It no longer howled it whispered. Like it knew her name. Like it had always known.
Alera stood outside the Drowned Archives as dawn crept over the horizon, bleeding pale gold through the fog. Her hands still trembled from the mirror's vision. Raevir's name burned behind her eyes, etched into the backs of her thoughts like a scar.
She didn't speak of what she saw in the chamber. Not yet.
Some truths needed to settle like ash before they could be handled.
Saphine paced just beyond the ruins, muttering curses under her breath. She hadn't slept. Her sword was already strapped to her back, the hilt damp from the mist.
Lysandria stood apart, arms crossed, watching Alera like she expected her to fall apart.
And Seris… Seris knelt before the old stones, eyes closed, hands pressed to the cracked earth as if listening to it breathe.
"There's something underneath," Seris murmured. "Something older than this place. It's waking."
"Waking?" Alera echoed.
Seris opened her eyes slowly. "Or remembering."
Alera turned back to the ruins. The mirror. The throne of ash. The child.
The child.
She pressed a palm to her stomach. Nothing showed, not yet. But she felt it. A quiet hum beneath her ribs, like a second heartbeat.
She hadn't told the others.
Not fully.
But soon, she wouldn't need to.
The fire in her blood would tell them first.
They traveled east by midday, cutting through the salt-swallowed forest that bordered the old coast. Birds circled overhead in strange patterns too silent, too synchronized. Even the air felt watched.
At nightfall, they camped by the skeletal remains of a shattered watchtower. The wind tore through its hollow bones like a warning.
Saphine posted extra guards. Lysandria sharpened three blades in silence. Seris traced protective wards around their bedrolls, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alera sat alone.
Her mind was loud.
Visions came and went in flashes Kael's eyes (no, Raevir's), the name in blood, the child whispering words she didn't understand.
She pulled the blade from her back and laid it across her knees. It pulsed once soft, like a breath.
It had begun speaking to her again. Not in words, but in pressure. In instinct.
It wanted her to move faster.
It wanted her to find him.
They reached the Weeping Pass on the third day.
There, they found the bodies.
Dozens of them blackened and bent, as if burned from the inside out. No weapons, no wounds. Just ash where their eyes should have been.
Lysandria knelt by one, frowning. "No signs of battle. No blood."
"They weren't killed," Seris said. "They were claimed."
Saphine drew her sword. "By what?"
Seris didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Or maybe, she just didn't want to say.
That night, Alera dreamed again.
But this time, it was herself on the throne.
Not Raevir.
She wore the crown of bone. The blade pulsed at her side like a living heart. Fire danced in her veins like joy.
Below her, the court burned.
And every face in the flames was one she had loved.
She woke to screaming.
Saphine's.
Alera bolted upright, blade in hand.
Figures moved just beyond the firelight cloaked in shadow, cloaked in flame. Not men. Not Woken. Something in between.
One stepped into the ring of light.
Its face was blank. Eyes glowing like coal. No mouth.
But Alera heard it speak inside her skull.
"The fire knows your name."
She slashed.
The blade met no resistance only smoke.
Another figure lunged from behind, but Lysandria tackled it mid-air, driving her dagger through its chest.
This one hissed. Bled embers. Then vanished in a burst of cinders.
By dawn, they had fought off a dozen.
Only one body remained.
Still. Intact. Human.
He had no tongue.
Burned away.
But carved into his chest, like scripture:
"She wears the child.
She holds the spark.
Let the Crown awaken."
Alera stared at the words long after the others turned away.
Because she knew deep down that it wasn't a warning.
It was a promise.