Every time she shifted her weight, a new plank would groan beneath her heels. There were a lot of them, each with its own unique voice and peculiar complaint. Some moaned about their age, creaking long and slow as if the burden of years had worn them thin. Others muttered about rusted nails, their voices sharp and brittle. A few grumbled softly, lamenting how cold last night’s rain had been, how it had seeped into their grain and made them swell. Small things, really. Petty grievances. But in one thing they all agreed: too many boots had tramped across them that day, leaving them weary and overworked.

Emberlyth had watched it happen—dozens of hard-soled shoes dragging heavy crates back and forth across the landing, the air thick with barked orders and the sharp clang of iron—but she wasn’t weary at all. Far from it. Her eyes glowed with a restless energy as she rocked gently back and forth, toes to heels, heels to toes, each motion inching her closer to the edge.

“It is dangerous,” they’d told her. “Stay back,” they’d insisted.

But Emberlyth couldn’t help it. The planks were crooked in the strangest of ways. And when her shoes rocked just so, they seemed to nudge her forward, closer to the railing that overlooked the Abyss. It was simply the way of things. Gravity. Geometry. Whatever word Governess Abda would use to describe it. Nothing she could do about it.

Besides, the adults weren’t here right now. A rare and precious freedom. She dared not waste it.

Wilbur's Perch had possessed charms in its own right—crooked streets, busy markets, and the scent of fresh tar in the air. But none of that could steal a little girl’s mind like this. The Abyss. The dark maw that swallowed the world and spat out whispers of legends. It was the cradle of every story she loved, the place where magic was born and great adventures began. She could feel its pull, dragging her closer.

The platform creaked again as she shifted her weight, but Emberlyth barely noticed. Her focus was fixed on the railing, her fingers itching to grip it, her eyes eager to peer over the edge and see what secrets the Abyss might reveal. To think that, from somewhere down there, a crowd of merchants along with her new summer dress had come. Soft, flowing, and the same color as her copper hair. A gift from Mr. Olsen, no doubt meant to ensure Lady Efrain, the ever-watchful Head Seneschal of the Draekart Duchy, remained blissfully unaware of their chamberlain’s…generous tip distribution this season.

“Appearances, young miss,” he had said, his deep voice as smooth as his polished boots. “On days like these, one must spend a little extra, or tongues will wag and people will start whispering that our house is in decline. Can’t have that, can we?”

The inked script that curled along the rotund man’s jaw had glimmered faintly as he spoke, the symbols breathing light into his words. Normally, the tattoos seemed little more than an odd embellishment, like a half-forgotten doodle of a mustache. But when they shimmered like that, they lent his voice a peculiar resonance, a depth that made even his casual remarks feel like commands of great importance.

“Now off you go,” he had added with a chuckle, pressing a handful of caramel chocolates into her hands. “I’ll ensure your dress is awaiting you at the estate. But you have a whole town to explore before then, no?”

At the time, Emberlyth did have a lot of exploring to do. And so she had gone, leaving the chamberlain to his business—buttering up merchants, smoothing over disputes, and indulging in the occasional over-poured glass of wine—while she wandered Wilbur's Perch with the aimless curiosity of a child set loose. She’d sampled everything the town had to offer, from the juggler’s tricks in the square to the honeyed nuts sold from a cart near golden fields. But now her chocolates were gone, her pockets empty of trinkets, and her interest in the town’s charms thoroughly exhausted.

Which left her here, at the edge of the world. At the Abyss.

Another subtle rock of her heels carried her closer still. The railing loomed just ahead, and beyond it, nothing but air and darkness. Emberlyth leaned forward ever so slightly, her pulse quickening as she caught her first glimpse of the fall. Directly in front of her, the cables of the great Winch Tower stretched taut, thick as a man’s arm, vanishing into the shadows below.

This morning, she’d watched as they hauled up the massive platform, laden with merchants and crates from the deep. She’d heard the groan of the machinery, the hum of the wires under strain. It was a marvel, really, the way those ropes bore the weight of so many lives. They had arrived at the break of dawn, just as first light was bleeding through the night. It had been a mess of noise and movement then. Traders and porters darting about like ants, shouting orders, shuffling barrels, scribbling down tallies with the frantic scratching of quills on parchment. The air had been thick with the earthy scent of burlap and the tang of metal, underscored by the rhythmic groaning of wooden crates and the occasional sharp crack as a box was pried open to reveal its treasures.

And above it all, Lady Efrain’s voice had cut like a blade.

“Powdered salamander scales at three Obols per ounce?” she’d said, her tone a mix of outrage and disbelief. “Daylight robbery. How do they expect the common folk to keep their lanterns lit?”

A short pause, followed by another clipped complaint. “A half Drach for two spools of fae-silk? Scandalous. Lady Mascur will have to settle for local weave this season.”

Emberlyth had always marveled at how effortlessly the Head Seneschal managed it all. Lady Efrain could calculate costs and profits faster than Emberlyth could clap her hands, even the tricky sums with fractions and strange conversions. Emberlyth suspected cheating was involved—some hidden Aethermark inked beneath the folds of her meticulous dress. Most adults had them, faint etchings of power. But few wore them as brazenly as Mister Olsen. So, Emberlyth hadn’t been able to prove anything yet. Yet.

But that was a mystery for another day.

Lady Efrain had now left to inspect the warehouses, her sharp voice long since faded into the distance. What lay closer was the Abyss.

“It isn’t merely a void or a shadow.” Her books had read. “It’s an absence, a nothingness so vast it seems to swallow light and sound alike.” The stories called it a wound in the world, a gash that had never healed. Emberlyth thought that sounded about right. It stretched out endlessly before her, a gulf so deep and wide that even the bravest skyships dared not venture far beyond its lip.

Everyone told her to stay away. “Dangerous for little girls,” they’d say, shaking their heads. “Best to keep a safe distance.”

But Emberlyth had never been particularly good at keeping safe distances.

She wasn’t planning to climb down into the Abyss, of course. That would be foolish, even by her standards. But a little peek? Just a glance over the edge? Surely that wasn’t too much to ask.

Her heart thudded faster. The wood beneath her feet gave a soft groan of protest, but she paid it no mind. Her hands tingled, ready to grasp the railing. One more step, and she’d be there, peering into the heart of darkness, gazing into the place where the world fell away and stories were born. She needed to know what it was like.

Her father was down there, after all. Somewhere, in those distant, shadowed worlds, fighting for the prosperity of their house. He hadn’t come to visit this time. He hadn’t come last time either. Or the time before. But Emberlyth didn’t mind. Not really. Not enough to cry or throw a fuss, at least. That would only trouble him, and her father didn’t need more trouble.

The men and women of her family were busy people. Important people. Or so everyone said.

Here, at the Third Draekart Duchy, Emberlyth was the only one who carried the Draekart name. Well, except for Sixth Uncle. But he came and went, his visits as fleeting as summer storms. And little Vaelen, who so often came with him these days, didn’t count. Her cousin’s hair was white as snow, not copper or flame, and her last name wasn’t Draekart.

Vaelen didn’t like adventuring anyway. At least not the way Emberlyth did. She was too small and preferred being with the adults, smiling sweetly and seeming to enjoy the cheek pinching.

And so, Emberlyth was as alone as always. There was no one but herself to gather her courage—to bravely puff up her chest, take the deepest of breaths, and clench her hands into fists.

She cast a final glance over her shoulder, making sure the streets leading up to the landing were still empty. Then, she stepped over to the railing, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and thrill. Her hands found the rough wood, and she leaned out, letting her gaze fall.

She needed to see. And see she did.

Darkness stretched below her, deep and terrible. It swallowed the world in layers of shadow, each one heavier and more silent than the last. Somewhere far beneath her, the wires and ropes holding the platform disappeared into that void. They were thick, as thick as her legs, but they seemed like threads against the sheer immensity of the Abyss.

Even the Winch Tower, so tall and imposing when she’d first seen it, appeared laughably small against the endless chasm. The planks beneath her feet creaked, their voices lost in the vast, swallowing silence.

And as she stared into the dark, the dark stared back.

Something stirred in its depths—slow and ancient, deeper than the oldest tales and beyond where even the most ancient wyrms would crawl. It wasn’t a sound she heard but a feeling—like the echo of a massive breath exhaled eons ago, still rumbling through the bones of the earth.

Her chest tightened. Her breath caught in her throat. Vertigo rolled over her like a tide.

She shouldn’t have looked. Yet now she couldn’t look away.

The Abyss unfolded in her mind, pouring in truths too vast, too raw for her young heart to comprehend. She saw things she couldn’t name: distant worlds, shattered and whole. A young woman, standing at the edge of an infinite ocean. A journey unfolding, grand and terrible as she sank deeper.

Her father was there, reaching for her. His voice warm, his smile tender. But the image twisted. His hand drifted away. His voice grew faint. His smile crumbled to dust.

Then there was a boy, alone, wrapped in the suffocating black. His eyes shone with something that pulled at her, something she could neither name nor resist. She had to—

Emberlyth gasped, wrenching her hands from the railing. She stumbled back, heart pounding, sweat cold against her skin. Her legs felt weak, her mind a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts and images that refused to settle.

She shouldn’t have looked. She knew she shouldn’t have looked.

Yet the Abyss had shown her something. And now it wouldn’t let her forget.

She felt as if something had broken in her. Something she couldn’t put back together, no matter how hard she tried.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

The adults would know she had looked. How couldn’t they? The darkness clung to her, thick and heavy, as though it had seeped into her very skin. They’d scold her for being reckless, for being a foolish child. They’d lock her away in the estate, lock her in some dusty old room where she’d be all alone—just like that boy she’d seen in the Abyss, wrapped in shadows and silence.

But no. Dad won’t let them. He’ll save me. He always…

A first few tears slid down her cheeks.

Except…Dad wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for a long time. And ever since she looked into the Abyss, he felt impossibly far away. As though he’d crossed into some distant place where her hands could never reach. A place he might never return from. No more hugs, no more games. No more promises that next year—next year, he’d finally take her down with him to the incredible, sprawling city of shadows she’d only ever dreamed of.

But Dad always keeps his promises, she snivelingly told herself, her voice wavering even in her mind. And they can’t punish me for just looking, can they? I was curious. Uncle’s busy, and Lady Efrain can only take my caramel chocolates for so long… and… and…

“A daunting thing, isn’t it?”

The calm voice startled Emberlyth so badly she nearly jumped out of her shoes. If it had been any sharper, any louder, she might have broken down crying then and there.

Instead, she scurried back like a frightened sparrow, eyes wide, breath quick.

The elderly man standing beside her hadn’t been there before. She was sure of it. She hadn’t heard him approach—not a single creak of the planks.

Traitors. They had betrayed her.

“The first time you gaze into the Abyss is special,” the man continued, as if her reaction were nothing at all. His voice was steady, patient. He was tall, his frame sturdy, hands weathered and calloused as they rested on the railing. There were scars on his knuckles too, faint but deep, the kind earned through hard-won lessons and harder living. These were not the hands of estate folk—soft and carefully used. No, they reminded her of her father’s.

“It marks people. Some say the fortunate can even catch a glimpse of their destiny. A city that has yet to be built. A ruin waiting to be unearthed. Great wars, mythical beasts, lost worlds holding the relics of legends.”

He turned his head slightly, not looking at her, but close enough that she felt the weight of his words. “Did you see something interesting?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Emberlyth sniffled, twisting her fingers. Her voice felt small, as though the words were too fragile to speak. She didn’t know who this man was, but he had seen her look. That much was clear. Her eyes flicked toward the town, toward the safety of its streets. If she could just—

Before she could, the man moved. Not far, not fast, but enough. Each shift of his weight, each subtle gesture, carried a quiet authority, the kind that spoke of seeing much and knowing more. His gaze settled on her now, sharp but not unkind.

“Is that so?” he asked, letting silence test her.

She held her breath. But when the silence stretched too long, and the truth threatened to spill out, he continued with a sigh.

“Then don’t worry too much about it, Ember. Few ever see beyond the first layers. If they see anything at all.”

His words weren’t meant to comfort, but they had a way of calming her nonetheless. And perhaps it was that, combined with the fact that surprising things only remain surprising for so long, that Emberlyth gave her last snivel by the time he finished speaking. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, her cheeks blotchy and damp but her resolve returning.

She puffed up her chest, a small but determined flame rekindling inside her. “Only Dad is allowed to call me Ember,” she huffed. “To everyone else, I’m Emberlyth.”

A faint smile ghosted across the man’s lips. But it wasn’t a smile of joy. No, it carried something else—something heavy and hidden, like the weight of a memory best left undisturbed.

“I’ll make sure to remember that,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent she couldn’t quite place.

“You better.” Emberlyth nodded, feeling her confidence return. Only Olsen and Efrain tended to scold her. Most other people listened when Young Lady Draekart made one of her rare requests. This man seemed no exception, which reassured her.

“And don’t sneak up on me like that again,” she went on. “It’s very rude. Dad’s the only one allowed to surprise me.”

The man inclined his head slightly, as if taking her decree into the most serious consideration.

Maybe he was jesting with her, Emberlyth wasn’t sure. Still, with those more urgent matters settled, she allowed herself a proper look at the man. He was older, yes, but not old in the way Governess Abda was old. His back was straight, his hair thick despite the streaks of gray, and his gaze sharp—not watery or distant like her aged teacher.

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The lines on his face were deep, sure, but they weren’t lines of weakness. They were carved by years of sunlight and living, crow’s feet branched from his eyes in testament to battles seen and endured.

He didn’t look like a merchant or laborer. That much was certain. No, his stance reminded her of the knights in the old tapestries: poised, powerful, deliberate. Even as he stood still, there was an unspoken readiness in the way he carried himself, as if his body were a coiled spring, waiting for the right moment to move.

Above all, however, what really caught Emberlyth’s attention was his hair. It was fiery, almost like her own, though streaked with the ashes of age. And his eyes—sharp and colored a clear emerald green—seemed eerily familiar. Not like hers, of course, which were a bright, molten gold. But they did remind her a little of her father’s.

Her gaze narrowed.

No, she decided, those eyes aren’t nearly as friendly as Dad’s. And they’re definitely not as tricksy.

That much wasn’t hard to deduce. Her father’s face was always been a puzzle, his eyes constantly shifting between mischief and affection. He was forever scheming, always plotting his next elaborate prank to outwit her, his “clever little Ember.” This man’s expression was nothing like that.

Where her father’s grin held warmth and laughter, this man’s demeanor was regal and somber. Stern, even.

His clothing was odd as well. The puffy red shirt and sleeveless black-and-gold tunic might have been suitable for the estate, but the heavy pelt draped across his right shoulder, mirrored by an ornate golden pauldron on his left, was something entirely different. The embroidery on his garments was intricate—far more so than anything she’d seen before. His bracers gleamed, thick and weighty, etched with glyphs that seemed to hum with quiet power.

But it was the crest on his neckpiece that made her eyes widen. A dragon, bold and unmistakable, its wings unfurled as if ready to take flight.

The Draekart family crest.

No one was allowed to wear it like that. No one except…

Ah.

Once Emberlyth knew what to look for, the pieces began to fall into place.

There had been quite a few oddities that day. The first, now that she thought about it, arrived early that morning: They had allowed her to come along for the seasonal merchants’ visit.

That never happened.

Despite years of trying—sneaking into the family coaches, pleading until her throat went raw, even resorting to violent biting when all else failed—at eight years old, Emberlyth had never set foot outside the estate before.

She hadn’t thought it strange that morning, being allowed to come along. No, as they set off before first light had even broken, she had merely thought of it as a most beautiful, brilliant adventure. A most exciting event sprung upon her during an hour when she was usually snoring away under a pile of blankets.

That was only the first mystery of the day.

Then there was Mr. Olsen. He had been strange, too. Normally, the chamberlain wouldn’t dream of encouraging her to explore on her own—not even within the estate’s heavily guarded grounds. Quite the opposite. He was usually the first to remind her of her station: to behave as the daughter of a ducal house ought, to sit still, and to wear her dresses properly.

Today, he hadn’t scolded her once.

Instead, his disapproval had been reserved for the merchants. Most peculiar, indeed.

She remembered it clearly. One of the younger merchants, a hiccuping man with watery eyes, had made an offhand comment while the chamberlain had jokingly excused his own lavish tipping.

“Especially on a day like this,” the man had said, his words slurring slightly, “when the Dragon Slayer himself graces us with his presence. It’s a good time to air out the hoard a bit. E-especially after what that damned monster did to your—”

He hadn’t finished the sentence. A sharp kick from a nearby colleague had silenced him, sending him to the ground, where he sat sniffling and rubbing his shin. That was when Chamberlain Olsen had ushered her away, pressing a handful of candies into her palm.

Thinking back, there had been something strained about his laughter. His smiles, too, had seemed brittle, like fine porcelain hiding cracks beneath the glaze.

Lady Efrain had been acting oddly as well. Normally, the Head Seneschal would purse her lips at any request that involved loosening the family coffers. But today, after the usual grumbling, she’d still turned around to buy a few extra spools of fae-silk and midnight satin.

“Oh, and throw in another six-pound of caramel chocolates.” She’d dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “May our house know we’ll need something to cheer us up in the days ahead.”

Although Emberlyth hadn’t known why they would need cheering up—why so many people seemed to force themselves to smile only when she was around—the extra candies made her heart leap. Those were definitely meant for her. And six pounds? That would last forever.

She’d still been wondering what to do with such a treasure when Lady Efrain turned her weary gaze on her.

“Sweetie, don’t go too close to the edge, okay?” the older woman had said gently. “Another tragedy is the last thing we need right now…”

Those words had been really strange. Usually, the Head Seneschal was all hands and yelling when it came to her. To be called upon so gently, however, had made Emberlyth fear the entire sky might come crashing down upon her head.

It wouldn’t have been the strangest thing. Not compared to how she’d ended up alone at the Winch Tower shortly after. Surely someone should have been watching her… right? There always was. Even if the cookie jar seemed completely unguarded, or her door was strangely unlocked in the middle of the night, there was always someone there.

And yet, she’d found herself edging closer to that railing, inch by inch, with no one to stop her.

With the appearance of this old, vaguely intimidating yet familiar man, however, Emberlyth knew she’d been right. Someone had been watching her. And with all the oddities of the day laid out before her, she even knew who he was. Sort of.

He’d arrived alongside the merchants at daybreak. Uncle and her younger cousin had been there too, standing beside him on the platform as it rose through the morning mist. Or rather, Uncle had been standing. Tiny Vaelen Nocterra had been fast asleep in his arms.

Emberlyth’s first instinct had been to run down and greet them. It wasn’t often she got the chance to pull someone else’s cheeks for a change, and even if Dad wasn’t there, Uncle wasn’t half bad as a substitute. Not as good, of course, but better than anyone else at the estate.

But she couldn’t greet them that morning.

She had been on an ultra-secret mission.

High above Wilbur’s Perch—an entire ten feet up at the ridges—Emberlyth had been creeping across the rooftops, scanning for spies and hoodlums. She knew those sorts of people lived deep within the Abyss. Her father had told her about them: shadowy figures who worked alongside warlocks, seven-armed men, and horrible monsters that only sort of looked like Head Chef McGinnis. Dangerous individuals. But in the end, their schemes were always thwarted by a somersaulting, super-pretty-yet-always-kind warrior princess.

A warrior princess with copper hair.

“Just like mine!” Emberlyth would exclaim, tugging eagerly at one of her bright locks.

“Just like yours,” her father would say, his voice warm as a hearth, his smile soft and secret, like he was sharing a story only they could know.

That morning, she had been the warrior princess.

They had let her come along to greet the merchants. An utmost important task. And so, naturally, it had fallen to her to ensure no ill-minded individuals tried to sneak into the family’s domain under the guise of innocent visitors.

Or so she’d told the amused guard who’d helped her clamber onto one of Wilbur’s Perch’s safer-looking roofs.

Truthfully, she just wanted to be the first to see if Dad had returned.

Not that she would ever admit that. To anyone who cared to ask, she was the strong warrior princess, steadfast in her duty. And it wasn’t any double pinky-promise with the amused guard that made her tread so carefully across the roof. Of course not. She was a clever adventurer, and the tiles were surely made from the scales of dangerous beasts with how they shimmered faintly in the dusky glow. She mustn’t dare risk wake them. Only a fool would tempt fate like so.

Her father had taught her that, too.

Just like how he’d taught her that a brave adventurer didn’t sulk just because her dad didn’t show up one time. She planned. She prepared for the games they’d play during his next visit instead. The warrior princess didn’t cry when things went wrong. She focused on her mission, always ready for the next adventure.

And so, with her heart tucked away like a secret treasure, she had kept her post. Kept looking for that familiar silhouette. Kept hoping as she promised herself to remain strong.

The only problem was, as Emberlyth had skirted around one of the glowing eyes of the beast—a rounded window lit by a burning lantern within—to get a better vantage point, her perfect disguise had been broken.

And it was all because of the old man standing before her.

He’d been the first to step off the platform. And despite the reverent greetings and low bows greeting his arrival, his eyes had flickered her way. Just for a moment, but long enough to see her. She knew as, a breath later, he’d angled his head to the broad-shouldered man with fiery hair walking just behind him.

Vyrmion Draekart Nocterra, her Sixth Uncle, was the only one of her uncles who shared even a sliver of her father’s jovial nature. He had the same sly smile, the same kind eyes that always seemed to know more than they let on. He caught her gaze, gave her a subtle wave and a wink.

Emberlyth felt betrayed. Her hood had been up at the time.

Everyone at the estate agreed that when Emberlyth wore her hood, she was invisible. Invisible. She could sneak into the kitchens and take caramel chocolates right from the jar. As long as she didn’t take too many or do it too often, they’d all promised not to say a word.

Also, her father was nowhere to be seen. For the third time in a row.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she slid down the far side of the roof, tears burning at the edges of her eyes. Next time, she told herself. Next time, Dad will definitely show up.

It was in the moments that followed, as she lay there pressed against the tiles, sniffling and wiping her eyes, that she heard it:

The soft voice of her tiny cousin, drowsy and muffled by the morning mist, turning toward the old man to ask, “Are we there yet, Grandpa?”

That was the final puzzle piece. The only piece she needed, really.

If this old man was Vaelen’s grandpa, then… he was probably Emberlyth’s grandpa too.

Which was interesting.

Emberlyth had never had a grandpa before. She’d had Dad, Uncle, and her cousin. She’d had a whole bunch of faceless people who sent her gifts on her birthdays, too, but never a grandpa. Except maybe the one people always whispered about: Patriarch Draekart. Or Lord Falkyrr. Or sometimes, the Duke of Three Worlds.

Throughout the day, she’d also heard people murmuring about some Dragon Slayer. Maybe this was him, too.

Emberlyth hadn’t planned for this. She hadn’t imagined what she’d do when she eventually got a grandfather.

So now, she asked the first thing that came to mind.

“Do you really kill dragons?”

She hoped her grandfather didn’t. If he did, he could keep being Vaelen’s grandfather and Vaelen’s grandfather alone.

Dragons were the mightiest beings in her father’s stories, standing alongside gods and legends. But that wasn’t why she liked them. No, sometimes, when she had been particularly good, they let the warrior princess ride on their backs.

Whenever her father told her about it, swearing it was true, Ember’s jaw would hang open for days.

The old man raised an eyebrow. “We don’t wear the dragon’s crest because we hunt them, child. We wear it because their blood runs in our veins.” His words were heavy, and for a moment, Emberlyth felt like they had settled into the ground beneath her feet, pulling everything down with them.

“Stories just have a way of getting out of hand. That’s why I’m here today. To make sure they don’t. Not about this…” He shook his head, and as he continued, his voice carried the weight of old, weary tales. “But no, few living men would even know a dragon if they saw one. Fewer still would survive the encounter. What I killed was a wyvern. A ferocious beast, starved and rabid, which crawled up from the lower layers. A tragic thing…”

“Did it breathe fire?” Emberlyth tilted her head.

All dangerous things breathed fire. And had long claws, sharp teeth, and were usually at least a little ugly. That’s why it was always best to run when Lady Efrain got angry. Emberlyth had never seen her breathe fire, but she swore once she’d seen steam coming out of the Head Seneschal’s ears.

“It didn’t,” the man said.

“Oh.” Emberlyth’s face fell. “That’s… a shame.”

The man’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Her father would have told the story better. He would have made sure the wyvern breathed fire—a lot of it—and probably shot lightning out of its ass too. That would have been much cooler.

“Do you have any Aethermarks to show me?” she asked instead, continuing her inquisition. Hearing about not-dragons that didn’t even breathe fire wasn’t all that interesting. Her eyes flicked over him again, searching for any trace of shimmering scars or glowing sigils.

When he didn’t answer immediately, she pressed on. “Or maybe you brought me a gift? People usually bring me gifts when they meet me.”

That day, it had been doubly true. The merchants and townsfolk had practically showered her with offerings: handwoven socks, enchanted earrings, and even a silver knife that gleamed like frost in moonlight. Most of it was already safely stowed in the carriage, but a handful of flash-stones and the knife itself remained tucked in her pockets. In case any hoodlums tried to whisk her away.

She was sure there were gifts from her father waiting for her, too, tucked among the crates of merchant goods. Trinkets wrapped in silk or rare sweets hidden in barrels of spices. He always sent something. Even if he himself couldn’t come.

Now, the old man’s eyes softened at her words, and he reached for the sword at his side, loosening it from his belt. “I do have something for you,” he said, holding the sheathed weapon toward her.

Emberlyth’s eyes widened, hardly able to believe what they were seeing. She had never been allowed to have a weapon of her own before. Now, she had a knife and a sword.

Today really was a spectacular day.

She eagerly extended her hands, but just as the weight of the blade was placed into them, a thread of hesitation unraveled in her chest. That thread quickly knotted into something far heavier as she stared down at the sword. The scabbard dipped toward the wooden planks beneath her feet—it was far too heavy for her to hold alone. But it wasn’t the weight of it that made her stomach twist; it was the sudden recognition.

“This… is my dad’s sword,” she said, her voice faltering as the statement turned into a question. She looked up. “You’re not allowed to give it away. He needs it.”

If there was one thing as constant as her father’s scheming smile, it was that Silent Kiss never left his side. Without it, he had no way of defending himself.

The old man’s expression didn’t change, but his voice shifted ever so slightly. “Caelvorn wanted you to have it.”

Emberlyth blinked, her grip tightening around the scabbard. “Dad… wanted me to have it?” she asked, swallowing as she glanced back down at the blade.

The elongated handle was wrapped in vibrant crimson cloth. Its crossguard, a slender curve of dark metal, bent slightly upward toward the sky. It wasn’t just there to be practical; it was clever—a way to disarm an opponent mid-battle with a flick of the wrist. An almost mischievous flourish. Exactly the sort of thing her father would cherish.

She remembered the only time she’d ever seen her father spar. Even against the serious and battle-worn guard captain, her dad had been light on his feet, laughing as though the clash of blades was nothing more than a game. She could still see the moment Silent Kiss caught the captain’s blade, sending it spinning through the air. Her father’s smile had been wide, his face gleaming with effort and delight.

She had dreamed of wielding a sword like that ever since. But now, no matter how much she tugged at the handle, Silent Kiss wouldn’t budge from its sheath.

“Aye,” her grandfather said, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. It was an unfamiliar gesture. Emberlyth was used to cheek pulls and hair ruffles—things that made her feel like a child. This pat on the shoulder made her feel small in a different way, older and alone. “You’re his only daughter. It’s only right that you have it.”

“He… Dad, I mean, he won’t need it?” Emberlyth asked quietly as she clutched the scabbard tighter against her chest. Even though she couldn’t unsheathe the blade, holding it like this made her feel as if a piece of her father was still with her.

Her grandfather’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he pulled away. “No. No, he won’t. Not anymore.”

“He isn’t hurt, is he?” Emberlyth pressed on, her voice holding a quiver she didn’t like—a tremor like the last note of a song. “He… he just wants me to practice with his sword a bit, so we can play even more fun games next time he visits, right?” The words tumbled out quickly, as if speed might somehow lend them truth.

But the truth was already there, unspoken, reflected in her grandfather’s eyes. Emberlyth had always been a bit too good at piecing things together—better than most children her age. And now, the cold, jagged reality was assembling itself in her mind, sharp edges pressing into her heart. Her hands tightened around the scabbard, her knuckles whitening as her stomach churned with a hundred twisting fears.

“Emberlyth…” The old man’s voice had softened, a quiet murmur, like distant thunder before the storm arrives. “Your dad… Caelvorn isn’t coming back.”

“No,” she whispered, but the word barely escaped her lips. She stepped back, her grip on the sword tightening as though holding it could anchor her in a world that was spinning out of control. “Why?” she asked. “Why… why not?”

The question hung in the air, brittle and raw. Her thoughts raced, grasping for some explanation that could undo the truth unfolding before her.

“I-is it because you’re going to take me down there?” she asked, her tears betraying the defiance in her voice. She wiped at them with her sleeve, stubborn and trembling. “We’re going to surprise Dad, aren’t we? He always told me to find a life away from the Abyss, but if you allow it, Grandpa—he wouldn’t be able to say no, right? Please, I… I just really want to see him again.”

Her grandfather’s eyes were heavy with sorrow, his outstretched hand hanging in the space between them, unanswered. “I’m sorry, child,” Archduke Falkyrr Draekart said softly. “I truly am. But the wyvern… Your father, Caelvorn, was the first to hear of it. He…”

Emberlyth didn’t wait for him to finish. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to hear any of it. Her legs carried her, stumbling and wild, away from the truth she couldn’t escape.

Through bustling streets and quiet alleys, past the merchants and townsfolk who had showered her with gifts only hours ago. The sword dragged behind her, clumsy and unwieldy, catching on cobblestones and sending her sprawling more than once.

She didn’t care.

She hated this place, this town and its people. She hated her lying grandfather and his quiet, sorrowful voice. Most of all, she hated herself—her useless hands, her tear-streaked face, and her trembling legs that couldn’t carry her far enough or fast enough.

The truth followed her, clinging to her like a shadow. No matter how far she ran, it was there, unyielding.

By the time she stumbled back to the estate, her throat was raw from screaming, her body aching from the weight of the day. She buried herself beneath her blankets, the sword still clutched tightly in her hands. She wept into the fabric, tears soaking through, but it did nothing to drown out the silence where her father’s laughter used to be.

The truth was unrelenting: Caelvorn Draekart would never come home again.

She had known it, deep down, even before her grandfather spoke the words. She had seen it—her father’s last moments—with her own eyes. Within the dark reaches of the Abyss. Alone. Afraid. His body broken on the cold, unyielding ground. His hand—one she would never hold again—reaching skyward in a final, silent apology. And then, nothing.

Maybe if she had listened to the grown-ups, if she had stayed away from the railing. Maybe if she had been braver, smarter, stronger—just maybe, she could have been there for him in his final moments. Maybe she could have changed something.

But maybes are cruel liars, and the clock turns only forward.

The years would dull the sharp edges of her grief, turning wounds into scars and scars into aching memories. But no matter how many years passed, what was lost would remain lost.

A little girl would grow into a young woman. But the hole left by her father’s absence would never quite be filled.