After these eventful hours that have pushed me to the limits of my strength, going out with Sylas feels like a true blessing. Five minutes have already passed since we left the Velqorin family’s estate. Although the village elder has announced that an outsider will stay within the walls of Solnya for a few days, the curious glances of the villagers do not escape me.
Sylas eventually stops and gestures toward an establishment. On a large blackboard, the words "Zur Strömenden Flosse" which translates to "The Flowing Fin" are written in white chalk.
“The owner, Friedrich Strömert, opened this place two weeks ago with his wife, Gisela,” Sylas explains as he shares more details about the business. “You probably won’t want to try it, but the Strömerts make the best fish dishes in all of Solnya. They’re one of the most successful and respected families here.”
With these words, Sylas leads me inside. A wave of pleasant warmth immediately envelops me, driving away the biting cold of the outside world like a benevolent breath. My gaze is drawn to a woman who greets us with a smile that, in a peculiar way, makes the room seem brighter. Her shoulder-length, dark blue hair falls in elegant waves, like the shimmering depths of a nocturnal lake, framing a delicate, finely drawn face. Her gray eyes, bright as storm clouds, look at us as though they can pierce through secrets and lies alike, yet they radiate an unexpected warmth.
She is petite, of medium height, and possesses an almost otherworldly grace. Yet it is the fine lines around her eyes, the faintly downturned corners of her mouth, and a subtle calmness in her movements that make me suspect she has reached the end of her forties. She carries the aura of a woman who has experienced much, whose strength lies in her serenity.
“The young Velqorin!” she exclaims with such joy that her voice fills the air like the first rays of sunrise after an endless night. With arms outstretched, she approaches Sylas as if to wrap him in light and warmth, pulling him into a heartfelt, almost maternal embrace.
Her gaze shifts to me, and a curious smile plays on her lips. “Ah, you must be the girl Lord Vaylon spoke of. It’s truly refreshing to see a face that’s not the same as always.”
I force a polite smile, striving to conceal my unease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.…” I deliberately leave the sentence hanging, hoping she will finish it for me.
“Strömert,” she says with a slight bow, her voice tinged with pride. “Gisela Strömert. It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear Liora.”
Liora? The name hits me like a cold gust of wind. My gaze darts to Sylas, who meets it immediately. His face remains as inscrutable as ever, but I catch the flicker of a hidden plan in his eyes. This is Zyar’s doing, I’m certain of it. But why would the head of Solnya lie to his own people?
Gisela pulls me from my thoughts. “I’d ask where you’re from…” she begins, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “…but Lord Vaylon mentioned that Sylas found you unconscious during one of his excursions. I sincerely hope your memories return soon. But enough of that! Sit, sit! I’ll bring you our finest fish dish of the day—on the house, of course!”
Panicked, I shoot Sylas a glance, silently pleading for help. Without hesitation, he speaks up. “Liora doesn’t eat meat.” His words ring out like an unshakable decree.
Gisela freezes mid-motion, surprise plain on her face. “Oh, really?”
“I offered her a chicken soup with dusk-fruits right after she woke up,” Sylas explains calmly. “But she barely tasted it before getting sick. That’s when she remembered she can’t handle meat dishes.”
“But the body needs vitamins!” Gisela looks at me with a mix of concern and disappointment. Then she sighs, her shoulders sinking. “Ah, dear, I can’t force you in the end. That wouldn’t be right.” A reassuring smile spreads across her face. “Then I’ll recommend our most popular dish: flame potatoes with mist roots and moon butter!”
“That sounds perfect,” Sylas affirms with an approving nod. Gisela positively beams with pride and hurries off to the kitchen, her steps infused with barely concealed excitement.
Sylas leads me to one of the few free tables left on this busy evening. The air is thick with the aroma of spices, sizzling batter, and a faint salty tang reminiscent of the sea. Surprisingly, a strange sense of calm begins to settle over me.
“Would you care to explain now?” I whisper once we’re seated, my voice trembling with impatience as my gaze bores into him.
Sylas leans closer, his eyes briefly scanning the room to ensure no one is listening. “For starters…” he says quietly, his words like a solemn vow, “…it’s important that the Solniw know you as Liora. Please trust me and relax.”
I nod silently and take a deep breath. But peace eludes me even here—every eye seems fixed on me. Whether it’s because Mrs. Strömert welcomed me so warmly or because my appearance starkly contrasts with the typical look of the Solniw, I can’t tell. One thing, however, is clear: their eyes show no hostility. Only curiosity. The same kind of curiosity I felt when all the guests of the human world gathered to witness my arranged marriage.
My thoughts wander. How is everyone faring in the human world? Could King Mukuta be searching for me—because of the attempted assassination?
Before that thought can take root, Mrs. Strömert returns with two generous plates. The tantalizing aroma rising from them hits me like a wave: roasted potatoes, aromatic herbs, and a hint of something salty, like the ocean. She sets the plates before us and pulls up a spare chair, deftly placing it at the shorter end of the table. But there’s still an empty seat next to Sylas? With a small gesture, she encourages us to start.
Hesitantly, I take a bite of the potatoes—and for a moment, the years seem to vanish. Never before have I tasted anything so exquisite! Not even King Mukuta’s chefs could create such a masterpiece.
“Mrs. Strömert, this dish is simply divine!” I say reverently, savoring the flavors that linger on my tongue.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she replies with a satisfied smile, her gaze shifting to Sylas. “Since Liora has lost her memory, I’d better ask you: have you uncovered anything about where she might be from?” Her eyes turn to me, brimming with sympathy. “Poor child! Your parents must be terribly worried about you.”
A pang of guilt shoots through me—the painful awareness that this kind woman, so warm and welcoming, has no idea that she’s being deceived by her own people.
My gaze seeks out Sylas, who meets Mrs. Strömert’s words with unshakable composure. Without batting an eye, he returns her smile. I wonder if his father’s word feels to him like an unbreakable law. At first, I thought Zyar wanted what was best for his son. Now I realize he pulls Sylas’s strings like a puppet master.
“We haven’t been able to uncover much yet,” Sylas replies with feigned regret. “Even my father has made little progress in his inquiries. But we hope Lord Vaylon might be able to assist us. And how are you, Mrs. Strömert? I haven’t seen Mr. Strömert at all today. Is everything all right with him?”
“Oh, I grow older and more forgetful every year!” She laughs heartily at her own joke, and I can’t help but smile along. “Friedrich went fishing with Maren - our son - today. They only just returned. Mirael is in the kitchen, working on the next dish. But as soon as she hears the young Velqorin is here, she’ll be eager to come and greet you!”
My gaze flickers to Sylas, who serenely enjoys his meal as Mrs. Strömert’s words echo in my mind. I wonder if he doesn’t recognize how his father merely commands him, manipulating him like a puppet. Perhaps he doesn’t see it—or perhaps he refuses to. It might be too painful for him to lose the image of Zyar he’s built for himself: a caring father, a righteous Elindine. But the more I observe, the clearer it becomes to me that Zyar’s actions are not care but control.
“Mother, I’ve just finished serving the last tables, I—” a melodic voice calls from the kitchen.
A young woman steps into the room, and the moment she enters, the entire atmosphere seems to shift. She is delicate in stature, almost like a creature risen from the ocean’s depths. Her waterfall-like, pale blue hair shimmers as though catching and reflecting the light, elegantly framing her oval face. Her eyes—a luminous turquoise—draw me in, as if gazing into the unfathomable depths of a serene lake.
Her movements are graceful and fluid, carrying an almost otherworldly ease. She wears a simple apron over her flowing, light-colored dress, but even in this modest attire, she seems like a living work of art—a tribute to the strength and beauty of water. Despite her fragile appearance, she exudes a quiet strength, the sort born of facing challenges with steady determination.
“Good evening, Sylas,” comes her gentle, almost hesitant voice. Mirael—who increasingly seems to be exactly who I suspect—speaks, her words growing softer with each passing moment as she notices me.
A shy smile flits across her lips, and her turquoise eyes, glimmering in the dim light of the tavern, settle on me. Her presence shifts subtly, becoming quieter, almost reflective, as though the faint movements of her hands fill the air around her with a quiet anticipation.
“Mirael, this is Liora,” Mrs. Strömert introduces me to her daughter, her voice warm and cheerful. “She’s lost her memory, so she’ll be staying in our village with Sylas and his father for the time being.”
Mirael pauses for a moment, her gaze piercing into me with such intensity that I feel as though I’m staring into the depths of a stormy ocean. She seems to hesitate, her thoughts churning before she responds with a carefully measured, almost timid courtesy: “I see,” she says, her voice flowing like water—soft but carrying an unmistakable weight. “Good evening, miss. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You can just call me Liora,” I respond quickly, grateful I didn’t accidentally let my real name slip. “I’m sure we’re around the same age, so this formality feels a little strange.”
Her answer is a brief nod of agreement, followed by a shift in her expression—a blend of shyness and a deep, almost admiring curiosity. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Liora.” Her words, quiet and filled with genuine sincerity, flow from her like the gentle trickle of a stream.
Mrs. Strömert gestures to the empty seat next to Sylas, and Mirael hastily moves toward it, as if channeling her nervous energy into the motion. Like a touch of the sea breaking through stillness, she takes her seat. Her eyes flicker uneasily toward Sylas, but she holds herself back. The admiration shining in her gaze is unmistakable.
“How are you, Sylas?” she asks with a certain softness, her voice tinged with vulnerability, as though she’s trying to capture a fleeting moment.
“I’m doing quite well, actually,” Sylas replies with an easy smile, his tone calm and at odds with Mirael’s nervousness. “Just busy with Liora and her lost memories. We’ll head back home after dinner.”
Mirael’s eyes widen for a moment. Her hands, previously resting calmly in her lap, tense slightly as she asks her question. “She sleeps at your place?” she asks, her voice tinged with a mix of worry and unease. But she quickly seems to realize that such a question is inappropriate in such a formal setting, and her gaze falters into shy uncertainty.
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“Mirael!” Mrs. Strömert hisses, casting a sharp look at her daughter. “Apologies, my dear. In our village, it is not well-regarded for a girl to remain unsupervised. However, since Zyar is responsible for your safety, we all accept the current arrangement.”
A sense of discomfort stirs within me. Why shouldn’t I be able to take care of myself? Why does a male guardian have to be invoked as a guarantor for a woman’s safety? It seems that patriarchal norms reign supreme even in Elindros.
“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Strömert?” I press, my tone deliberately sharp, hoping to challenge her perspective. “Do you truly believe there are no other options for a woman in Elindros to defend herself or shape her own life?”
Mrs. Strömert shifts uneasily, sensing the direction of my question. Her response comes hastily, thoughtlessly: “Well, we simply don’t approve of leaving a girl without her parents,” she says, as if it were self-evident. “In our village, our daughters are our most precious treasures. Of course, I trust every single Solniw, but lust is not so easily tamed. No place in Elindros looks kindly on an illegitimate child.”
“So you believe that Sylas or Zyar might…” I begin, leaving the sentence deliberately unfinished. The implication hangs heavy in the air, forcing the uncomfortable truth to linger in their minds.
Mrs. Strömert flutters her hands, visibly flustered, speaking hastily as though fleeing her own embarrassment. “Oh no, no! By Rhovan Ardelon’s heart!” Her words tumble out in a rush, her cheeks flushing as she realizes how clumsy her statement had been. “Forgive me, dear Liora. I didn’t mean to suggest such intentions.”
“Why are illegitimate children so unwelcome in Elindros?” I ask further, a hint of mockery in my voice, noting that Sylas listens intently, as though cataloging every word to safeguard the truth from his father’s lies. “Is there no such thing as rape in your world?”
Mrs. Strömert’s response is swift and proud: “Not in Solnya. In our village, everyone is honorable. Unlike our former allies… the Losniws. Those depraved Elindine breed their children among themselves—siblings lying together, just to preserve the purity of Losniw blood.”
Her words pierce me like a dagger, unexpected and painful. The Losniws breed their children among themselves? The truth, long hidden in the shadows of my mind, now emerges into the light, and its significance strikes me with full force. Entium—my family’s name. The answer had been before me all along, concealed within the fabric of our traditions, and I had been too blind, too naive, to see it. An icy chill crawls up my spine as the unavoidable realization takes form: Could it be that I, too, am the product of such a union? Was I born of my mother’s union with her own brother, my father?
A storm rages within me, but I force myself to remain composed. No flicker, no tremor in my gaze can betray the turmoil inside. Mrs. Strömert must notice nothing—not the slightest hint that her words have shaken me. Mistrust could pierce through the fragile facade at any moment, like a blade.
“The Elindine of Losnat were excluded from our society for a reason,” Sylas interjects into the silence left by the revelation, his tone cold and dismissive. His voice is calm, yet full of disdain. “Even during the alliance, there were fierce controversies over this… tradition.”
Mrs. Strömert nods, her face a mask of righteous anger. “Those who once swore loyalty to Velris, that monster, and all their degenerate descendants—they have no place in Elindros. Not in this world, nor any other. Even the Nexari would reject them.” Her voice is hard, a judgment without mercy.
Her words echo within me, a reverberation that refuses to fade. The contempt in her voice for those I may now count among my ancestors cuts deeply. Yet I hold my breath, allow no reaction, only the quiet pounding of my heart bears witness to the storm within.
Do the Elindine truly hate the Losniws so much? Or is this deep animosity merely a wound festering within the Solniws—a relic of their former betrayal? Is it truly so dangerous to be recognized as a Losniw in Elindros? Must I constantly anticipate scorn if my origins from Losnat were revealed? And is this the real reason why Zyar goes to such lengths to keep my identity concealed?
“The vessel of that primordial being is a Losniw,” I remark coolly, watching Mrs. Strömert’s face closely, waiting for any flicker of reaction.
Her lips press into a hard line. “Indeed,” she replies curtly, her gaze piercing into mine as though attempting to unravel my thoughts. “But there must have been a reason why Isilyn turned her back on her homeland.”
“Isilyn?” The word escapes me before I can stop it. My voice trembles, more with hope than curiosity. “Who is that?”
Mrs. Strömert’s features soften, the sharpness in her gaze fading as she drifts into her memories. “Isilyn was once Zyar’s closest friend,” she begins, her voice tender, like an old melody. “They studied together in the kingdom—he, the Legate of the Elements, and she, the most powerful Thoughtweaver of her time. Despite our disdain for the Losniws, we grew to love Isilyn. She was different. Full of life, full of light—she was like one of us.”
I hardly dare to breathe. "What happened to her?" Images flash through my mind—vague, foreign memories, like shadows skimming past. The same ones I saw in that dark place, where the infant lay.
Mrs. Strömert sighs heavily, suppressed sorrow breaking free. “She disappeared seventeen years ago. It’s said she might have returned to Losnat. Perhaps she’s being exploited for terrible purposes there. Or…” She hesitates, as though the next word is poison on her tongue. “Or she was married off to her brother and bore a child. A Thoughtweaver of her caliber would be a priceless asset to the Losniws. Who knows what cruelties they inflicted upon her.”
My breath catches. Her words sting like a blow. “Did she… did she even have siblings?” My voice is barely a whisper, yet each syllable slices through the silence like a blade. I need to know more—more about Isilyn, more about… myself.
Mrs. Strömert touches her cheek thoughtfully. “As far as I remember, she had only one brother. An older one. His name was…”
“Alaric.” The voice that speaks the name is sharp as an arrow. It belongs to Zyar, who now stands in the doorway like a shadow. Every head turns in alarm.
His eyes blaze like fire. “A violent Elindine,” he continues in an icy tone. “Like the rest of the Losniws. All of them scum, unworthy of a place in Elindros.”
Are Zyar and Sylas now revealing their true feelings? If their hatred for the Losniws runs so deep, why would they want me on their side? Is it solely because I am the vessel of Sonatius Mortaeda? Do they merely seek to exploit my power? A part of me longs to trust them—to finally have someone by my side after a lifetime of isolation. But that familiar, cautious voice within, honed through years of solitude, whispers insistently: “Don’t trust them.”
My thoughts spiral, and I fear they will eventually drive me to madness.
“Zyar, welcome!” Mrs. Strömert exclaims warmly, rising from her cozy armchair with a broad smile. “I haven’t seen you two in weeks! Where have you been?”
“Gisela, you know…” Zyar says, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze serious and piercing. “…my assignments are between Soran Vaylon and me.”
“Oh, you and your strict rules,” Mrs. Strömert replies with a heartwarming laugh, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m just glad to see you both safe and sound.” Her eyes shift to me. “And our newcomer, Liora.”
All eyes turn to me. While I feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny, I catch the subtle, meaningful glances Zyar and Sylas exchange.
“We must get going now,” Zyar announces, clapping his hands together. “We still don’t know where Liora comes from. If we waste more time, her parents might be worried sick.”
“You’re right!” Mrs. Strömert agrees, snapping her fingers decisively. “Then I wish you all a pleasant evening. Dear Liora, you are welcome here anytime.”
We bid our farewells and step out of the warm, inviting atmosphere of the "Die Strömende Flosse". The icy night air hits my face immediately. I pull the jacket Zyar lent me tighter around myself. This jacket is no exception—a whole wardrobe filled with carefully chosen garments awaits me at his estate. Every stitch, every finely crafted piece, speaks of how meticulously Zyar prepared for my journey to Elindros.
But tonight, Zyar is silent. His silence is unusual, almost palpable. “Is everything okay?” I ask hesitantly.
His gaze is fixed ahead, and he raises a finger to his lips. “No time for words.”
“What’s wrong?” Sylas presses, the nervousness in his voice unmistakable.
“Strange figures near the village,” Zyar murmurs, his eyes darting restlessly, alert, almost paranoid. “Ves must be secured immediately. Sylas, take her to the estate at once. I’ll contact Soran. We can’t take any chances.”
“Do you think they’re after her?” Sylas asks anxiously.
“It’s possible,” Zyar replies, his tone laced with contemplation. “But I could also be wrong. Still, caution must come first.”
Without another word, we hurry back to the estate. My legs burn with every step, protesting against the pace, but I refuse to show my pain. When we arrive, a loud blast shatters the silence, followed by panicked screams.
Zyar’s eyes widen. “Already?” he hisses, disbelief etched into his voice. “Sylas, take Ves upstairs. No one must enter the grounds. If they’re here for her, they’ll sense her presence.”
Sylas nods, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the house. As Zyar disappears outside, Sylas urges me up the narrow staircase with a sense of insistence. But at the top, the path ends abruptly at a massive wall—a dead end. My breath is heavy, and my thoughts spin wildly.
Then Sylas clasps his hands together, generating a palpable energy in the air. He presses his hands against the wall, and glowing symbols unfurl across its surface—round, fluid lines resembling waves, framed by the sharp latticework of wind.
These symbols, Sylas later explains, represent the elements of air and water—Agalinth and Kyora, as they’re called in their tongue. Air stands for freedom and movement, while water signifies depth and protection. Together, they form a seal that makes barriers permeable when the proper balance between motion and stillness is achieved.
The wall opens, and I step inside, my heart pounding. Behind me, the entrance seals itself as if by an invisible hand. I am safe—for now. But the symbolism of these forces lingers in my mind. Perhaps, I wonder, Zyar and Sylas have more depth than I’ve seen so far. Or maybe even that is an illusion.
“This room can’t be seen from the outside,” I say quietly, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. But the shaking in my hands betrays me. “Another one of Zyar’s elaborate magic tricks?”
Sylas nods slowly, a faint trace of pride in his eyes. “My father created this room with my mother’s help.” Yet as soon as the words leave his lips, his expression darkens, and his gaze drops to the floor. “Forgive me… we should stay alert.”
It’s the first time he’s mentioned his mother—a name that has hung between us like a silent shadow. Her absence is palpable in this house, like the cold emptiness of a deserted chamber. But I’ve never asked about her, never questioned the void she must have left. Perhaps because I, too, grew up without a mother, and the vacancy in a home is no stranger to me.
Shaking off the thought, I ask, “Who could be behind this commotion?”
Sylas shrugs slightly, the movement burdened as if it carries a heavy weight.
“How would anyone even know I’m here?” I press further.
His silence speaks louder than any words could. The situation pulls at him, at both of us. I can see it in his eyes—the longing to stand beside his father, to defend his village. But his duty to protect me keeps him here—me, the cause of this chaos.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, exhaling heavily. His gaze shifts to the large, round window on his left, where the darkness outside is broken by flickering light and rising smoke. “The Losniw have many enemies. But they have just as many allies, even here in Elindros, who secretly support their plans. Some say even the king tolerates their actions. If that’s true, we may already be doomed.”
“Is there really nothing we can do?” I plead, stepping beside him to look out the window.
“No,” he replies firmly, shaking his head as if to dispel any thought of defying his father’s orders. “If they get their hands on you, everything will be lost. You’re the vessel of Sonatius Mortaeda, yes—but your body is mortal. Vulnerable. And there are enough among the Losniw who would claim the power of the Primeval Being for themselves. Not to protect Elindros, but to dominate it.”
His gaze is heavy, like lead, but I can feel the struggle within him. No words are needed to understand the screams and explosions outside—they paint a clear picture of chaos and destruction. And then I see them: violet clouds of gas rising from several points in the village.
My trembling finger points at the window. “What is that…?”
“Mord Vupu,” Sylas answers quietly, his voice heavy with dread. “The Poison Mist of Cata Sualti. I never thought they’d attack us.”
“Cata Sualti?” I repeat, tasting the name like bitter wine. “Do you have problems with them?”
“Problems?” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Only a madman would willingly deal with the Sualtier. They’re murderers, through and through. Any one of them would slit your throat without a second thought. They’re not after power or politics—they want blood.”
I stare out at the mist creeping through Solnya’s streets, my thoughts racing like wild horses. “If these Elindine are such a great threat, we can’t just abandon the Solniw to their fate!”
“Ves, you don’t understand!” Sylas snaps, cutting me off. “If they get you, everything is over. My father is right, even if you can’t see it. He may sacrifice the village, but he does it because you’re more important than anyone else.”
His words cut deep, twisting like a knife. My heart clenches, unable to accept the thought. “Your father is a fool!” I finally shout, anger surging through me. “Why should I be more important than all the lives out there? Do you think they’ll gladly die just because I’m here?”
Sylas’ eyes are fixed on me, silent, hard, like stone. I can’t tell if he’s angry or if my words are carving into him.
I step toward the door, casting him one last glance. “Will you stay here and be the puppet he sees in you? Or will you finally decide for yourself who you want to be?”
He says nothing, but something shifts within him. It’s like the roar of a wave breaking.
“Until my last breath,” he finally says, his voice resolute.
Suddenly, he raises his hand, and the circle in my palm begins to glow—warm and luminous. His semicircle mirrors it, a testament to the blood bond between us.
He steps closer, the determination in his eyes unmistakable. The barrier that held him back is gone. “My life is yours.”
And with those words, we leave the room, ready to face the inevitable.