That night, the sanctuary did not sleep.
Velastra stood alone beneath the high arch of the inner dome, hands pressed to the cold stone altar. The air felt dense, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Behind her, Cael and Orion rested fitfully near the hearth, though neither truly slept. The silence between them wasn't born of discomfort, but of waiting and listening.
The roots beneath Navoris had begun to hum.
Faint, but rhythmic—like something ancient remembering how to breathe.
Velastra had a theory.
She exhaled and whispered a spell into her palm. The fire in the hearth flared a moment, then dimmed into a tight, blue flicker. But not a minute later, the fire died.
Her theory was correct, Navoris' restriction of power slowly warded off.
---
She closed her eyes and dreamt, though not by will.
She stood in the dead forest from Cael's vision. Silver vines curled through black trees. The tower loomed ahead, familiar and wrong. Her bare feet crunched over ash. Wind whispered in a tongue she almost understood.
At the base of the tower, someone waited.
A woman, cloaked in midnight silk, her face hidden beneath a bone mask shaped like a crescent moon. In her hand: a pouch. Heavy. Dripping faint blue light from its seams.
Velastra stepped forward. "Who are you?"
The woman tilted her head. But she didn't answer.
The wind rose. The trees shivered.
Velastra narrowed her eyes. "You're the witch from his dream."
The woman didn't answer. She extended the pouch, letting it sway between them.
"You burned too much to forget. You dimmed too much to remember," the witch whispered.
"You wonder what the pearls are?"
The woman grinned and walked closer to her. "Your sins. Or your safeguards. Depending on how you buried them."
Velastra's mouth went dry. "Your smell..."
The masked woman stepped closer, and though her eyes were hidden, her voice softened.
"Familiar?"
Then she pressed the pouch into Velastra's chest—and it burned.
Velastra jolted awake with sweat.
---
The ward flared briefly as her scream broke the silence. Cael was already at her side, hands outstretched, blindly reaching for her. Orion stirred behind him, reaching for his dagger out of habit.
"I'm fine," Velastra gasped, clutching her ribs. But her skin steamed slightly where the dream had touched her.
"You're not," Cael said quietly, kneeling beside her. "Your hands are cold."
She looked down at her hands.
There, beneath the skin of her palms—faint blue light.
Orion's eyes widened. "That's not your fire."
Velastra stood slowly, pulling her robe tighter. "She gave me something. In the dream. A pouch of pearls."
Orion's voice dropped. "Did you accept it?"
"She forced it into me."
The wind outside howled, shaking dust from the carved ceiling.
Cael stood beside her, his expression unreadable, but his presence steady. "Do you know her?"
Velastra swallowed. "I think yes, but I cannot identify her."
---
They spent the morning in silence.
Orion traced protective runes around the sanctuary walls. Velastra brewed bitterroot tea, and she could not keep herself from staring at her hands. Cael, ever patient, simply sat with his fingers on the floor, feeling the subtle thrum of the ground below them.
Something was down there- a strong energy, but he couldn't tell if it was good or dark.
---
Just before dusk, the stone altar cracked.
A clean, straight line split down its center.
Velastra dropped the tea. The sound of porcelain shattering barely registered.
Cael stood, facing the altar, though he couldn't see it.
Orion reached for his staff.
From the crack, blue light began to pulse.
Not fire.
Not magic.
Something older.
And from deep beneath Navoris, a voice spoke—not with sound, but with pressure, vibrating through the stone, the air, the marrow in their bones.
"Return what was taken."
The light vanished.
And darkness started to cover them, erasing the place.