Laughter still clung to the old chapel walls, echoing like a memory that did not quite want to let go. But everything changed the second Father Delran stepped forward. The man looked more serious than a thunderstorm, and in his hands, he held something wrapped in deep indigo cloth. Whatever it was, it felt ancient, humming with this weird, magnetic pull that made the hairs on one's arms stand up.
"I believe it's time," he said, his voice gentle but carrying a weight that made everyone pay attention. He looked right at Niah, but then he called her something else, "You've crossed a threshold, Esme. And it's time you see the door behind you."
Niah's smile faded fast. That name again—Esme, felt like a half-remembered song, sweet but tangled up in uncertainty. She nodded at the bundle in his hands, her curiosity winning out. "What is that?"
Dr Thorne moved up beside Father Delran. Usually, she was all business, but now there was something softer in her eyes, almost like a mom about to share a family secret. "A relic," she said, pausing for effect. "Or… more like a key. To your memory, to your magic, and to the truth."
They led Niah to the center of the chapel. The others closed in around her, forming a quiet circle, Zaire leaning against a pillar, silent as ever; Sylen watching with open curiosity; and Dusken, sprawled at her feet like a lazy wolf dog, just soaking it all in.
Father Delran knelt down and started unwrapping the cloth. Inside was a small silver mirror, tarnished but still catching the candlelight in a way that made it look like it remembered every sunrise it had ever seen. On the back, there was a symbol etched deep, unmistakable: the mark of the House of Elarien.
Niah's heart pounded as she knelt in front of it, her pulse echoing in her ears.
"Close your eyes," Dr Thorne whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Put your hand on the mirror. Let it remind you."
Niah did as she was told.
At first, there was nothing but darkness, shifting, swirling, impossible to hold onto. Then, out of nowhere, a light flared up, slow and steady, like a star waking up after a long sleep. The darkness started to take shape: a marble hall, a voice singing her name. It was Esme.
She saw flashes of a girl in silver, spinning barefoot on grass still wet with morning dew; a woman with fire in her veins, weaving wards into the air; a war raging in the distance; a sacrifice made in silence; a promise whispered into someone's arms—Rain.
The images hit her all at once. She gasped, the breath leaving her in a rush. Her eyes snapped open, and for a second, the world felt too bright, too sharp, too old. Her fingers shook where they touched the mirror. She blinked, and suddenly Zaire was kneeling in front of her, his face tight with something she couldn't quite read.
"Did you see anything?" he said quietly.
"I saw…" Her voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else. "Her. Me. I—" She broke off, not sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or just scream until the feeling passed.
Father Delran rested a steady hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "This is only the beginning. You've opened the first door."
Sylen crossed his arms, looking more serious than usual. "Well, that escalated," he muttered. Zaire didn't say a word, but when Niah looked at him, she saw the same ache burning in his eyes that she felt deep in her own chest.
The past had found her. And now, it had a name.
Before she could say anything, the mirror pulsed beneath Niah's fingertips once again, no longer icy and distant, but warm and alive, as if it had been holding its breath for centuries just to remember her. The light came back, but this time it was soft and almost tender. There was just a golden haze that wrapped around her, pulling her straight into the heart of memory.
She froze, barely breathing. Suddenly, the chapel was gone.
Now she stood high above the world, on a stone balcony jutting out from a temple carved into the cliffs. The stone was pale as moonlight, tangled with ivy and moss that bloomed with tiny flowers. Down below, an ancient forest stretched forever, rivers winding through it like veins of light. Birds called out in languages she didn't know, and the wind whispered secrets through trees older than anyone could remember.
She was Esme again.
She wore robes the color of stormy skies, her hair woven with silver threads. She moved with the easy grace of someone who belonged not above the world, but a part of its rhythm. She didn't talk to the birds, but they followed her anyway. She didn't order the trees, but they leaned toward her as she passed. Her presence wasn't about power, it was about harmony.
Every morning, she'd cross the skybridge over the sanctuary grounds, heading to the central hall of learning. Her footsteps echoed softly. The wardens and archivists she passed would dip their heads, not out of fear, but out of respect. She wasn't a queen. She was something else entirely: A Keeper. Keeper of Knowledge. Keeper of Stories. Keeper of all the truths everyone else had forgotten.
Inside those vaulted halls, Esme taught others how to twist old languages into spells, how to braid magic into touch and sound. She was a scholar and a guardian, always recording, always remembering, always restoring. Sometimes she'd sit cross-legged on the mosaic floors with the children, laughing as she traced glowing runes in the air, letting them sparkle like stardust.
But life wasn't always peaceful.
Esme walked the borders, the edge of the Unseen Realm, where magic and the mortal world blurred and tangled. There, she'd kneel in the dirt, drawing lines with her fingers, her voice low and ancient as she chanted, binding restless things back into silence. And when something slipped through? She didn't freak out. She just listened.
And always, she'd return to the Sanctum of Memory, a round chamber with glass walls that caught the starlight. She'd rest her hand on the Great Book of Echoes, leaving behind little pieces of her days, like breadcrumbs for the future.
Esme lived a thousand lives inside her one. She was loved by many, but never tied down. Fiercely independent, sharp-witted, but gentle with anything broken. She could unravel a curse while humming a tune. And yet, at night, alone in her room, she'd write letters she never sent. The messages that trailed off into ellipses, signed only with the wind.
She carried power without showing off, and history without ever bragging. Until one day—
The vision stuttered.
A sound like shattering glass ripped through the golden light. Esme's image was so strong, bright, and alive. She flickered and broke apart, scattering into starlight.
Niah gasped as the vision let her go. Her head spun, her skin clammy with the weight of memory. The chapel snapped back into focus.
The mirror was still beneath her hand.
Dr Thorne crouched beside her, voice gentle as a breeze. "What did you see Esme?"
Niah swallowed, her words shaky but clear. "I saw a girl who wasn't just part of the world. She was the world." She looked up, heart pounding. "I was her."
* * *