The last of the creatures dissolved into ash.
Silence fell, thick and unnatural, broken only by the hum of Elira's magic fading from the air. The ruined chapel stank of scorched flesh and old blood. Elira stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, the echo of that voice still burning in her mind:
"You carry the blood that cannot die. And when the truth finds you--- so will the flame. "
She slowly sheathed her dagger, her fingers trembling. Not from fear—but from knowing.
They knew her. Not just her name, but something deeper. Something buried even from herself.
Caelum stood nearby, inspecting the blackened remains of one of the creatures. "The Ashen Brotherhood hasn't spoken in riddles for centuries. Something has them stirring."
"They were speaking prophecy," she said softly.
He looked at her. "Yes. And you understood it."
She didn't answer. Because she had. Not with her mind, but with her bones.
*
They searched the chapel in silence after that. Elira moved with measured purpose, Caelum with haunting familiarity. He moved like someone who had walked these grounds before.
"Tell me what this place is," she said at last.
He paused near a collapsed altar. "It was a sanctuary. Not for prayer—for protection. Your kind once used it to anchor spells too old to name. This one was tied to bloodlines."
She stepped closer. "My family?"
"Possibly." Caelum touched the stones with strange care. "The Morvants were not just witches. They were Keepers. Guardians of blood-seals—magic that bound immortals and prophecies alike."
Elira's throat tightened. "You knew them."
He didn't look at her. "I knew of them. You were a child when they were destroyed."
Her voice was quiet. "By your kind."
"Yes," he admitted. "But not by me."
She stared at him. He sounded tired. Older than his face.
*
Beneath the rubble, she found it—a carved floor tile, half-buried in snow and soot. She cleared it slowly, breath catching in her throat.
The stone bore her family crest. And beneath it, carved in ancient runes, was a single name.
Elira.
It wasn't an altar. It was a seal. A protection. For her.
Caelum approached, gaze unreadable. "Your mother prepared this place. Before the end."
Elira knelt beside the seal. "Why me?"
"Because you were the only one she could save."
Her hand brushed the cold stone.
Memories crashed into her—half-formed visions of firelight, her mother's voice chanting, the smell of burnt sage and blood. She remembered her mother weeping—not with fear, but with purpose.
The curse. The ritual. The night of the massacre.
She was never cursed by an enemy.
Her mother had chosen it.
To protect her.
Elira pulled back, shaken. "She bound me to the prophecy."
Caelum was silent a long moment before answering, "Yes. And she erased the memory from you… to spare you the weight of it."
Elira stood slowly, numb. "Why did you never tell me?"
His voice was low. "Because you weren't ready to carry it."
Her eyes met his, suddenly sharp. "And who gave you the right to decide that?"
Caelum didn't flinch. "No one."
Silence. Thick. Cracked.
Then, from behind them, a slow, deliberate clap echoed through the ruined chapel.
A third figure emerged from the shadows—tall, cloaked in silver-grey, with eyes like burning ice.
"Well," the man said, smiling coldly. "Isn't this charming."
Elira stepped in front of the seal instinctively. "Who are you?"
The stranger bowed mockingly. "Let's just say… I'm the one who remembers the prophecy correctly."
Caelum's face turned hard. "You shouldn't be here."
"Oh, but I am," the man purred. "And the bloodless witch? She's right on time."
Elira's magic surged again, crackling at her fingertips.
The stranger laughed. "Careful, girl. You're playing with fire that doesn't belong to you yet."
Then he vanished—into mist, like a whisper never spoken.
*
They stood in the silence he left behind.
Elira's heart thudded.
Everything was unraveling. Her curse. The truth. Her past.
And someone—something—was watching.