The remnants of the feast were being cleared away. Servants in their black and gold and purple uniforms made hardly a sound as they came and went, hurriedly removing the empty plates and refilling wine goblets. The long tables were pushed back against the walls or carried away entirely, clearing the vast floor for dancing. Musicians were already changing up the melodies, the first chords of a lively dancing song drifting through the Grand Hall, setting the mood for the evening's second act.
Amriel barely noticed. She stood with her back against the wall, her table having already been cleared and removed. Her stomach twisted as she waited in silence, her mind circling the same thought over and over.
She was sure that, in only a matter of moments, she would stand before the King of Khymarh, the most important man in the realm and ruler of them all, and speak words that could change everything.
What if he doesn't believe me?
The thought constricted her throat like an iron collar. What if he dismisses me as a liar? Or worse—what if he deems me utterly mad?
These questions had haunted her since the day she discovered she could decipher the ancient tome of Lygeness, and reluctantly uncovered the prophecy hidden within its weathered pages. But now, her fears centered on one man—the king himself.
The very sovereign who could command her execution with a gesture, or condemn her to the forgotten shadows of the Dreadfort's deepest chambers, where prisoners wasted away beyond memory or mercy.
A muscle in Amriel's jaw tightened.
The Dreadfort.
The name alone was enough to send a chill through her.
She had only ever seen it from a distance—an unyielding tower of black stone that loomed over the cliffs beyond the capital, its silhouette sharp against the sky. It was a place meant to be looked at, feared, and never entered.
King Drayus Drathex, second of his name and six centuries dead, had ordered its construction as a prison for the kingdom's most vile and deranged. But Amriel knew the truth. The Dreadfort did not simply hold criminals. It swallowed them.
Enchantment ran through its very foundation, woven so deep into the stone that no magic—no matter how powerful—could be wielded within its walls. No spells. No escape. No mercy. Beneath the surface, deeper than anyone dared to measure, lay the cells that held the most broken, the most forsaken. Those who vanished into the depths were never seen again.
Some whispered that the day the Dreadfort was completed was the day the witches of Khymarh betrayed their own by lending it their enchantments.
Gods, don't be ridiculous.Kortana wouldn't let that happen. Doubt flickered. Would she?
The thought gnawed at her as the King rose from his seat, giving a brief farewell to what remained of the guests in the hall before he turned and departed through the grand archway that led to the chambers beyond. His royal guard moved in formation around him, their silver-cloaked figures disappearing into the shadows.
Amriel barely had time to react before Kortana and the Crown Prince parted from the group she had been standing with, and with the quiet confidence of someone who had expected this moment long before it arrived, followed the king.
She caught a flicker of movement—him. The warrior. He was already striding after the prince. He did not look back.
Amriel swallowed and a cold weight settled in her stomach. This is happening.
At Kortana's slight nod, Amriel fell in step behind the Coven Leader, keeping her spine straight despite the pulse hammering in her throat. The sounds of celebration behind her grew distant, muffled.
They passed through the archway, leaving behind the golden glow of the Grand Hall. The corridor beyond was dimmer, the light coming only from a series of sconces lining the stone walls. Their witch lights glowed with an unnatural stillness—they never guttered, never waned. It made the air feel... lifeless.
The revelry of the feast faded behind them, replaced by the hush of stone and shadow.
Amriel's fingers curled at her sides.
She stole a glance at Kortana, who strode ahead with that same measured grace, offering no words, no reassurance.
Maybe this would be fine. Maybe the King would hear her out.
Or maybe she was walking straight into the hands of a man who would see her silence as the best course of action.
Her throat tightened.
Too late to turn back now.
They entered the chamber.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. This was not the gilded splendor of the Grand Hall, with its towering chandeliers and heavy tapestries woven with the histories of the realm. No. This room had no distractions, no opulence to soften its edges. It was meant for decisions, for war, for shaping the fate of nations.
A single, vast table dominated the space, it's dark wood polished to a dull sheen. Amriel's breath caught as she stepped closer.
A map.
Not just of Khymarh, but of the entire known world.
Etched across the table's surface were the jagged coastlines of distant lands, the sprawl of empires and kingdoms, marked with sigils she only half-recognized. Tiny wooden markers stood in precise formations—fleets at sea, armies stationed at borders, fortifications carved into the terrain. Pieces on a board, waiting to be moved.
The King stood beside it, one hand resting lightly against its edge. He was tall, his presence sharp as a drawn blade, eyes unreadable beneath his heavy crown.
"Well now, Coven Leader," he said, his voice measured, almost idle. "Was there something you wished to tell me about?"
Amriel forced herself to stay still as Kortana stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," the Coven Leader said smoothly, "may I introduce Amriel Vardon."
The King's gaze flicked to her, assessing, waiting. Then—
"Nythia's daughter," the Crown Prince said. His voice was softer than his father's, but there was something behind it—curiosity, maybe. Amusement. A test. He gestured for her to step forward.
Behind him, the warrior lingered in the shadows, watching. His emerald eyes flickered over her, unreadable. But his stance shifted slightly—a subtle tensing of his shoulders, a readiness that hadn't been there before. One hand moved to rest on the hilt of the blade at his side, his knuckles whitening with the pressure of his grip.
Amriel's slippers made no sound against the stone floor as she moved closer. The map stretched before her, impossibly detailed, impossibly vast. For a heartbeat, she forgot where she was, drawn to the sheer scale of it. How many wars have been planned at this table? How many lives shifted like these wooden pieces?
The weight of the King's gaze pressing down on her.
"Nythia's daughter," he repeated, quieter now, as if tasting the words, testing their shape on his tongue. His face, once carved from stone, softened—not into warmth, not quite grief, but something in between. A hesitation. A memory.
They knew my mother.
The realization settled deep, cold in her ribs, as if she had swallowed river stones. No one had prepared her for this. Before she could stop herself, she spoke.
"You knew her." The words came quiet, steady, though her throat felt tight. It wasn't a question.
The King studied her for a moment longer before his gaze flickered to the Prince. His expression remained unreadable, save for a flicker—something behind those gold-hazel eyes.
Finally, the King inclined his head. "I did." His voice carried weight, as if those two words held an entire history within them.
Amriel's breath caught, but she didn't move, didn't let herself fidget under his scrutiny. The chamber, vast and austere, seemed smaller now, the witch light casting long, flickering shadows across the polished stone floor.
A shift to her right—subtle, deliberate. Kortana.
"Amriel," the Coven Leader said, her voice measured, expectant. "Tell the King what you told me."
Amriel's stomach clenched. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thick with the weight of expectation. She shifted her weight, hands curling into fists at her sides. Her gaze flickered from Kortana to the King.
He did not move at first, only watched her. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his fingers against the edge of the great map table. It was a small movement, but unmistakable. Interest.
"Go on," he said.
Her mouth was dry. She swallowed. Say it.
"I can read the ancient tome of Lygeness."
The chamber stilled.
The silence pressed in, thick enough that Amriel could hear the blood rushing in her ears.
The King did not react immediately. He studied her, his expression unreadable, his eyes sharp—searching. Not for meaning, but for deception. As if waiting for the illusion to crack, for her words to crumble beneath scrutiny.
"Impossible," he said at last.
Amriel forced herself to hold his gaze. "It is not."
From the corner of her vision, she saw the warrior straighten, his shoulders tensing, his attention sharpening like the edge of a drawn blade. Even Kortana, so practiced in masking her thoughts, tilted her head slightly, watching.
The King exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound, measured—not quite disbelief, but nowhere near acceptance. "The tome has been unreadable for centuries," he said. "Even the most skilled Archivists and Power wielders have failed to decipher its script."
"I know," Amriel said. Her fingers ached from how tightly she had curled them at her sides. She forced them to unclench, to remain steady. "But I can read it. The letters, the language—they make sense. Now."
A flicker of something crossed the King's face. Not yet belief, but curiosity. Wariness.
"And what," he asked, his voice steady but edged, "does it say?"
Amriel hesitated.
Say it. Say it now, before you lose your nerve.
She met his gaze, squared her shoulders.
The words came unbidden, tumbling from her lips as if they had been waiting to be spoken:
"When silver fire rains from the heavens and shadows stretch beyond the breaking dawn,
When the hymn of forgotten stars is swallowed by silence.
When the last of the Starlight Witches falls—
The door to Eternity shall open.
And from its boundless depths, the patient shall emerge—
Those who have kept endless vigil.
Destinies shall unravel as easily as they weave them anew.
Beware, for not all who enter shall return,
And those who do may never be the same."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The King's fingers, which had been resting against the edge of the map table, stilled.
Tristan, standing beside his brother, was less guarded now, his golden-hazel gaze trained on her with quiet scrutiny. He did not interrupt. Neither did Kortana.
Amriel swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand taller. Don't waver. Not now.
"You're certain?" the king asked at last, his voice even, measured.
"Yes." She forced steel into the word.
A muscle in the king's jaw tightened, just slightly. The light from the enchanted sconces cast shifting shadows across his face, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes.
The king studied her, the weight of his gaze heavier than before. "And why you?"
She hesitated for only a breath. "I don't know."
The truth of it made her stomach knot, but she had no reason to lie. She did not understand why she alone could read the tome. Why the words had been sealed to others but laid bare before her.
"Curious," Tristan murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
Amriel glanced at him. Then her eyes drifted to the warrior standing behind the Crown Prince, his expression remaining unreadable.
The king exhaled sharply through his nose, as if tasting the weight of her claim on his tongue and finding it bitter. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides before he shook his head once.
"I would remind your Grace that she is Nythia's daughter."
Kortana.
The words cut through the chamber like a blade, sharp and undeniable.
For the first time, the king's composure cracked.
It was brief—no more than the tightening of his mouth, the flicker of something almost like grief flashing across his features before it was swiftly buried.
Amriel's breath hitched.
What was my mother to him?
The king looked away, his eyes flickering to the candlelit map spread across the table. His fingers skimmed over one of the iron markers, a habit, perhaps, of grounding himself in something tangible.
"If Nythia were here…" He did not finish the thought. Instead the King stood, and without another word, walked from the chamber.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of celebration still continuing in the Great Hall. The air hung heavy in the King's absence, laden with unspoken questions.
Amriel remained frozen where she stood, uncertain whether to feel relief or deepening dread. Her message had been delivered—but to what end? Not dismissal, certainly. But the King's reaction had been far from reassuring.
Prince Tristan exhaled slowly, his eyes moving from the doorway to Amriel and then to Kortana. Something unspoken passed between the Crown Prince and the Coven Leader—a look laden with meaning beyond Amriel's understanding.
"Well," he said finally, breaking the silence. "That was certainly not how I expected this evening to progress." The casual tone couldn't quite mask the tension beneath.
"What happens now?" Amriel asked, the question escaping before she could consider its wisdom.
Tristan's mouth curved into something not quite a smile. "Now? You wait. And pray that what has been set in motion doesn't consume us all."
He nodded once to Kortana before following his brother's path, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
The warrior moved suddenly, striding toward the doorway through which the King and Tristan had vanished. But as he passed Amriel, his hand brushed against hers—so briefly it might have been accidental. Then he was gone, following his liege without a backward glance.
Amriel exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders uncoiling slightly. The Dreadfort didn't await her—at least not tonight. She had delivered the prophecy as required. She had fulfilled her obligation to Kortana.
Kortana's hand settled lightly on Amriel's arm. "Come," she said. "There is nothing more to be done tonight."
She had done it.
And now…
Now, there was no turning back.