Morning came reluctantly. A thick mist clung to the trees, turning the forest into a maze of phantoms. Marcus stirred first, his sword already in hand, though no danger had approached. Not yet.
Erin was awake too, perched on a mossy rock, eyes scanning the fog like it might speak to her.
"It's quiet," she said without looking at him.
"Too quiet?" Marcus asked, fastening his cloak.
She gave a nod. "Hollowmoor always is. The village used to sit on sacred ground—until the war buried it in ash and silence."
Marcus mounted the horse and offered her a hand again. She took it without a word.
They rode under a sky as pale as bone, following a winding path framed by gnarled trees. The road narrowed the deeper they went, and soon the forest swallowed sound itself. Even the birds refused to sing.
"You know," Marcus said, breaking the silence, "you've mentioned your mother a lot. But never your father."
"That's because I never knew him."
"Was he Ravellian?"
She shook her head. "Elyrian. A nobleman, probably. My mother said he died before I was born. Cursed bloodlines and all."
Marcus gave her a sidelong glance. "You really think your lineage is cursed?"
"I think everyone's is, in some way."
They passed a crooked signpost pointing toward a crumbling stone wall overtaken by ivy and rot. Beyond it lay what remained of Hollowmoor.
The village was more graveyard than town—burned husks of cottages, rotted fences, broken statues that once guarded the path. The air smelled faintly of smoke and lilac, as if memory lingered longer than flesh.
Erin dismounted first. "We'll find the temple ruins past the well. The archives say it was hidden under the old chapel."
"Convenient," Marcus muttered. "All the best secrets are buried under haunted ruins."
They moved cautiously, boots crunching on dried leaves and cracked tiles. In the heart of the village, the remnants of a chapel loomed—its spire toppled, stained glass shattered across the earth like fallen stars.
"This is it," Erin said.
They stepped inside.
The air changed the moment they crossed the threshold—heavier, colder. The light dimmed, as if the world outside had been put on pause. Vines crept through the broken windows, curling like fingers around pews and pulpit alike.
Erin knelt at the altar, brushing dust aside until her hand touched stone. A glyph glowed faintly beneath her fingertips—old magic, dormant and waiting.
"This seal was placed by Elyrian mages," she whispered. "It only opens with blood."
Marcus stepped forward. "Whose blood?"
She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Yours."
A long silence.
"Of course it is," he said dryly.
Without hesitation, he drew his dagger and sliced a shallow cut across his palm. Erin reached out, guiding his hand to the glyph. The moment his blood touched the stone, the floor trembled.
A low hum filled the chamber as the altar split open with a grinding hiss, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness.
Marcus stared down into the void. "After you."
Erin smirked faintly. "You're surprisingly gallant for someone who expects betrayal."
"I'm full of contradictions."
They descended together, torches flaring to life along the walls as if sensing their presence. The underground chamber was vast—lined with towering shelves of scrolls, artifacts, and stone tablets etched with golden runes.
"This is Elyria's lost library," Erin breathed.
They stepped carefully through the aisles. Erin's fingers brushed ancient bindings. Marcus remained near, eyes alert, hand never far from his sword.
Then she stopped, pulling a scroll from a silver casing.
"This one… it's in the same dialect as the prophecy," she whispered.
As she unrolled it, a single word blazed at the top: "Covenant."
Marcus read over her shoulder. "A pact made in blood. To preserve a dying lineage. To protect a kingdom from itself."
His brow furrowed. "This isn't a curse. It's a deal. A deal that demands sacrifice."
Erin's hands trembled. "It says the firstborn heir must fall… so the throne may rise."
Marcus's face hardened. "My death isn't punishment. It's payment."
Suddenly, a sound echoed from above—footsteps. Heavy. Rushed.
They turned toward the stairwell.
"We're not alone," Erin whispered.
Marcus drew his sword, stepping in front of her. "Stay behind me."
But as the footsteps neared, Erin reached into her satchel and drew out a glass sphere pulsing with blue light.
Marcus looked at her in confusion. "What is that?"
She met his eyes. "Something I hoped I'd never have to use."