Dawn's pale light filtered through stained-glass windows as Arin and Lireya slipped into the lower depths of the Celestial Library. The morning hush had not yet given way to the bustle of students, and only the soft echo of their footsteps accompanied them down the winding stone stair.
At the bottom lay a heavy iron door, riveted and etched with ancient runes that hummed faintly under Arin's dual-core aura. He laid a hand on the circular sigil—a complex weave of wind spirals and earthen glyphs—and it pulsed once before folding inward to grant them entrance. Lireya reset the wards behind them, and they crossed into the Archives of Forgotten Truths.
The chamber inside was cavernous, its ceiling lost in shadow. Rows of alcoves stretched into darkness, each one holding scrolls and codices long since believed destroyed. Lanterns floated on ghostly chains, illuminating motes of dust that danced like fireflies. The air smelled of parchment and secrets.
"According to Drayven's note," Lireya whispered, "the Lament of the Second Wind should be here." She produced her journal, leafing to a carefully drawn map of the Archives. "Section Theta-9—beyond the Hall of Broken Memories."
They navigated a labyrinth of narrow passages. At every turn, statues of hooded archivists loomed, their stone fingers pointing toward hidden alcoves. Arin could feel the weight of centuries pressing in—the hopes and regrets of every mage whose story ended here.
"Over here," Lireya said, pausing before a low shelf carved into the wall. Faded letters read Lamentum Secundi Venti. The codex sat upon a plinth of black marble, its cover woven from silvery threads that shimmered like starlight.
Together they lifted it. The moment Arin's fingers brushed the cover, a quiet lament filled the chamber—a susurrus of voices carried on a breeze. He closed his eyes and let the wind-core translate the voices into words:
"…and so the Second Wind rose to seal the wyrm's breath, binding it within the valley's heart. But in that act, she lost her voice—her memories scattered to silence…."
Arin's breath stuttered. "She… she spoke not to mortals again."
Lireya opened the tome to the first page. Runes glowed briefly, then faded to ink. "Here—'The Price of Duality.'" She read aloud:
"To wield two currents is to bear two burdens. The Second Wind sacrificed her identity to preserve the land. Only by reclaiming the Lament can the true name be restored—and the hidden sins laid bare."
Arin's mind whirled. The valley of his ancestors—protected by those guardians—had cost the life and soul of one who shared his wind affinity. No wonder Drayven's regret cut so deep.
"We need to know her true name," Arin said. "If we can restore her voice… perhaps the fragment's burden eases—and we learn the secret that doomed her kin."
He turned pages, searching for the passage that held the name. The lament recounted a final invocation:
"On the eve of the waning moon, the Second Wind breathed her true name—
Althé Nivara Aelros —
and the wyrm's roar was silenced for centuries."
Arin looked up, heart pounding. "Althé Nivara Aelros."
Lireya's eyes shone. "The Aelros bloodline—lost to history. That means your family's fortress was built atop her seal. And Drayven… he traded the fragment to protect her memory."
A distant clatter echoed. The lanterns quivered as if disturbed by a hidden force. Arin snapped the codex shut. "We've stayed too long. Someone's coming."
They hurried back through the halls, the lament's echo fading behind them. As they emerged into the morning light of the main library, a figure blocked their path—Professor Merial, the Academy's Keeper of Seals. Her stern gaze flicked to the codex in Lireya's arms.
"You're not authorized here," she said, voice low but unwavering. "Return the Lament at once."
Arin squared his shoulders. "It's not a book to conceal, Professor. We need to restore Althé's true name—and Drayven himself commanded us."
Merial's eyes narrowed. "The Headmaster did not grant open access. For your own safety, hand it over."
Before tension could snap, Lireya placed the codex on a nearby pedestal. "We will, once you agree to help us complete the ritual to restore her voice."
The professor's jaw tightened, the silver light of her own mana core flickering. Then, slowly, she exhaled. "Very well. But any misstep, and I confiscate it permanently."
Arin nodded. "Agreed."
Merial raised a slender hand, summoning a circle of gold-flecked glyphs on the marble floor. "Stand within. Speak her name with conviction."
Arin stepped forward, heart thrumming like the fragment's pulse at his core. He cleared his throat, and his voice rang out across the silent library:
"Althé Nivara Aelros."
The codex trembled, its cover threads glowing brighter. A breeze swirled through the chamber, lifting loose pages and stirring lantern flames into a halo of light. A soft lament rose once more—this time, clearer, almost a voice.
Merial whispered, almost to herself, "She returns…"
The glyphs flared. A ripple of energy spread outward, and in that moment Arin saw her—a vision at the center of the circle: a tall figure cloaked in wind-torn robes, her hair streaming like mist. Her eyes—emerald pools of longing—rested on Arin.
"Thank you," she breathed, her voice a sigh of release. "My name… my voice… lives again."
The light collapsed inward, extinguishing the glyphs and dimming the codex's glow. Silence reclaimed the Archives.
Arin knelt and picked up the tome. The cover threads had softened to pale silver. He closed it reverently.
"There's more to do," he said softly. "But now we know why Drayven—why all of them—guarded this truth."
Lireya smiled, relief shining in her eyes. "And we'll set it right. For Althé, for your ancestors, and for everyone who sacrificed to seal the wyrm."
As they emerged into the brightening halls, Arin felt the fragment's weight lighten in his pocket. The Lament—and the name it held—had restored a lost chapter of history. And with every truth reclaimed, the dual burdens of wind and earth felt a bit more bearable.
Tomorrow, the trial. But tonight, they carried a new hope—one born of memory, sacrifice, and the voices of those who would no longer remain forgotten.