I was born under the shadow of great walls in a city with the largest harbour in the world. It was believed the tides of the Silk Sea whispered secrets to those who dared listen, but I was too young then to understand. House Bloodcrest—my family—has always been a name spoken with reverence and honour, a pillar of strength in a land bound by the rule of the Trinitan Empire. For centuries, the three kingdoms of Wayland, Aryon, and Umbran have been united under its banner, a firm peace held together by the might of steel and the weight of tradition. Yet within the halls of my home, the echoes of forgotten wars lingered, shaping our fates in ways we could not escape. My mother once told me that our blood carries both fire and ash, that we are destined to rise like Wyverns, only to burn anew. If only I knew that those words would spell doom for the realm and the entire race of men...
Now...all I hear
Is silence
Crest Castle
High Harbour, Trinitan Empire
Western Wayland
10th of Sun’s Heart, 472 (5E)
The summer glow of sunset bathes the castle of the Bloodcrest family, perched on top of a hill at the centre of a massive city. A ring of tall white stone walls divides the castle and the hill from the four districts of High Harbour. Banners of a red rose on a black backdrop decorate the castle towers and gates, fluttering by the chilly wind. Outside, it is mostly quiet at the castle, aside from the distant murmur of the city and seagulls coming from the harbour, known as the biggest in all of the realm. Inside, however, a feast is being held in the grand hall of the castle. Nobles and courtiers revel in the lavish dishes covering the entire length of a long table, laughing and chatting. The hall is littered with candles and torches fixed on the stone walls, and three giant golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling, battling the cold that tries to seep through the walls even during summer. Lastly, red-stained windows with roses painted on them cast a few crimson rays on the table, displaying images of roses that move with the sunlight. At the head of the table sits the royal family. The king watches over his revelling guest with interlocked hands and a calm demeanour, then peers at his son’s dish next to him, which he refuses to eat. A boy of only six with short black hair and green eyes.
“Eat, Aidan.” the king says with a commanding tone.
“But I don’t like turkey.” his face is sour, poking his turkey leg with his fork. Suddenly, a man further down the table pushes his chair backwards and stands, raising his mug. “I would like to toast to our great King Bryce and Queen Alara for this wonderful feast! May the Great Houses of Bloodcrest and Fyre live in prosperity for many years to come!” His toast triggers an agreeing cheer from the others, raising their mugs as well. By the other side of the king sits his queen, shoulder length, blonde hair, and narrow amber eyes. She doesn’t mind the empty chair next to her hosting an empty plate, but the king does, leaning back and looking past the queen’s back. “Where is Kiera? It is disrespectful of a princess to not attend the royal feast.”
The queen takes a sip from her goblet, “Captain Pollus should be back with her shortly, husband.”
Bryce stabs his food with his fork and takes an aggressive bite, murmuring to himself, “Does she not think to care about her bloody duties?”
“Relax, dear Bryce.” Alara smiles and rubs his shoulder. “She is still young. Allow her this freedom. It won’t last.”
Her words aren’t even cold yet when she hears the sound of faint, blazing horns. Two prolonged blasts indicate the return of a royal family member.
A hunting party rides through the gate into the snow-dusted castle’s bailey, with the princess herself on the head. Her horse, a sleek white stallion named Tempest, snorts and tosses its head, steam rising from his nostrils as they slow to a trot. The guards and workers milling about turn to watch, their eyes drawn to the young princess, only at the age of fourteen and already radiating such confidence. She wears a leather tunic with a short fur cloak, darkened by the blood of the stag they had brought down, the rich red staining her sleeves and streaking her trousers. Her breath leaves in visible puffs in the frigid air, and her bow is slung across her back, the quiver at her side half-empty. Captain Pollus, a grizzled veteran with a scar running across his left cheek, rides beside her, and a massive stag drapes across his horse’s back. As they dismount, Kiera hands the reins of her horse to a stablehand, her gaze sweeping across the bailey. The captain approaches her, his armour glistening in the setting sun. “I wish to congratulate you, Princess, for hunting your first stag today. Not many children of your age could say the same. Your father will be proud when he hears of this.”
Kiera smiles awkwardly, “Thank you, Pollus. But it mostly you.”
“But you brought it down,” he pointed with his leather-gloved hand, “A big one, as well. I beg your pardon, Princess, but I need to attend to my men. I will join you in but a moment.”
Kiera nods, watching Pollus turn and head to the idling hunting party. The castle’s guardsmen, however, are watching her, not used to seeing their princess so at ease in the aftermath of a hunt. Workers pause their tasks, whispering among themselves as she passes, some in awe, others simply curious. She notices the glances but pays them no mind, her focus shifting to the grand doors of the castle where she knows her father and mother await. The weight of her father’s expectations begins to press upon her, but before she can dwell on it, a pair of servants hurry forward to attend to her.
“Princess, the feast is already underway,” one of them says, bowing slightly. “Shall we help you prepare?”
Kiera shakes her head and smiles, “I will do it myself, thank you.”
“Then at least allow us to guide you to your clean attire, Princess.”
Kiera gestures for them to lead the way, allowing them to guide her to a side chamber just off the bailey. Inside, the warmth of the castle embraces her, the scent of freshly laundered linens and polished wood a solid contrast to the earthy aroma of the forest. The servants leave her, and Kiera helps herself out of her bloodstained hunting attire. A basin of warm water was brought before she came in here, which she uses to wash the dirt and blood from her hands and face, the warmth of the water feeling soothing against her skin. As she dries off, she looks upon a gown of deep crimson laid across a table, its fabric rich and flowing, adorned with the intricate embroidery of roses. She jumps into it, fastening the ties at her back and adjusting the skirts to fall just right. Kiera always hated these gowns as they never really sat with her right. To top off her outfit, she drapes a cloak of black velvet over her shoulders, fastened with a clasp of a silver crest in the shape of a rose. Lastly, Kiera brushes her hair and pins it up, with a few loose curls left to frame her face. A final glance in the mirror confirms her transformation—from a fierce young huntress to a beautiful princess, ready to face her father and the feast that awaits. Captain Pollus waits just outside the chamber, giving her a respectful nod as she emerges, now every inch the noble daughter of House Bloodcrest.
“Ready, Princess?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Kiera takes a deep breath, the thrill of the hunt fading into the background as the reality of her duties settles upon her. “Let’s get this over with,” she replies with a steady voice. With that, she makes her way to the grand hall, the echoes of the feast growing louder with each step. The doors loomed before her, guarded by two footmen staring in front of them holding spears. Steeling herself, she pushes them open, stepping into the warm, golden light of the hall, summoning gazes from nearly every courtier and noble sitting at the long table. Some of the closer nobles nod respectfully at her as she walks up to her parents and little brother, with Pollus following her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. She meets Bryce’s stern gaze.
“Apologies, father. The hunt took longer than we expected.” Kiera says as she sneaks a wink at her brother, who smiles back at her.
He maintains his composure as the captain watches: “At least you’re here. Now sit and eat.”
“Gladly!” Kiera scoffs with a smirk, sitting down next to her mother, ready to devour whatever is left on the table. Pollus bows respectfully at the king, “Your Grace.”
“How was the hunt?” Bryce asks, holding his goblet of red wine and leaning back in his chair.
“I believe we are all happy to inform Your Grace the princess successfully brought down her first stag.”
Bryce and Alara both turn their heads at their daughter, who humbly attempts to avoid eye contact, eating away at her now turkey-filled plate. Bryce is impressed but quickly suppresses it and continues to eat. “It’s about time these hunts made some results.” He feels a jab in his side coming from his wife, who turns to her daughter. Kiera, that is amazing. You have no idea how proud I am of you.”
Kiera smiles, swallowing her food, “Thank you, mother.”
Bryce nods at Pollus, “Have it prepared. And well done.”
The captain bows and leaves.
“Did you hunt it yourself?” Alara asks her daughter. Kiera nods, “Pollus tracked it down, but I shot it. It took about eight arrows, but I eventually fell it.”
“Good. You did good.” Alara says, taking another sip from her goblet, almost displaying a sigh of relief, which Kiera catches up on but doesn’t think more of it. Kiera takes another bite and chews while scanning the hall. She sees her uncle Bryan chatting with her aunt Melanny, the occasional guard posted up beside doors and along the walls, and even her mother’s sister, Yara, sitting at the table, who is much older than Alara. Even the dukes are here, talking amongst each other while enjoying the feast.
“Remember that time in the Torwood, Harland?” the Duke Brennar of Glaivedal chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “When that boar nearly ran you over? I have never seen a man jump that high in full armor!”
The table erupts in laughter; even Harland, Duke of Northwich, who is usually the most serious of the group, cracks a smile. “Aye, that was a close one,” he admits, shaking his head. “But I seem to recall that you were the one who spooked the beast in the first place, Brennar. If you hadn’t been yammering on about that one Volar’an woman.”
“Gods, she was a beauty wasn’t she?” Brennar daydreams, earning another round of laughter. Duke Roderic of Folksbane, who has been quietly sipping his wine, smirks. “It’s a wonder any of us managed to bag anything with the way you two carry on. Still, it’s these hunts that remind us what we’re fighting for—land, game, and a bit of peace and quiet. Speaking of which, how fares your new estate, Brennar?”
Brennar’s smile fades slightly, his thoughts drifting to his cold, ducal hold of Northwich. “The land is good, but harsh. We had a good harvest this year, despite the year round frosts.”
“That’s good to hear,” Roderic nods, though there is a note of caution in his voice. “The last thing we need is unrest spreading north with how things are going.”
The mood at the table shifts, the light-hearted banter giving way to a more sombre tone. Brennar, sensing the change, sets his goblet down and leans forward. “What are you getting at, Roderic?”
Roderic’s eyes flick around the hall, ensuring they aren’t being overheard. “There are whispers from the south. Aryon and Umbran grow restless, there is even talk of treachery. The Empire’s grip weakens, and that means trouble for all of us.”
Harland, who has been half-listening while gnawing on a leg of lamb, frowns and sets the meat aside. “You think they’ll try something? Aryon’s always been a thorn, but they’ve never dared act openly against the Empire.”
“Not openly,” Roderic agrees, “but times are changing. If the Empire’s power wanes further, who’s to say what they might do? House Valqu’en have their own ambitions, and they’re not one to miss an opportunity.”
Brennar’s face grows serious, the weight of his responsibilities as King Bryce’s closest friend and ally settling heavily on his shoulders. “At least Wayland can count on Almalyr. They remain outside the Empire’s influence, yet they’ve been our allies ever since King Bryce married into House Fyre.”
Aldric’s expression darkened. “You know my stance on the Fyres. They may be our ally, but I’m sure they will not hesitate to act when the Empire weakens to strengthen their position.”
The conversation falls into a tense silence. The laughter and music of the feast seem distant now. Harland finally breaks the silence, his voice low and thoughtful. “We must take care. If the Empire were to ever fall, King Bryce would need us to keep Wayland strong.”
Brennar nods, his gaze drifting to where King Bryce sits, deep in conversation with Queen Alara. The warmth of the fire can not dispel the chill that settles over him. “You’re right, Harland.”
Kiera sticks her fork in the turkey meat and cuts off another piece when she notices Brennar looking at her father. She doesn’t have a chance to reflect on it when she senses an approaching presence behind her, who starts whispering in Alara’s ear. Kiera turns to the presence and sees a messenger handing over a note, then quickly leaves.
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“What is that?” Kiera asks. The queen reads it, and her expression betrays nothing. “It’s nothing, dear.” she then turns to Bryce and stands up, “Watch the children for me, husband. I need to visit the privy.”
Kiera frowns, watching her mother leave through a guarded back door leading into the private living areas for the royal family without even answering her question. Kiera looks back at Brennar further down the table, who is now calmly feasting, chatting with someone again.
“Father, can I go play?” Aidan whines. His father looks at him and says, “You still haven’t eaten. Eat, then we shall talk.”
While Bryce is interacting with Aidan, Kiera sneaks a peek behind her. The door Alara went through is now closed. There was something about her mother’s demeanour after reading that note that Kiera didn’t like. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she gets up from her chair, but before she can even leave, her father stops her. “Where are you off to?”
“I also need to visit the privy.” Kiera says with a straight face. It works. Bryce grunts and turns back to the feast, allowing Kiera to leave through the back door.
Kiera pushes open the heavy wooden door, the lively sounds of the feast muffling as it closes behind her. The stone corridor beyond is dimly lit by flickering sconces, casting long shadows that stretch along the walls. The air here is cooler and quieter than the grand hall. She pauses for a moment, listening to the faint echo of her mother’s footsteps as they retreat deeper into the castle. Her heart beats faster with each step she takes, her instincts telling her that whatever was written on that note wasn’t something as simple as a message from a servant or some noble. The corridor twists and turns, leading her past tapestries depicting the history of the Bloodcrest line, all the way back to the founding of High Harbour. Her eyes flick over the scenes as she passes—the construction of the city’s massive harbour, the battles fought to defend its shores, and the alliances forged with other houses. She reaches a fork in the corridor and hesitates, then notices her mother enter her chambers down the left path. She saunters forward towards the door, her footsteps light on the stone floor. The door creaks as she pushes it open just enough to peer inside. She sees her mother standing by the hearth, the letter clutched in her hand, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the fire. But Alara is not alone. A man stands with her, half-hidden in the shadows. He is tall and broad-shouldered, his presence imposing even in the dim light. Kiera doesn’t recognize him, but his attire—a simple dark cloak over plain, unadorned clothing—marks him as someone who operates outside the normal channels of nobility. Alara seems to be angry, whispering loudly, “Are you mad? Meeting me in my own private chambers? If anyone catches wind of you being here, your entire cell here is finished.”
The man responds, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s as much your cell as it is mine. This couldn’t wait, Alara. We’ve received credible reports. There’s a strong suspicion that the Order is on the way to High Harbour. The Overseer commanded us to go track them down before they get here, and put an end to their plans prematurely.”
Alara’s expression is calm, but there’s a hard edge to her voice. “The Order? How sure are you?”
The man nods, stepping closer to the firelight. His face remains obscured mainly by his hood, but Kiera can make out the glint of a scar running across his cheek. “Quite sure. Our whisperers are reliable, and you know as well as I do what’s at stake if we don’t act quickly.”
Kiera’s grip tightens on the doorframe, her mind racing. The Order? Whisperers? All of this is unfamiliar to her. What is her mother up to? And who is this man intruding in her home?
Alara’s gaze sharpens, her demeanour shifting from the calm mother Kiera knows to something colder, more calculating. “I’ll need more details, Talion. Who are they, and where were they last seen?”
The man, whom Kiera now knows as ‘Talion’, pulls a small scroll from within his cloak and hands it to Alara. “Everything we have is in there. Whisperers saw them arrive by a sloop in King’s Coast and rent rooms in the local tavern. You’re the best tracker we have, Alara. We need you with us.”
Alara takes the scroll and sighs, her fingers tightening around it. “I’m the queen of Wayland, I can’t just leave without raising suspicion.”
“That’s what I told Urvel,” Talion says, crossing his arms, “But he insisted. He said you would figure something out.”
The queen scoffs and slightly shakes her head, looking at the note in her hand, “Well then. I guess I shall. When do we leave?”
“In two moons, by dawn.”
Alara’s eyes flash with determination. “I’ll come. You have my word.”
The man inclines his head slightly, then turns to leave with swift and silent movements. Kiera barely has time to step back before he exits the room. She presses herself against the wall, holding her breath as Talion passes by until his footsteps fade into the distance. When she’s sure he’s gone, Kiera peeks into the room again. Her mother is still standing by the fire, staring at the scroll in her hand. For a moment, she looks almost vulnerable, as if the weight of whatever mission she’s been given is pressing down on her. Then she straightens, slipping the scroll into the folds of her dress, and her usual composed mask falls back into place. Kiera wants to burst into the room to demand answers, but she knows better. Whatever is happening, it’s bigger than her, bigger than just politics. She needs to be smart about this. Reluctantly, she steps back and hurries down the corridor, her mind swirling with everything she’s overheard. She makes her way back to the feast before her father gets suspicious. As she reenters the grand hall, the warmth and noise wash over her once more, but she feels different—more aware, more uncertain.
The hall is alive with chatter and laughter, the nobles and courtiers engrossed in their conversations. But as Kiera makes her way back to her seat, Bryce looks at her, his stern gaze softening ever so slightly as he motions for her to sit down. “What’s your mother taking so long?” he asks, not unkindly, as Kiera slides back into her seat. For a moment, she doesn’t know whether to tell the truth or not because she doesn’t even know if her father knows about her mother’s secretive antics.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see her,” she replies, managing a small smile as she picks up her fork. Her hands are steady, though her heart still races from the earlier encounter. Before anyone can say more, the doors to the kitchens at the other side of the hall swing open, and a line of royal cooks enters the hall, each bearing a large, silver platter. At the head of the procession, the master cook himself carries a particularly grand dish covered by a gleaming silver dome. The scent of roasted meat fills the air, rich and mouth-watering, causing murmurs of anticipation to ripple through the room. The cooks approach the long table where the royal family and the highest-ranking guests sit. With a flourish, the master cook lifts the dome, revealing the centrepiece of the feast: the stag that Kiera had hunted earlier that day.
The stag has been expertly prepared and roasted to perfection. Its skin is crisp, with a golden-brown hue that glistens under the light of the chandeliers. The stag’s head, adorned with its majestic antlers, is placed at the top of the platter as a mark of respect to the creature. Surrounding the stag are garnishes of fresh herbs—rosemary, thyme, and bay leaves—along with roasted apples, pears, and plums that add a splash of colour and a sweet fragrance to the presentation.
A second set of platters follows, laden with accompaniments: baskets of warm, crusty bread, roasted root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and turnips—drizzled with honey and sprinkled with sea salt. Decanters of rich, red wine are brought forth, ready to be poured for the guests. In contrast, smaller dishes of sauces—one a deep, spiced red with a hint of currants, another a creamy mushroom gravy—are placed within easy reach.
As the master cook steps back, allowing everyone to take in the sight, the hall erupts in applause. Captain Pollun, who now sits by the other lords and courtiers by the feast table, rises from his seat, lifting his goblet in a toast. “Behold the fruits of today’s hunt! This stag was felled today by none other than our very own Princess Kiera in the Kirkpine woods. I have had the utmost pleasure to witness it myself.”
All eyes turn to Kiera, who finds herself the centre of attention. Even her father gazes at her. The nobles cheer, raising their glasses in her honour, their voices mingling in a chorus of praise.
“To Princess Kiera the Roseblade!” shouts Brennar, his voice booming over the crowd.
“To Princess Kiera the Roseblade!” the hall echoes, the sound ringing off the stone walls.
Kiera’s cheeks flush with a deep shade of red, her earlier confidence from the hunt evaporating under the weight of so many admiring gazes. She ducks her head slightly, attempting to hide her embarrassment as the cheers continue. But she admits to herself that she really likes the title ‘Roseblade’ Brennar gave her. It fits her, being of noble blood with a rose as her sigil and being perceived as the most skilled archer of her age in Wayland. The master cook, sensing the right moment, signals for the carving to begin. The master carver, a tall, dignified man with a practised air, steps forward. He unsheathes a long, slender knife, its blade honed to a razor’s edge, and with a ceremonious bow to the royal family, begins to carve the stag.
He starts with the prime cuts, slicing through the tender meat with precision. Each piece is placed on fine silver plates and passed down the table, first to the king and queen, then to Kiera and her brother, and finally to the other honoured guests. As Kiera accepts her plate, the master carver catches her eye and nods in respect, acknowledging her role in bringing the stag to the table. This small gesture, meant only for her, brings a shy smile to her lips, even as she remains somewhat overwhelmed by the attention.
Once everyone has been served, the feast resumes in full force. The guests dig into their meals with gusto, and the room is filled with the sounds of clinking cutlery and murmured appreciation for the feast. Bryce, cutting into his own portion of venison, glances at Kiera and nods approvingly.
“Well done, Kiera,” he says quietly, his voice only for her. “I haven’t always approved of your hunting trips with Pollus, but I must admit, you have brought honor to our house today.”
Kiera looks up at him, her earlier nerves beginning to fade away. “Thank you, father.”
She allows herself to enjoy the feast, savouring the fruits of her own hunt, even as the weight of what she overheard lingers in the back of her mind. For now, though, she focuses on the present—the warmth of the hall, the laughter of the guests, and the taste of the perfectly roasted stag that she had brought down. The night continues with music, stories, and more toasts, the feast stretching long into the evening. And as the celebration goes on, Kiera sits a little taller, feeling the pride of her family and her people. When the feast finally begins to wind down, and the courtiers start to retire to their chambers, Kiera is one of the first to excuse herself. She needs time to think and to process everything she’s learned. But as she makes her way to her room, she can’t shake the feeling that something is coming—something that will change everything.
Kiera closes the door to her chambers and leans against it, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her mind storms of thought, each one worse than the last. Who was that person? What is the Order? Did her mother agree to kill people? She pushes herself off the door and sits on her grand, velvet-canopied bed, sinking into its plush, down-filled mattress. The heavy curtains are drawn, shutting out the night’s chill, but she feels it creeping into her bones nonetheless. This is something far more dangerous. And her mother seems to be right in the middle of it.
Kiera’s gaze drifts to the small chest at the foot of her bed. Inside are her personal belongings. Among them is her old bow, a gift from her mother when she first expressed interest in archery. She remembers the lessons in the castle courtyard and Alara’s patient guidance as she learned to nock an arrow and draw the string. Was this perhaps why her mother trained her? To prepare her for a world she doesn’t even know? Kiera feels a pang of doubt. She has always trusted her parents implicitly, but now… things are being kept from her. That she knows for certain. A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts. She stiffens, her mind racing. Who would be here at this hour? She crosses the room quickly, pausing with her hand on the latch. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” comes the familiar voice of her younger brother, Aidan.
His voice casts a smile on Kiera’s face as she doesn’t hesitate to open the door. Aidan stands in the hallway, his small frame almost swallowed by the oversized tunic he insists on wearing like the older boys. His eyes are wide with curiosity, and there’s a trace of mischief in his smile. “Can I stay with you?”
She sighs but steps aside to let him in. “It’s late, Aidan. You should be in bed.”
“I can’t sleep,” he says, wandering into her room and climbing on top of her bed. He looks up at her with a mixture of hope and expectation. “Can you tell me a story?”
Kiera softens, knowing how persistent Aidan can be when he sets his mind to something. She crawls underneath the blanket beside him, brushing a stray lock of his ashen hair from his forehead. “Alright, just one. But then you have to promise me you’ll go to sleep.”
Aidan nods eagerly, scooting closer to her. Kiera searches her mind for a tale that might soothe both his worries and her own. But the stories that come to mind are too heavy, too full of the tension and danger she’s been sensing all evening. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on something light.
“Once, there was a brave young prince,” she begins, her voice gentle. “He lived in a grand castle, much like this one, but his greatest wish was to explore the world beyond its walls…”
She weaves a tale of adventure, of a prince who befriends woodland creatures. But as she speaks, her thoughts keep drifting back to her mother, to the meeting with this ‘Talion’, and to the mention of the Order. He talked about King’s Coast, which lies just on the border between Wayland and Aryon, and an Overseer named Urvel.
“Kiera?” Aidan snaps her out of her thoughts, and she realizes she has stopped telling the story altogether.
“I’m sorry,” Kiera says, rubbing her forehead, “Let’s just get some sleep. You can stay here with me.”
“But what about the story?” Aidan asks.
Kiera sighs and cannot help but feel annoyed by her little brother, “Please, Aidan. I am tired. Either rest now, or I will tell mother.”
Aidan turns, pulling the blanket further over his shoulders, pouting slightly, “Fine.”
His sister sits up straight to blow out the candle, darkening the room, then lies back down on her pillow to sleep. It takes her a while to finally do fall asleep, but the hunt, the feast, and her mother’s secrets exhausted her body and mind. A deep slumber follows.
Kiera drifts through a dark, expansive chamber of ancient stone, the air thick with the scent of age and neglect. The walls are etched with faces twisted in agony and strange, intricate lines that seem to pulse faintly with a life of their own. Every few steps, she passes a statue of a small dragon, its stone eyes following her every move as she advances deeper into the darkness. She grips a flaming torch tightly, its flickering light casting long, ominous shadows that dance along the chamber’s edges and flicker in her amber eyes.
“Who’s there?” Kiera’s voice cuts through the stillness, but the only reply is the echo of her words, swallowed by the vastness. Shadowy figures flit between the stone pillars, just out of sight, their eyes burning into her with a palpable disdain.
She doesn’t belong here.
She is an intruder.
Her steps grow heavier as she approaches the far end of the chamber, where a colossal stone door looms, a monstrous face carved into its surface. The face resembles a man but with slit pupils and horns that curl ominously from his head. Without her touch, the door grinds open, stone scraping against stone, releasing a cloud of dust into the stale air.
Beyond the door lies another chamber, a shaft of cold moonlight piercing through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating the centre. There, bathed in the pale light, rests a black rose, its petals pulsating with a dark, swirling energy that seems to draw the very light from the room. Kiera’s heart pounds in her chest as she steps closer, the oppressive silence pressing down on her.
Then, from the shadows, two figures emerge—tall, cloaked, and featureless, save for a pair of glowing eyes from each side of the chamber, meeting by the rose. They don’t notice Kiera’s presence at all when they start...talking to each other? Their voices are whispers echoing a thousand times over.
“Tor'akh ya gral zot? Annu gral-ek odo-rak vek ya katel-ek zot.”
The shadow to the right falls to his knees. “An ghalok ya jadak zot hara olam-nar mekar-ti malok xorak el amnar-ti, Xinz'r. An rak halok-ek zot al qaylat annu-ti.”
Kiera recognizes this language as ‘Volar’an’, from the East. Except their version sounds different—more ancient.
The kneeling shadow crumbles to the ground. The other one looms above it and softly whispers, “An gorak.”
Suddenly, the standing shadow turns to Kiera, and she feels his eyes pierce her own. She flinches, and her heart beats in her chest. She had no idea they could see her. The shadow speaks words in her own tongue that will linger with her forever:
“Can’t you see, Xhiak? We are meant to inherit this world.”