Aeryn had achieved a fragile control over her powers, but the cost was her sanity. Now, as the whispers of the dying realm intensified, a new, more seductive presence began to call her deep into the ruins of her past.
It began with accidental defenses. Then came the blood accidents. Then came the dreams. Then came sounds. And now, there were hums. Beautiful, feminine sounds.
Then one day, she heard words in the hums.
"Come find me."
The voice floated into Aeryn's nights like smoke. Sweet, soft, and distinctly feminine. It called not from the world around her, but from somewhere deep, beneath stone, beneath memory, beneath blood.
She tried to follow it. Night after night, her feet silent on the marble floors, her breath held. She moved like a ghost through the palace, barefoot and dazed, slipping from her sheets in the velvet hours just before dawn. The hum was haunting her. It shifted locations, sometimes in the eastern wing, sometimes the cellar halls, once echoing through the golden pillars outside the high court, like a song trapped in bone.
Aeryn started to fear she was truly descending into madness. Yet, the more she tried to ignore it, the clearer the voice became. It wasn't just sound; it was a pulse. A vibration, like something massive breathing just beneath the marble floors.
She grew used to roaming the palace in disheveled splendor, her silk gown trailing like smoke, hair undone, eyes unfocused. The courts whispered that the Queen was slipping, but she didn't mind. If they had heard the hums, the names, the murmurs in the walls that begged to be found, they might have gone mad too.
......…
The hum grew stronger, more constant.
And then, one night, the heartbeat returned. It pulsed through the walls, a familiar, secondary drum beneath her ribs.
She followed it, not with urgency, but with the aimless resignation of someone being led. It guided her through the oldest halls of the keep, places long abandoned, layered in dust and memory. Finally, it led her to a door she hadn't touched in twelve years: her parents' chamber.
She hadn't stepped inside since the night they died; since the black fire devoured their eyes and silenced their breath.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Nothing remained. No furniture. No silks. No memory. The Council had long ago ordered it all burnt, claiming every item might be cursed, tainted by whatever dark power had murdered the royal couple.
Aeryn stepped inside, every breath catching. Only the walls remained, bare stone, smooth and veined with strange sigils. They hummed as she stepped closer, vibrating with the same low, otherworldly frequency that had haunted her nights.
Her gaze hazy, her hand trembling, she reached out, drawn by a heat in stone that should have been cold. She touched it. The surface trembled beneath her palm.
Aeryn gasped, staggering back as a seam, a thin, silent seam, opened down the middle of the wall, revealing a passage hidden deep within. Her heart thudded once, hard. Her tired eyes looked inside, laced with fear.
......….
The passage led to a circular chamber, small and cloaked in a strange, silver light that had no source. Green, leafy veils lined the walls, spiraling like vines through time. The air shimmered as she stepped inside.
At the center stood a bone-white pedestal. Upon it sat a thick book, bound in cracked red leather, sealed with a clasp shaped like a human ribcage. Her hand hovered for a second, then reached out.
The ribcage clasp creaked open on its own.
She opened the book. The pages were filled with names, thousands of them, and scattered among them were drawings, portraits of forgotten souls, figures sketched in maddening detail, their eyes seeming to watch her from the parchment.
She flipped the pages slowly until she saw her.
An old woman with deep lines carved into her face. Dark eyes, smiling awkwardly. There was a profound heaviness in the sketch, like the woman carried oceans behind her stare.
Underneath the portrait was a single name: Hawasa. Etched into the page so hard the parchment had nearly torn.
Aeryn passed her hand over the name, her fingers trembling. She whispered it out loud: "H A W A S A."
She sat frozen on the bone-white pedestal, knees drawn close, eyes locked on the ink. The chamber around her was silent except for the frantic beating of her own heart, as if it, too, was remembering.
As she read, the book did not offer gentle fiction. It offered memories carved into skin and marrow, not ink.
.
.
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