The echo of the scroll's final words lingered in the air like the toll of a funeral bell. Silence reigned for one long, breathless heartbeat.
Then the lead enforcer roared and lunged for Lysander, blade flashing in the low light.
Lysander met him mid-charge, steel against steel. Sparks flared. Cold seared the air. The force of the collision sent frost cascading outward like a ripple across still water.
But this time, something shifted.
A crack formed down the porcelain mask of the enforcer.
Another blow.
A deeper crack.
Lysander parried a downward slash, reversed his grip, and slammed the hilt of his blade into the centre of the mask.
The porcelain shattered.
The man staggered back, shards clattering to the floor like falling teeth.
Gasps erupted.
Seraphine froze.
The face beneath the mask was gaunt, weathered—but unmistakable.
High cheekbones. Pale silver eyes. The same angular jaw. The same streak of white in otherwise dark hair.
"No..." Seraphine's voice was barely a whisper. Her blade dipped.
Lysander turned sharply. "You know him?"
Her voice trembled. "My uncle. Veylan. He died in the fire. I saw him burn."
The man—Veylan—smiled with cracked lips. "I died, yes. But not completely. The Court made sure of that."
He stepped forward, expression unreadable.
"You survived, Seraphine. I warned them you would. You always were the stubborn one."
"You led them," she said, horror dawning in her eyes. "You led the massacre."
"To preserve the Accord," he said simply. "To bury what never should have existed."
His voice was devoid of malice—worse than hate. It was cold faith.
Mira, trembling, stepped forward. Her hand lifted.
"The night my mother died... you were there."
Veylan looked at her. "Your mother was weak. She begged for mercy."
Mira screamed. "You lied to her! You promised to protect her!"
She held up the broken jade pendant, glowing now in her hand. "She gave me this. Told me to find the ones who remembered."
The pendant pulsed.
So did the glyphs on Lysander's arm.
Golden light laced his veins, spreading from his palm to shoulder, then to his throat. His breath came faster, fogging in front of his face as the temperature dropped again. His shadow lengthened, twisting with flame and frost.
Lysander's eyes narrowed, slitting to vertical pupils. Not just a flare of instinct—this was inheritance.
Around them, the vault responded. The glyphs on the pillars pulsed in time with Lysander's heartbeat, casting long shadows that shimmered with fragments of the past. Muffled whispers leaked from the stone—snatches of vows, cries of the betrayed, the clinking of chains. A wind with no source stirred the torchlight.
"You came for the scroll," Lysander said. "But you brought the truth with you."
Veylan's smile twisted. "The truth is poison. It must be burned before it spreads."
He raised a hand, calling for his men—
But behind him, one had already fallen.
The others looked uncertain.
One dropped his blade. Another stepped backwards, shaking his head. Another muttered, "This wasn't the mission..."
"You would silence a child to serve a lie?" Lysander shouted.
The vault trembled again.
A deeper groan answered—a tectonic sigh from the foundations beneath. Dust spiralled down from the ceiling as the entire chamber seemed to inhale.
The altar glowed once more. From within its base, gears turned, runes aligned, and a new platform rotated outward from the stone.
Resting atop it was a sheathed blade, wrapped in royal demoncloth, coiled in faint black fire.
The blade pulsed in time with Lysander's breath.
A low hum filled the air, almost inaudible, but every soul in the chamber could feel it. It wasn't just magic—it was recognition. A long-lost thread finding its match.
Veylan saw it and froze. "No... it was sealed. Lost. Burned with your line."
Seraphine's eyes widened, and her mouth parted. "It's reacting to you."
Lysander stepped forward.
Every breath he took left frost in the air. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of what called to him.
As his hand closed around the hilt, the cloth unravelled.
The sword sang.
Dark flames licked the edges of the steel—silent, cold, but alive. Symbols along the blade flared to life, ancient words that hadn't been read aloud in centuries. They curled up his wrist, temporary tattoos of heritage and wrath.
Not just a weapon.
A legacy.
And a promise.
Mira stepped back, tears drying on her face. "It's yours," she whispered. "It always was."
The blade shifted subtly in his grip—alive, aware.
A voice echoed faintly in Lysander's mind:
"Your enemies are the same. But you must become someone else. Not the heir they expected. The storm they feared."
He turned.
"Go," he told Seraphine and Mira. "There's a second exit through the upper tunnels. Take her. I'll hold him off."
"I'm not leaving you," Seraphine said, stepping forward.
"You must," he replied, voice calm but iron-clad. "This is between blood."
His gaze softened. "Protect her. Protect what's left. You've done it before."
Seraphine hesitated—then slowly nodded.
She sheathed her blade and took Mira's hand.
"Come on, little one. We'll find the stars again."
Mira clutched her pendant tightly and looked back at Lysander.
"Don't die," she said.
He smiled faintly.
"Not today."
She nodded and ran. Seraphine followed, a final glance over her shoulder etched with quiet fire.
Veylan snarled and charged.
And Lysander met him.
Steel rang out, this time not with chaos, but with clarity—one rhythm, one duel, born of a thousand years of silence finally broken.
Frost kissed the pillars, fire danced along the runes, and time itself seemed to hesitate.
The chamber bore witness.
As the girls vanished into the tunnel's glow, frost and flame collided behind them.
The ancient vault, once dormant, pulsed with awakening.
And far beneath the stone—something older than memory stirred.
The reckoning had begun.