"I stood away from the throne, afraid that if I took even a single step toward it, I might not be able to stop. It was… compelling. Too compelling. I could hear my own thoughts begging me to stay, to accept what was destined—the throne—and become the king I was always meant to be.
I had two choices to make, and I knew neither outcome. The throne called to me, alluring in a way I could not explain. What do I do? What if I cannot turn back? What if refusing it becomes the very reason I am trapped here forever? The questions echoed in my mind again and again, and all it took was that tiny seed of doubt for the voice to take hold—to push me, to guide me, to bend my will.
Slowly, I moved toward the throne, my resolve wavering, hesitation clinging to me like a shadow. I did not yet understand what stayed my steps—only that something did. Then, as I drew closer, a scream tore through the air.
I turned.
Mother was locked in battle, overwhelmed, her strength stretched thin. Alaric was pressed hard against the ground, so forcefully that the earth beneath him began to crack and give way. And in that moment, I understood the price of ascending the throne. It demanded that I turn my back on them—that I leave Mother and Alaric behind.
I did not hesitate again.
I turned away from the throne.
But after my first step, the world shattered—and I found myself standing in a vast room of mirrors.
The floor beneath my feet was covered in clear, still water, calm even as I moved, reflecting my image with unsettling clarity. Mirrors stood everywhere, stretching endlessly in every direction. There were countless versions of me, so many that I could no longer tell which one was real. Every reflection stared back at the others with doubt, with disbelief. Each one felt… aware.
I felt trapped—caught in an infinite loop—where every version of me possessed its own consciousness. Then it struck me: I was not just looking at reflections. I was one.
To them, I was only a mirror. Just as they were to me.
And then I realized… there might be a true body. A center. A real self.
And if that was true—"
The sound of the door opening cut Edmund off mid-narration.
The abrupt interruption pulled them all back into the present. Their eyes snapped toward the doorway, tension thick in the air as they waited.
A servant stepped inside.
Urgency burned in her eyes.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady, but there is someone here who wishes to meet with you immediately," the servant said, bowing low. "She claims it is urgent—important."
"Someone here to meet me?" Zyrelle asked, surprised. "Have them wait in the anteroom. I will grant them an audience shortly."
The servant bowed and withdrew—but returned almost at once, her steps hurried.
"My lady… the person is aware of this gathering," she said carefully. "She has requested to meet with everyone. She says she has no second to spare."
Zyrelle stiffened.
"Who is it that knows of this gathering?" she asked.
The same unease crossed every face in the room. They glanced at one another before turning back to the servant.
"Let her in," Zyrelle said at last.
The servant bowed and stepped aside, leaving the doors open.
Silence fell.
All eyes fixed on the entrance.
Footsteps echoed—measured, graceful, deliberate. A woman emerged, clad in regal robes, her presence commanding even before her face was seen. Her hair was concealed, her face half-veiled by a blue scarf that left only sharp, arched brows and striking blue eyes exposed.
She stepped fully into the chamber.
Then, slowly, she removed the covering.
"Lyrris," Rowenne breathed.
Zyrelle could only stare.
Shock robbed her of speech, replaced by a sudden, suffocating weight of guilt. The last time she had seen Lyrris, the girl had been seven years old.
And the memory had never faded.
Lyrris—small, fragile, standing still as tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She had not cried loudly. She had not screamed. It had been worse than that.
A quiet plea.
"Please… I don't want to go."
Just a week before her departure, she had never imagined leaving. She had spoken endlessly of her birthday celebration a month away, of the games she played by the riverbank where children gathered daily, laughing, chasing one another beneath the sun.
That life had been taken from her in a breath.
She was locked away, no longer allowed outside, stripped of play and comfort, prepared in silence for the journey to Eryndral—for a fate she did not understand. Alone in that room, fear her only companion.
It was then that Zyrelle had entered.
Not the ruler of Myrridral.
Just a young woman.
"Please," Lyrris had begged again, her voice breaking, eyes swollen with tears. "Don't let them take me."
She did not know what awaited her. Only that she would face it alone.
And she had.
Eventually, she left.
And she was never the same again.
Now—twenty-three years later—Lyrris stood in the very halls that had confined her, that had sealed her fate and sent her away. The same stone walls. The same air.
Only this time, she had returned.
And nothing about her presence felt accidental.
"Greetings, Lords and Ladies," she said, bowing.
The gesture was returned by all—save for Zyrelle, who merely stood in composed silence, and Rowenne, who acknowledged her with a slight nod. Alaric and Edmund lingered in their bow longer than the rest. To everyone else, Lyrris was a revered seer. But to them, she was something far more unforgettable—the woman who once glowed like a heavenly being, her voice ethereal and otherworldly during the Celestial Convergence.
"I hate to interrupt this gathering," Lyrris said, her tone calm yet weighted, before turning to Rowenne.
"But I fear we may be running out of time."
Silence settled over the room, heavy and expectant, until Rowenne finally spoke.
"It's time already?" she murmured. "I must have grown too engrossed in their story."
She turned to Alaric. "Why don't you go fetch our things?"
As Alaric hurried away, Draven spoke at once, his gaze settling on Edmund.
"Edmund—tell us how you made it out."
"I had to figure out which body was truly mine," Edmund began. "Among the infinite reflections. The moment I did… they all converged into one, and I woke up."
"And how did you do that?" Rowenne asked.
Edmund hesitated. All eyes were on him now.
"I broke the mirrors," he said quietly. "All of them. I shattered them until the reflections were distorted beyond recognition. And somehow… in the chaos, I found the real body."
Lyrris watched him closely, her expression serene, her thoughts perfectly concealed.
"Mother, I'm ready," Alaric announced as he returned, breathless, two satchels slung over his shoulders.
Rowenne exhaled softly.
"I suppose this is where we part." She turned to Draven. "Thank you—for everything."
Draven bowed in response.
Her gaze then met Zyrelle's, and the two exchanged a silent nod—an understanding shared without words. Rowenne walked over to Veyra and gently took her hands. A soft blue light entwined with a warm golden glow, flowing from Rowenne's palms into Veyra's.
"A small parting gift," Rowenne said.
Veyra felt it instantly—the release of a weight she had not even known she carried. Lighter. Freer. She looked up at her deeply in gratitude and gave her a sad smile.
Rowenne then turned toward the exit, Alaric and Edmund at her side, but paused before Lyrris. Lyrris knelt before the boys, meeting their eyes. They froze.
She took their hands.
"Find Thalira," she said gently. "She needs you—just as much as you need her."
Rising to her feet, Lyrris addressed Rowenne.
"Allow me to escort you to the pass, my lady."
Rowenne nodded.
"Lyrris," Zyrelle called softly as they turned to leave.
Lyrris stopped. For a long moment, she simply looked at her—something unspoken passing between them. Then she bowed.
"Goodbye, my lady."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
There, they marched forward, stepping into a fate that would change them forever. Veyra watched them pass beyond the doorway, her eyes heavy with pity—and guilt born of the knowledge she carried. Within her stirred that quiet, aching pain of separation, like a child bidding farewell to a mother she had only just found after years of searching. Yet she knew, as surely as the visions that haunted her, that they were meant for something far greater than an ordinary life.
One would fight the darkness.
One would command the shadows.
And one would break the circle.
Yet even as they walked on, each of them left behind a crucial fragment of their story. And only one knew it all—the thread binding what had been, what was unfolding, and what was yet to come. The living echo of every moment that ever was and ever will be.
The one who walks the seam where time bleeds into shadow.
Veyra.