The chamber still smelled of iron and smoke.
Garrick had sent everyone away, yet the echo of the council room clung to the walls like breath that would not fade.
He stood before the long table where, hours earlier, his son had nearly died and the stranger had pulled him back from death.
Now the only sound was the faint crackle of the torches.
He could not name what unsettled him more...the miracle or the memory.
For the first time in years, Garrick did not trust what his own eyes had seen.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said.
Lorian Vale stepped inside, cloak still damp from night mist. He was the only man Garrick ever called friend, a companion from his earliest campaigns, once a commander, now keeper of the border watch. He was tall, thin around the shoulders, with eyes that always seemed to measure the unseen.
"I heard what happened," Lorian said. "Is it true? The girl saved Caden with no spell, no charm?"
Garrick exhaled, rubbing a hand across his beard. "True enough to make every Elder lose their tongue. They call it sorcery, miracle...whatever suits their fear."
"And you?"
"I call it impossible." His voice roughened. "Yet it happened in my hall."
Lorian studied him for a moment. "Perhaps it's time you asked for eyes that see beyond what's visible."
Garrick's jaw set. "You brought her?"
A shadow moved behind Lorian. The Seer stepped forward....a woman wrapped in ash-colored cloth, her hair white as bone, her eyes filmed with pale blindness. She bowed once and spoke softly, "You called, my lord."
Garrick frowned. "They say you see the future. I want to know what has entered my house."
The Seer's head tilted, listening to something no one else could hear. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost a hum.
"A sickness lies in every house, my lord. Some hide it in silence, some feed it in pride. Yours was born of both."
Lorian's hand tightened on his belt. "Sickness?"
Her cracked lips curved faintly. "Long ago, your line struck a bargain with the dark to keep the light. The debt was buried—but debts do not stay buried forever." She turned her blind gaze toward Garrick. "Now the lock has found its key. The blood you swore to guard will remember its promise. And when it does, your house will either be cleansed… or consumed."
Garrick's voice was iron. "And this key...the girl?"
The Seer's smile deepened, thin as a scar. "Keys do not ask what they open, my lord. They only turn."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then she bowed again, murmured something in a tongue older than the council's laws, and slipped out as quietly as she'd come.
The door closed, leaving only the echo of her words.
Garrick stood motionless, staring at the flame.
Lorian broke the silence first. "Do you believe her?"
"I believe this house holds too many ghosts," Garrick muttered.
He reached for a goblet but set it down again untouched. "Go. See that the girl remains watched. If there is a curse in my blood, I will know it before it knows me."
Lorian nodded and left him to the dark.
The fire burned low.
Garrick was still by the table when Helena entered. She didn't knock. She never did.
"You look like a man who's seen a ghost," she said.
"Perhaps I have," he answered without turning.
Her footsteps were soft on the stone. "The council speaks of miracles. But you, my husband….you speak of omens. Which is it?"
He turned then, eyes heavy. "You tell me. You're the one who dreams."
She moved closer, the lamplight brushing gold against her face. "I saw the halls of this house empty. The walls bled black. Your sons called to you, but their voices came from behind the stone, not before it."
Garrick's brow furrowed. "Another warning?"
"No," she whispered. "A memory of what's waiting. The rot isn't outside these walls, Garrick. It's beneath them...and it wears our name."
He said nothing.
Helena's gaze softened, but her words stayed sharp. "You built this house on power. But something in it remembers the cost."
Her hand brushed his arm. "You want to protect your sons from her, but tell me....who will protect them from what they already carry?"
The fire cracked. The light caught in Garrick's eyes, flickering like doubt. "You think this girl will unmake us."
"I believe she's the mirror," Helena said softly. "And mirrors don't lie. She will show you what was already broken," she said. "And that, my love, may be worse."
She turned to leave, her last words trailing like smoke. "If the curse wakes, don't look to the sky for blame. Look at your blood."
The door shut behind her.
Below, in the servants' hall, the night had its own heartbeat.
They whispered as they scrubbed floors, carried trays, polished armor.
About the girl in chains.
About how she had breathed life back into the lord's son with nothing but her hands.
Some said she was a saint.
Others swore she was a witch sent to lure the Hunters to ruin.
And in every whisper, the story grew.
"The Lord's eldest spoke her name when he woke."
"They say the torches went out when she healed him."
"Daniel's been seen outside her cell—twice."
"They'll burn her before the moon wanes."
Every whisper carried upward, winding through corridors like smoke, until it reached ears that shouldn't have heard.
Daniel leaned against the cold wall outside the east wing, listening.
He shouldn't have been there. He knew that. But ever since the council, sleep had refused him. The image of Anna kneeling in blood—his brother's, her own—wouldn't leave him.
Her trembling hands. Her steady voice.
"Hold him steady."
Those words echoed louder than the priests' prayers.
He turned sharply when a voice broke the silence behind him.
"You should stop haunting these halls, boy," Lorian said, stepping from the shadows. "Walls have mouths here."
Daniel straightened. "I'm not haunting anything."
"Then what are you doing outside her cell?"
Daniel hesitated, then looked away. "I don't know."
Lorian studied him, then sighed. "Your father is not the only one confused by that girl. She's changed something in this house. Every guard feels it. Every servant dreams of her. You'd do well to remember that not all miracles are gifts."
Daniel's voice was low, almost a whisper. "And not all curses deserve chains."
Lorian's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite pity. "Careful, boy. The heart has no armor that prophecy cannot pierce."He left Daniel alone with his thoughts and the slow burn of the torches.The light guttered once, as if the air itself held its breath.
Then the flame steadied….though Daniel could have sworn, just before it did, that he heard his name whispered from the dark below.
Above them, Garrick still stood before the dying fire.
The room had grown colder, shadows stretching like veins across the floor.
He stared into the embers and saw not flame but faces—Cade's pale beneath the torchlight, Daniel's distant, Helena's haunted.
The Seer's words looped through his mind like a prayer turned curse.
The lock has found its key.
Outside, the wind moved through the courtyard like a sigh.
And somewhere deep in the stone, beneath the weight of their walls, something shifted… something that had been sleeping far too long.
Down in the servants' hall, the night had its own heartbeat.
They whispered as they scrubbed floors, carried trays, and polished armor.
About the girl in chains.
About how she had breathed life back into the lord's son with nothing but her hands.
Some said she was a saint.
Others swore she was a witch sent to lure the Hunters to ruin.
And in every telling, the story grew.
"The Lord's eldest spoke her name when he woke."
"They say the torches went out when she healed him."
"Daniel's been seen outside her cell—twice."
"They'll burn her before the moon wanes."
Every whisper carried upward, winding through corridors like smoke, until it reached ears that shouldn't have heard.
Daniel leaned against the cold wall outside the east wing, listening.
He shouldn't have been there. He knew that. But ever since the council, sleep had refused him. The image of Anna kneeling in blood—his brother's, her own—wouldn't leave him.
Her trembling hands. Her steady voice.
*"Hold him steady."*
Those words echoed louder than the priests' prayers.
He turned sharply when a voice broke the silence behind him.
"You should stop haunting these halls, boy," Lorian said, stepping from the shadows. "Walls have mouths here."
Daniel straightened. "I'm not haunting anything."
"Then what are you doing outside her room?"
Daniel hesitated, then looked away. "I don't know."
Lorian studied him for a long moment …..not as a commander judging a soldier, but as a man watching his own reflection in a younger face. The torchlight caught on the faint scars across his cheek, the ones Daniel remembered tracing as a child, asking how he'd earned them.
He had always been kind to him, even when Garrick wasn't. It was Lorian who had taught him to ride, to hold a blade, to listen for the quiet between heartbeats before striking. "Never rush your enemy," he used to say. "Half the battle is in silence."
Now, that same silence stood between them again.
Lorian sighed. "Your father is not the only one confused by that girl. She's changed something in this house. Every guard feels it. Every servant dreams of her. You'd do well to remember ….. not all miracles are gifts."
Daniel's voice dropped, barely a whisper. "And not all curses deserve chains."
Lorian's mouth twitched….. not quite a smile, not quite pity. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Careful, boy. The heart has no armor that prophecy cannot pierce."
Then he reached out, resting a gloved hand briefly on Daniel's shoulder…. a small, almost fatherly gesture ….before turning away. His shadow stretched long across the hall as he disappeared into the dark.
Daniel stood alone, watching him go, the slow burn of the torches casting the stone walls in gold and shadow.
The light guttered once, as if the air itself held its breath.
Then the flame steadied… though Daniel could have sworn, just before it did, that he heard his name whispered from the dark below.