The ruined temple of Myrinth lay swallowed by mist and creeping moss, its shattered marble columns now skeletons of forgotten gods.
Here, silence had a pulse and it beat with treachery.
Figures cloaked in midnight robes moved through the debris, lanterns covered, voices hushed. Their presence did not belong in the Western territories. And certainly not this close to the Winterbell border.
Yet here they were. The Scorched Sigil remnants of those who once served Elaris.
Traitors turned zealots.
Beneath the cracked dome, the meeting had begun.
A tall man stood at the center, face hidden beneath a hood. His voice was calm, educated. Noble-bred.
"Five years," he began, "and still the dog barks at the feet of the crown. The Caelum boy has grown soft in Winterbell."
A few scoffed. Others simply waited.
"But we have not forgotten," the man continued. "Nor forgiven."
A cloaked woman leaned forward. Her voice was raspy. "Then why wait? We strike now Winterbell is weak."
"No," said the man sharply. "We need the prince."
Murmurs rose.
The prince?
"The boy with the violet eyes," he said. "Flynn Winterbell. He has something that belongs to us."
"What does a spoiled prince have to do with Elaris?" one grumbled.
The leader pulled back his hood slightly just enough to reveal a brand on his neck, seared in the shape of a flame over a crown.
The Mark of the Ember Hand.
"He is not what he appears," the leader said. "The soul of our once-great general lingers in him. We are certain of it."
The air turned colder.
"You speak of?"
"Yes," he said, eyes burning beneath the hood. "Caelan of Elaris."
A long silence fell.
He continued, voice heavy with conviction. "We have reason to believe the crown prince is his second life."
Gasps. Even the fire dimmed.
"If we can awaken him," he said, "we may restore what was lost. Caelan was betrayed. Stolen from us. If his soul remembers he will turn against Winterbell."
"And if he does not?"
The man smiled.
"Then we kill him. And take what remains."
They bowed.
"For Elaris."
From a distance, in the shadow of a crumbling arch, someone watched.
Eyes narrowed. Breath shallow.
A cloaked traveler, unseen. Listening.
Not Lucian.
Not Khalid.
But someone else.
Someone who knew exactly who Flynn truly was.
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