Seren sat motionless in the ornate room provided for her within the Council's headquarters, her fingers lightly brushing the embroidery of her sleeve. Outside, the golden sun had long set behind the tall towers of Theros, casting long shadows across the marbled floors and walls. The silence was thick, suffocating almost, as if the room itself were holding its breath with her.
She had been told this morning—told, not asked—that she would be one of the two candidates for the title of Master Elementalist. A title soaked in prestige, power, and honor, whispered with reverence throughout the kingdom. It was what so many would kill to attain.
And yet, here she was, staring blankly into nothing, unsure of what she was feeling.
Happiness? Perhaps. Emptiness? Certainly. A bit of both, most likely. Or perhaps it was a sense of inevitability. Like a wave crashing toward her with no escape in sight.
The knock on her door earlier had brought more than a simple announcement. The messenger from the Council—a young woman dressed in blue and silver—had handed her a sealed parchment with crisp instructions, not just about the nomination, but also about the performance required of each candidate.
In front of the king, during the grand celebration of his sixtieth birthday, the candidates were to state a motion: a proposed contribution to the kingdom that would test not only their ideals but their ability to carry them out. Their success or failure in this endeavor would ultimately determine who would ascend as the Master Elementalist.
But it wasn't the title or the competition that had left Seren so deeply unsettled.
It was the suggestion that had come with the parchment.
A motion to propose the second wave of the purge.
Seren had stared at the word, inked neatly but heavy with implication. The Purge.
She'd never heard of it before—not in school, not in the children's tales, not in the gossip that swept the cities. It was as if it had been erased from memory itself. But when the Council made mention of it so plainly, so confidently, she had taken it upon herself to look further.
In the quiet hours of the afternoon, she'd slipped into the archives of the Council's library. Searched records not listed in the public indexes. Hidden histories. Redacted pages.
And there, she had found it.
Twelve years ago. A quiet campaign, sanctioned not by the crown itself but by an internal faction within the Elementalist Council. A mass execution of individuals suspected to be of Veyrathi blood.
The word had struck her.
Veyrathi.
She had thought them myths. Stories told to frighten or awe, tales of those who bonded with divine beasts. But the records said otherwise. They existed. They were real. They had bled. And now, the Council wanted to finish what they had started.
Seren stood up from her seat, moving toward the window. Below, the city buzzed with life. Streets lit by magic lanterns, carriages clattering over stone, the distant sounds of laughter and celebration for the king's birthday tomorrow. A kingdom eager to be dazzled.
She placed a hand on the cold windowpane.
They wanted her to propose the second purge.
She didn't know if she could.
She was supposed to be a symbol of peace. Of elemental harmony. A prodigy, gifted by the spirits. But here she stood, a pawn. A figurehead, meant to smile and wave and point toward bloodshed when asked.
Could she say no?
Would it matter if she did?
Her heart ached, a thousand emotions twisting into a single, painful knot.
"Finn…" she whispered softly.
The name slipped out without her realizing it. A memory—of a boy with a gentle voice and droopy eyes, who listened more than he spoke. He'd vanished from her life the same day her life had flipped upside down.
Finn had been kind to her. She knew, even though he wasn't there with her, that Finn would never be okay with something like this.
Seren clenched her fists.
She had to decide—to follow her heart or to stay obedient and follow the orders of the higher ups.
She had to decide fast. Tomorrow, everything would change.
One way or another.
____________
Regan's head was spinning.
Cale had just told them all the paths led to the palace.
The palace.
"Are you serious?" Regan asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Cale didn't respond right away. He was clutching his head, his breathing shallow and fast. Blood was still dripping from the corners of his eyes, staining his cheeks crimson in the dim torchlight.
Finally, Cale nodded weakly. "A building that magnificent... there's nothing else it could be."
Beside him, Rosanna exhaled a shaky breath. "Then what are we waiting for? Even if it's the palace, I'd rather take my chances there than end up as an offering on that woman's altar."
Regan's anxiety twisted tighter in his chest. A secret tunnel that led straight to the palace? That alone was a treasonous secret. If the royals knew about it and allowed it, that meant something even more sinister was at play. And if they didn't know…
He didn't want to finish that thought.
Getting caught sneaking out of the tunnel into the palace could mean death.
But being dragged back to Emilia and her altar meant certain death.
His breath hitched. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the stone walls pressing in around them. The darkness. The silence.
And then his eyes drifted to Cale.
He didn't know why, but seeing him there—even injured, bloody-eyed, barely upright—gave him a strange sense of reassurance. It was absurd. It was irrational. But it was real.
He hadn't had the time to confirm it back when they were still trapped in the facility. But now… something about this entire ordeal solidified it in his gut.
Cale Varn is not ordinary.
He suspected it before. Now, he knew.
And for some reason… he wasn't afraid.
He should be afraid. If his family ever found out he was siding with a Veyrathi, they'd want to skin him alive.
But he wasn't afraid. He was… glad.
Regan straightened, squared his shoulders, and spoke with a boldness he didn't quite feel.
"Then we go forward. Pick any one of the paths. Doesn't matter which. We have Cale with us—if anything happens, we'll make it through."
Cale blinked at him, taken aback.
Rosanna stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Can't you see the blood flowing from his bloody eyes?"
Regan shrugged, giving her a cocky grin. "Yeah, but he's still standing, isn't he?"
But before any of them could speak again, the air shifted.
Footsteps.
All three of them froze.
From the tunnel behind them, slow, heavy steps echoed through the stone passageway. The sound of boots against ancient stone, deliberate and closing in.
Regan felt his blood chill.
Cale was the first to move. He pushed off the wall, pain in every motion, and whispered, "We need to go. Now."
Rosanna was already reaching for Cale's arm to support him. Regan turned, choosing the rightmost tunnel without hesitation.
Behind them, the footsteps grew louder.
And the tunnel ahead plunged into deeper darkness.