What had happened in the council meeting spread like wildfire.
The House of Velnar had been removed from the council. Their lands, once revered, were now stripped bare, and a silent decree fell over every house that remained:
Never treat my daughter as an object.
Whispers crept through corridors. Families reconsidered alliances.
The seventh elder was furious. He had been so close—mere inches from gaining control over the main house through a political marriage. And now, publicly shamed, he burned with quiet vengeance.
Days passed. The annual Ritual of Light approached—a sacred tradition where each house lit a flame to signify unity. This year, the main house was to begin the rite. All others would follow.
Lyra was chosen to lead it.
On the morning of the ritual, Auren handed her a long, carved torch. The fire flickered like an ancestral spirit waiting to be set free.
"Go west," he said, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. "There, you'll find a tower. Climb it. Place the torch. You must do this alone."
Aylea's voice cheered from the distance, "Go, Lyra! You'll be amazing!"
Lyra nodded and set off, the flame in her hand glowing against the morning mist. The path to the western tower wound through rocky ground, its solitude pressing in as she walked. Eventually, the tower came into view—tall, vine-covered, and silent.
She climbed. Step by step.
As she neared the top, her breath slowed.
The silence was too complete. Too perfect.
And as she reached out to place the torch—
Someone is watching.
The thought came unbidden, sharp as a needle. Then—
A figure turned from the shadows above. A familiar face—
Before she could speak, a blow landed at the back of her skull. Pain bloomed, then nothing.
Back at the main house, they waited.
Minutes passed.
Still, no flame.
Then—
"Fire!" a guard screamed. "The western tower!"
Everyone rushed. The tower was ablaze—its flames towering high. On a nearby tree, a piece of parchment fluttered in the heat.
Auren tore it free. He read:
Lyra is with us. Safe and sound—for now. Fulfill our demands, or watch her disappear like the rest.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Without hesitation, Auren turned and stormed toward the Seventh Elder's estate. The man was laughing, drinking with a few remaining allies. They froze when Auren barged in.
Auren grabbed him by the collar.
"Where is my daughter?"
The other elders rose in protest. "He was with us the whole time," one barked. "You have no proof—"
But Auren didn't listen.
The seventh elder smirked, then chuckled. "You think this ends here?" he said. "This is my revenge!"
Before he could speak further, Kael appeared behind him. Silent. Cold. His eyes locked on the elder. He seized him by the throat and lifted him.
The elder coughed but smiled.
"You forgot something," he whispered.
He pulled a small flask from his robes and shattered it at Kael's feet.
The room filled with a sickly black mist. Kael inhaled it before he could stop himself.
The seventh elder grinned. He lifted the small vial's remnants, the scent of blood and shadow clinging to its broken edges.
"This flask," he said coldly, "was sealed with the blood of your first army."
Kael froze.
"Memories you buried. Truths you chose to forget—distilled into a poison. Enough to shatter whatever leash you've placed on yourself."
Kael staggered. A roar escaped his throat, guttural and raw. Shadows danced in his eyes.
His hands trembled. His pupils flared.
Auren stepped forward—then hesitated.
Just once. Just enough for the room to notice.
"What… are you?" he whispered.
Kael stumbled back, gritting his teeth. The room felt wrong, the air cracked like glass.
Inside his mind, a thousand voices screamed. He couldn't tell which ones were his. The spiral twisted tighter.
Memories flashed: children burning… a sword raised… a girl in his arms… Lyra.
He sank to one knee.
The seventh elder raised his hands. "See? Didn't I say before? He's a monster!"
But before he could bask in his victory—
Kael's head snapped up. Rage flared.
Then everything exploded into motion.
And far below the blood-washed floor, the ancient spiral whispered once again:
One life for another. One turn closer to what must come.