The heavy footstep ripped me from the harbour of sleep, and a series of urgent knocks forced me to sit upright in bed. Despite my exhaustion, dreams had mercifully spared me their usual theatrics. My eyes darted across the room, seeking clarity amidst the fog of sudden wakefulness. The day, my obligations—all were shrouded in the haze of an untimely rousing. I loved the sun; I only got up when its rays commanded the sky and life below surged in a frenzy of daily toil -in another set of words, it was way too early for me.

Yet, a sliver of light betrayed the bedroom's darkness, sneaking beneath the door. We were meant to be alone, but the indifference of others was a constant. My rank, among other things, stripped me of privacy. How perfectly ironic.

Steven lay beside me, undisturbed by the confusion that had shattered my peace. I envied his gift of slumber, never bothered by noise or chaos—he could find rest anywhere, at any moment.

I stood up, my feet meeting the cold touch of the wooden floor, and hastened to the door. I eased through the door into the illuminated space beyond, sealing the door shut behind me. With any luck, Steven would remain ensconced in dreams, sparing me the burden of explanations. His inquiries, though rooted in concern, were a tiresome ordeal, especially at dawn's break.

The living room was awash with a harsh, unforgiving light. Before me stood a young man, his blue eyes dimmed, his curls in disarray—clear signs of urgency. He drew a deep breath, ready to divulge his woes, but I halted him with a swift gesture. "Spare me the details. What's the crux?"

"Narral has sealed its borders, troops are gathering," he uttered, his voice a calm facade contrasting the young face. Riley's training was evident, yet incomplete. He wasn’t accustomed to delivering such grave news personally. He extended a letter to me, its seal of green wax stamped with an embossed crane.

I found myself awakening once more, not to the sound of intrusion, but to the piercing agony in my temples. This pain had been a constant companion throughout the day, now escalating to an unbearable escalation. Desperate for a pause, I cradled my head in my hands. The dream left me confused. Why would Narral close its borders? What had changed to justify an army's assembly? I forced myself through the pain, lifting my head to confirm the curtains' steadfast guard of the night. I needed a few more hours of undisturbed rest next to him.

I swept my sweat soaked hair from my face and took a breath slowly. It had to be just a nightmare. None of it could be real. An open war defied all reason.

Steven stirred beside me, his breath holding as he prepared to speak. Our gazes, united in surprise, were drawn to the door. Light spilled from the adjacent room. I climbed out of the bed, my instincts screaming. It was no dream. "Dress, quickly."

Without a second thought, I darted into the living room, startling the young blue eyed man with curls. I snatched the letter from his grasp, tearing it open as he stumbled over his words. Amidst the torrent of text, one line seized my attention—the confirmation of Narral's border closure.

"Wherei the fuck’s Riley?" I demanded, cutting through his hesitation.

"We've searched in vain... they dispatched me... here, with urgency," he stammered.

"I grasp the urgency," I interjected. The letter nearly slipped from my fingers as I noticed the watermark—a capital 'J' amidst jagged leaves. Ryhel. The plant's foul scent and bitter taste were synonymous with a family even more vile. Revulsion surged within me. The realisation bore down, fragmenting my resolve, all due to a single emblem. I knew this mark all too well, and its omen was never incidental. But why would it be on an official document from Narral? The crane's absence was a bad sign. "Gather the Council, the generals—begin with Remis and Darien, their commanders, and Hamilton."

The young man nodded, his bewilderment evident. This was reality, a grim one at that. It wasn't the act of a magic-denying nation sealing its borders to a magic-imbued state that scared me; such instances were routine. The mystery lay in their military mobilisation. Without the might or means for conquest, their intent was until now a very unrealistic dream. So, what's changed? "Inform the king," I instructed, leaving the letter as I headed for the library. Discussion with Steven held no appeal, and I sensed his own impatience to leave. This time I didn’t even search for answers—the letter had been revelation enough. I just desperately clung to the thought I was wrong.

The circle on the library's floor called out to me, its allure unprecedented. It commanded my undivided attention, rendering shelves, books, and stained glass to shadows. All that remained was the luminescent blue of runes amidst an abyss of darkness. "You draw it. The entire circle, each rune one by one. Do you remember?" My grandfather's voice, a balm to the soul, echoed in my memory. I pictured his face, not the stern visage immortalised in stone, but his true face—gentle smile and eyes that softened his sharp features.

Memories surfaced. As a child, I hardly paid attention to the things and events around me. Yet now, the scene unfurled before me. Flames, voracious and orange, devoured page after page, shelf after shelf, until the wooden floor itself succumbed. But there, amidst the inferno, a barrier stood invisible and impenetrable.

At its heart, a young girl knelt, her brown locks cascading down her back. Her face was hidden, yet I knew fear was absent. I remembered my own courage. The fire and smoke dared not approach, nor touch the purity of her white overall. With a tiny finger, she traced runes, guided by a voice both kind and patient.

"Listen," he whispered. And I was listening, always. Though his command was unnecessary; my attention was all his.

But only when I focused did another voice emerge—a male's, urgent and chilling, yet familiar. It stood in chilling contrast to the warmth around us. It repeated a single phrase, 'In vetta fir,' fueling the fire's hunger. It was this voice that had sparked the blaze, that had made the flames unstoppable. I turned to its source. A tall figure loomed behind the shelves, his blond hair and piercing grey eyes visible amidst the chaos he had wrought. A little smaller, yet in every way a more cruel woman passed behind him.

The vision dissipated, leaving me staring at shelves lined with fresh tomes. A gasp escaped me as the library—and the world with it—began to whirl, threatening to bring me to my knees. A shelf behind me became my anchor, preventing my fall. My fingers clutched the wood, nails digging in, as fear rendered me breathless. This was the revelation Daniel wanted me to find. Twins. I wasn't mistaken; I had simply been in denial.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

They were the ones—immortal spectres haunting my lineage, testament to my family's past mistakes. "...why?" I whispered, unsure if I sought an answer or if one even existed. The realisation should have dawned on me sooner—they were the orchestrators behind it all. In Narral and Casscairn; the incomplete formula on Hamilton's crumbled paper, the magic-infused corpses, the blonde man Steven glimpsed—it all pointed to them. Two wretched souls granted immortality out of pity, only to pilfer the magic of others for an eternity. They were like sieves, unable to contain the magic within, which seeped out of them, vanishing into a void of endless rage and barbarity.

I couldn't wait to see the end of their shameful existence, yet confronting them was beyond me. For mages deprived of their own magic, they wielded it with unnerving proficiency. Whenever I cornered one, the other would materialise, always at the worst possible moment. They were dangerous in combat, even more adept at evasion. If they chose to retreat, they could do so for years, reappearing only when it was too late to alter the course of events.

Tears traced paths down my cheeks as the harrowing truth settled in. The figures that lurked behind the shelves had sought my life. Even as a defenceless child, they had ravaged my first home, shattered my father's world. My grip on the shelf loosened, fingers stiff and reluctant. I collapsed to the ground, the memory of their savagery vivid in my mind. Their inhumanity was abhorrent, a level of depravity that surpassed all brokenness. Their torture was the only thing that matched the expanse of their immortality. The burden of these recollections crippled me. A chill enveloped me, my breaths became laboured, and I choked on the coppery taste of my own blood again. Memories filled my mouth, coated my hands—I couldn't breathe, couldn't escape it. It was omnipresent, yet originating from nowhere, dissipating into the void.

"Take a breath," the velvety voice coaxed, returning like a gentle tide. Its brilliance was maddening, its simplicity infuriating. If breaths were within my grasp, I would have already indulged. I wanted to lash out, tell him exactly what I thought about his fucking advice, but all I could muster was a struggle against the avalanche of memories from the darkest chapters of my life. "You're safe here, nothing can harm you," he whispered again. I ached to embrace those words, to let them shield me. But how could words protect me while I was choking on my stupid memories? This Palace had once already succumbed to flames, reduced to ashes under my father's watch. What assurance of safety could there be now?

Time and again, my mind dragged me back to that empty room, where chains gnawed deeper into my flesh. Again and again, always a little deeper. Initially, I believed it was my movements that invited the pain, subtle moves that lead to cut flesh, but stillness brought no change. The iron continued its cruel journey through skin and muscle, teaching me to accept the agony until a new, more terrifying pain emerged. "You’re safe, don't let your memories convince you otherwise." The effort to sit up felt monumental, each movement an epoch. My hands trembled, my world spun. I drew a slow, deliberate breath, only to be assaulted by another fragment of their torment—the metallic taste again, a warm thick liquid filling my mouth accompanied by a lack of oxygen. I was constantly trying to escape it, coughing, only to be drawn back in, until near-unconsciousness would grant me brief respite. But this time, there was no relief, no breath of oxygen to soothe me. Unconsciousness loomed, inevitable. The only tether to wakefulness was the fear that if I succumbed -if I lost consciousness for good, I might never return. I had convinced myself it was all behind me, but that was just another comforting lie to ignore the reality. "Please, listen to my voice..."

My eyelids surrendered, too heavy to defy gravity. The act of opening my eyes became an insurmountable goal, a distant dream. I had endured enough to willingly let the darkness prevail. Nothing else mattered; I lacked the strength to endure that terror again, to reason with them, to withstand their vengeance, to await a rescue that would never arrive. I was done. I wished for the darkness to claim me, to consume and obliterate me. This was the end; I couldn't stand alone against them, not again. "You can’t surrender..." I was ready for whatever might come. Darkness, death, misery. Yet, to my dismay, nothing did.

Darkness eluded me, replaced instead by the warmth of a golden sphere that materialised from nowhere. It refused to leave me be, casting light where I craved shadow. It wouldn't let me surrender, behaving as if it could persuade me, a small, stupid orb that knew nothing of me. "Leave me alone!" I growled, finally drawing breath. The air filled my lungs in a sensation so liberating. "What do you want from me!?"

"Reach out," I extended my hand, knowing resistance was futile. Despite my sense of autonomy, I was always just a piece in someone else's game—a replacement. "Look at it." I saw no point in looking at my own hand until it was bathed in a brilliant light, the very essence that refused to let me drown in my memories. "Don't let the darkness consume you, you are the Light." Light? Me? Wasn't that his domain, the foundation of all he has built? I wasn’t like him, I wasn’t his daughter. So why should I, his granddaughter, possess it? Some gifts cannot be passed down. Or can they? How… Because I am his Heir? The orb in my palm pulsed with newfound intensity, brighter and more urgent than ever before.

An energy unlike any I had ever witnessed, yet so familiar to our own powers. It was ancient, predating my abilities and other Heirs. "You are my everything, my only hope, my Successor, you have to correct my mistake, conclude what I could not," the voice implored once more, a whisper across time. "Restore balance for our family and for everyone else."

To correct everything—such an easy command to follow. I would simply 'set things right,' address all that he had left undone. I fixated on the orb, willing it to pulse at my command, each iteration a beacon of growing hope. It was his legacy, now intertwined with me.

As I sat there, time slipping by, the gravity of my situation settled in. The Twins, architects of chaos, threatened to unravel all I had built, resetting the game to its opening move. Alone, they held the power to raze my home; what havoc could they wreak with an army at their command? A sharp pain lanced through my temples, visions manifesting in response to the questions I dared not to ask.

First came the image of two red folders, identical, waiting on a table before me. Then, a city unknown to me, its wooden fences no match for the dead lining the streets. Delicate white and blue flowers descended from the lofty ceiling, calling me. I turned, facing a daunting blue wall, its presence ominous amidst the floral cascade. I drew near, a nearly imperceptible crack appeared before me. And then Oakfort, once sturdy and proud, lay in ruins.

And in the end, those green eyes, dimming in my embrace as life abandoned them. I didn't seek the wound, nor did I attempt to stop the flow; I just witnessed his death.

This was the future that terrorised Edgar.

"You have to help me..." I whispered. My heart threatened to burst, my head throbbed, nausea loomed. The day's burdens grew heavier with each passing minute, and still, no answer. "You have to help me!" My voice rose as I got up to my feet. "You want me to fix everything for you?" His presence was evident; I wasn’t alone. "Tell me how!" In a fury, I snatched the nearest book, sending it across the room where it collided with a shelf and fell.

The sound of the book's fall seemed to startle or perhaps offend him. His presence vanished, and I was left alone. I wanted to get back to the floor, to weep as the child who was supposed to die here. Yet, my body resisted, propelled by that annoying part of me that refused to surrender, that demanded answers and devised plans, however futile. It compelled me to keep going. And so, I did, drying my tears, preparing to face what lay ahead, though I could not bear the thought of those green eyes just yet. The Twins posed a threat to his life. That realisation spurred me into action. I had to intercept them, to thwart their schemes before they could endanger him.