You could say it skipped her."
He leaned forward, fingers loosely steepled. "But ever since the shift from Solléonis to Velmorian rule, the number of Talmerein magic-wielders had greatly decreased. Of the original fourteen great magic families of Talmerein, only four remained with legacies that survive to this day." He smiled faintly. "Well—three now. I was the last of the Nkosi line… though my mother remarried before I was born, so I carry the name Nesher from my stepfather."
"Which three?"
"The Warbec Family, the Abrahans Family… and your mother's—Brandkarsen."
"Strange…" she murmured, eyes lowering. "Not hearing the Nkosi family among the them feels… wrong." A soft pang stirred in her chest.
"I know," Zuren replied with a thoughtful sigh. He excitedly rose from his seat and walked to one of the towering, wall-lined shelves. With a practiced hand, he pressed gently on one of the books. A low click echoed, and the entire shelf slid aside to reveal a hidden collection—one far more refined and lovingly preserved.
Behind it stood another full wall of books—sleek, lustrous, and uniform. Though they varied slightly in thickness, each volume was tall and sturdy, their velvet leather bindings all dyed the same deep shade of magenta. Five rows by nine columns, and not a single gap between them.
Zuren smiled, a glimmer of pride lighting his expression. "This," he said, turning to her, "is the history of the Nkosi line. Our ancestor, Azuli, devoted his life to preserving its legacy. He became a historian, a journalist, a philosopher, and above all, an altruist. He began the record with Zabyr Nkosi, and from there… he never stopped writing."
Fhena stepped forward, her breath catching. Her fingers brushed over the velvety spines, reverent and wide-eyed.
"Amazing…" she whispered. "Azuli… I always knew he was brilliant beyond his years." A soft giggle escaped her lips, light as a breeze.
Zuren turned toward her with a knowing look. "You have one too, you know."
"Me?" she blinked, just as he reached up and gently pulled a volume from the center of the shelf. Compared to the others, it was noticeably thinner.
Fhena took one glance and immediately understood. Her own history… it wasn't long. She had only been nine when Mazu officially adopted her. And she died at twenty-three.
I was so young, she thought quietly to herself.
Zuren returned to the table and placed the book between them, opening it with careful fingers. The first page turned in silence, heavy with memory.
Fhena knelt on the cushioned rug across the table, her eyes locked onto the page. Her lips parted as she read aloud, voice barely above a whisper, "Nyala Nkosi… The Golden Ray of Solistia, Defender of the Realm, Hero of Illmouria and the Great River Thoros, the Delight of Sigvnia, Protector of the Lyrea Stone, and the Guardian of Talmerein."
Her breath caught. "These… these titles were stripped from me," she said, eyes widening, disbelief creeping into her voice. But how is it in a volume as this? She thought.
"Yes," Zuren replied quietly, his voice calm, steady. "Sixty years after your death… Azuli reopened your case. He presented your name to the empire once again, not as a murderer—but as a victim."
"What…?" Her voice cracked. "What do you mean?"
Zuren met her gaze, offering a small, sorrowful smile. "He never stopped believing in you. Sixty years after your execution, Azuli gathered testimonies—people who had mourned you, who had spoken of your kindness, your courage, your loyalty. Townsfolk. Healers. Even soldiers. And for thirteen more years… he sought justice for you."
Fhena sat still, her eyes hollowing with shock. She turned slowly toward Sager. He looked just as stunned, eyes wide and uncertain.
Sager must not have known, she thought faintly. Perhaps… by then, he was already wandering the world, searching for answers of his own.
"And?" she asked quietly, her voice fragile as she traced the edge of the page with her fingertips.
Zuren exhaled slowly. "Azuli exhausted everything—his wealth, his servants, resources, even the service of his sons and daughters—to uncover the truth behind your execution. He led a quiet movement for justice, one that stretched across generations. Even on his deathbed, he clung to that final vow: to prove that you had not murdered the only family that ever truly loved you." He looked her gently in the eye. "And he did."
Fhena's hands stilled. She lifted her gaze slowly, trembling.
"Was I… innocent?" she asked at last.
It was a foolish question, and she knew it. Nyala Nkosi had lived with unwavering conviction. She had fought to protect, to preserve, to never betray. But in those final days, locked in the dungeon, memories had twisted. Doubt had poisoned even her strongest beliefs. She remembered sobbing in the dark, wondering—Had I failed them? Had I hurt someone? Had I been a poison rather than a remedy to the people all this time?
The world had condemned her, and even as she held to the truth, a voice inside her had whispered: Maybe you deserved it.
And now, hearing it confirmed—truly, finally—by someone who knew, who had evidence, who carried her legacy in his blood...
She didn't realize she was crying until the page beneath her hands blurred.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, one after the other, silent and relentless.
Zuren stiffened, panicking. "Ah—w-wait—uh…" He reached out, then froze, remembering her noble status. "Should I—? I—are you alright? I-I mean—uh—"
He scrambled, glitching through uncertainty like a broken marionette, arms awkwardly flailing in polite panic. Sager blinked slowly at him from the side.
Fhena sniffled between sobs, then suddenly let out a soft, watery laugh.
"I-it's alright," she said, wiping her face with the hem of her sleeve. "You don't have to do anything. I'm just… relieved. So relieved."
Zuren finally breathed out, clearly flustered but smiling with affection.
"Alright," he chuckled nervously. "Well… good. That's… very good."
Fhena quietly wiped her eyes, the tears still falling though her sobs had softened. Across from her, Zuren watched in silence, then let out a slow, steady breath.
"You were cleared of all charges," he said gently. "The realm, the people—even the Church recognized your innocence. But…" he hesitated, "the imperial court and the royal family refused to acknowledge it. They denied the verdict."
Fhena's brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief, but Zuren continued.
"Five years after Azuli's death, his daughter, Mereina, stepped forward. When she came of age and entered society, she made it her mission to finish what her father had begun. She published his work—your story—with the endorsements of respected nobles, dukedoms, clergy, and scholars alike. The Church itself provided its blessing. And eventually… the book was reviewed, accepted, and demanded by the people."
Fhena covered her mouth with both hands. A whimper escaped her chest—then a soft, sudden gasp. And then, as if something within her cracked open, she laughed. Not bitterly. Not even in disbelief.
But in pure, tender joy.
"Heh… really?" she chuckled through sniffles. "The people… they still believed in me?"
She looked down, hands trembling lightly in her lap. All this time… I thought I had failed them. That the civil war had broken more than just the land—it had broken trust. Shattered faith.
But they remembered.
"They did," Zuren said, his voice low, reverent. "They still do. Across the realm, your name is whispered with reverence. Tales of the sorceress with eyes like fiery gold, who called down lightning and lifted cities with her bare hands. Who fought for the voiceless and never turned away from those in need. You are more than a legend, Nyala—you are a living legacy."
A rush of warmth bloomed in her chest, comforting and vast, like stepping into sunlight after years underground.
Zuren leaned forward, hesitating only a moment before gently brushing a hand over her hair. "To most of us," he said softly, "you are still an unforgettable hero… one favoured by Lehoi."
Fhena blinked slowly, the tears in her eyes glistening like starlight. Her lips curled into a small, grateful smile.
Beside her, Sager had dozed off, curled up with his tail wrapped neatly around his paws, breathing in soft puffs.
Fhena placed her hand on the velvet-bound book before her, her fingertips lingering on the name etched in gold leaf.
Nyala Nkosi.
The name was no longer tainted.
After what felt like both a triumph and a whirlwind, Fhena departed the Magic Chamber astride Sager. She had borrowed the thick velvet-bound tome on Nyala Nkosi and another book Zuren believed might aid them in the days to come. Though she hadn't disclosed the full breadth of her mission to him, she had promised to stay in touch. That alone seemed enough for now.
Time ticking against them, Sager sprinted through the forest paths with all his might, and by a miracle of footwork and wind currents, they returned just before the hour was up. Fhena slipped silently back into the carriage, tucking the heavy books into her satchel with a sigh of relief. While Sager had made sure to be seen—intentionally captured in Rheomund's line of sight, as planned.
But just as she adjusted her seat—
The carriage door slammed open.
Rheomund stood there, panting, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples, and rage practically steaming from his pores. One arm raised as he held Sager by the nape of his neck like a sack of potatoes, his eyes were narrowed into a glare so fierce it could curdle milk and terrify lesser men into confessing crimes they hadn't committed.
"Get. In." he said icily.
Sager was dropped onto the floor of the carriage like a guilty prisoner. He crouched low, ears pinned, his tail drooped, visibly trembling from whatever chase—or confrontation—he had just suffered. Fhena could only guess, but Sager's face said it all: he had stared into the eyes of a beast named Rheomund and barely made it out alive.
"Oh no," she gasped, leaping forward and embracing Sager protectively.
But Rheomund, still seething, reached out and gently pulled her back. "He's filthy," he muttered coolly. "You'll ruin your dress. Set him down."
Fhena gave Sager one last apologetic squeeze before placing him gently on the floor, where he curled by her feet in defeat. Outside, Maelith and the disguised Warden Knights mounted their steeds as the small procession turned back toward Soleis Castle.
Inside the carriage, the tension was thick.
"Brother, are you angry?" Fhena asked softly, peering up at him.
Rheomund let out a long, exhausted breath. His arms were folded across his chest, his brow slightly furrowed. "No," he replied calmly. "It wasn't your fault the leash slipped from your tiny hands." But his next glance toward Sager was venomous—enough to make the poor cub shuffle further behind Fhena's legs for cover. That look alone could've made a full-grown basilisk shed its skin, put on a sweater, and rethink its life choices.
Fhena gave a sheepish smile. "I promise to hold on tighter next time."
Sager looked up at her with wide eyes full of silent betrayal.
In her heart, Fhena whispered, Sorry, Sager… for subjecting you to Rheomund's wrath.
That same night, under the soft blanket of moonlight, Fhena slipped out from her bed and padded barefoot onto the balcony. The cool stone kissed her feet as she approached the table set near the balustrade. Beyond the railings, Hammendir slumbered in golden hush—its winding roads faintly aglow from the flickering lamps, rooftops crowned with shadow, and the distant silhouettes of mountains folding gently into the horizon.
She breathed in the night air, crisp and pine-scented, and smiled to herself. No matter how many times she saw Hammendir from this view, it never lost its charm. There was a quiet magic to the city under starlight—a rare kind of peace that lulled the soul.
With care, she placed the magenta-bound volume on the table and began flipping through its pages by moonlight and a small lantern's glow.
Her breath caught.
She was in awe.
She hadn't realized just how much effort Azuli had poured into this record. The ink was more than documentation—it was devotion. A legacy woven through generations.
Of course, Mazu and the others had their own volumes, which she reminded herself to borrow from Zuren on her next visit. But this one… this was hers. A tapestry of her life, told not only by the eyes of historians, but by the memories of those who had known her—friends, allies, nobles, wandering mages across empires. People whose lives she had touched in ways she never expected.
She chuckled when she saw two names—Vaelkain and Venyssa—hidden behind obvious pseudonyms. Only she would know them. Her heart warmed at the thought.
Midway through the book, something caught her eye. A passage, almost lost among the longer tales, bearing a title in faded ink: The Last Inheritance. Her fingers hovered, then turned the page.
There, described in detail, was the only heirloom her mother had ever left her. Her breath hitched.
"Oh… of course," she whispered, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth as the memory returned like a friend she hadn't seen in centuries. "Darkstar Cave… how could I have forgotten?"
A slow grin spread across her face. The shadows of her past were beginning to clear—revealing not only what she had lost, but what she had yet to reclaim.