Lira did not sleep for two nights.
She sat in the Vault of Whispers, the strange book open on her lap, tracing the glyphs with ink-stained fingers. Every time she blinked, the symbols shifted—never the same twice. It was as if the book tested her, waiting to see if she was worthy of its truth.
On the third morning, exhausted and trembling, she sent a raven to Lyothara.
"Father. Come to Elmara. Bring no guards. Bring only your silence."
Darien arrived at dusk.
He found his daughter kneeling in the vault, pale as moonlight, eyes burning with feverish focus. The book lay before her like an altar.
"You opened the Vault," he said, voice low. Not accusation. Not pride. Just fact.
"They left us no choice," she whispered. "The orcs aren't just strong. They're… anchored to something. And this book… it speaks of the other anchor."
She showed him the passage that had appeared under her tear:
"To wield the Unlight, you must first unmake your light."
Darien's jaw tightened. "This is the Ashen Path. Forbidden since the Age of Breaking."
"And yet the Tree itself cannot stop them," Lira shot back. "What good is purity if it leads to extinction?"
He didn't answer. He knelt beside her, studying the pulsing pages.
"How do you read it?" he asked.
"I don't," she admitted. "It reads me. The words appear when I feel… something true. Fear. Grief. Hope. It feeds on truth."
Darien reached out—but stopped short of touching it. "What does it demand?"
"Not demand," she corrected softly. "Offer. It says the Unlight is not evil. It is balance. But to take it… we must give up our connection to the Tree. Our blood will change. Our children may be born without light."
A long silence.
Then Darien said, "Thorin lost three scouts yesterday. Not to ash. Not to magic. To steel. They were outnumbered ten to one… and still fought until their last breath."
He looked at her, eyes raw. "We are losing. Not slowly. Not honorably. We are being erased."
Lira closed her eyes. "Then maybe… balance is the only way to survive."
That night, Darien walked the halls of Elmara's library, unable to sleep.
He thought of the young elf who bled on the Ridge of Mourning.
Of the empty villages.
Of the King's hollow eyes.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider what he had sworn never to touch.
In the morning, he summoned Malrik Darkuan.
"Find every record of the Ashen Path," he ordered. "Every fragment. Every warning. I don't care if it's sealed in blood or buried under temples. Bring it to me."
Malrik bowed. "Even if it damns us?"
"Especially then," Darien said.
In Frosthaven, Thorin received a message from Lyothara:
"Hold the line. Reinforcements delayed. Prepare for siege."
He crushed the parchment in his fist.
In Silvira, Elyar planted thorn-vines that now bled black sap onto white stone—a sign, the elders said, of corrupted earth.
And in the east, the drums grew louder.
Not marching.
Waiting.
As if the enemy knew the elves were breaking from within.
Back in the vault, Lira placed her hand on the book once more.
This time, new words bloomed:
"The first step is surrender.
The second is sacrifice.
The third… is war."
She did not flinch.
She began to translate.