In the Hollow Court, silence reigned.
The courtiers—masked and draped in finery of living silk—stood frozen as the Hollow Queen descended from her throne. Her veil shimmered with dying stars, her footsteps barely disturbed the mist that clung to the floor like breath.
She touched the black mirror at the center of the hall.
A ripple passed through it.
> "She remembers," the Queen murmured. "The Codex stirs in her blood."
Behind her, a warden in armor of thorns and bone stepped forward. "Shall we send the Shades to bring her back?"
"No," the Hollow Queen said. Her voice was soft, yet it echoed like a blade drawn across stone. "Let her walk the path. Let her believe she is free. She will come to me in the end."
The mirror showed a flicker of Serelith's face—eyes wild with wonder, with fear.
> "She has not yet seen what lies within her."
The Queen's fingers caressed the glass.
> "But she will."
---
In the Forgotten Temple, Serelith stirred from a restless sleep.
She'd dreamed again.
But this one was different.
She wasn't a child this time. She was herself—older, fierce, cloaked in light and shadow. She had spoken words that shook the skies. She had stood alone against a tide of gods.
And she had fallen.
Waking left her breathless.
Faelan was nearby, watching the entrance to the inner sanctum. He turned when she rose.
"You felt it too?" he asked.
Serelith nodded. "She's watching."
"The Hollow Queen is patient, but not idle. She'll send something soon."
"What can I do?" she asked. "I still don't know how to use what's inside me."
Faelan led her deeper into the temple.
Down spiraling stairs etched in runes, into a chamber sealed by an ancient door that pulsed with her mark. When she placed her hand to it, the stone melted away like mist.
Inside, a single pedestal stood in a room of shadow.
Upon it—a book.
No cover. No spine. Just loose pages bound by thread of gold and dusk.
The Codex Fragment.
"Each bearer leaves a part of themselves here," Faelan said. "And in return, the Codex reveals a piece of its truth."
Serelith stepped forward.
As her fingers brushed the pages, light flooded the room—symbols rising into the air like glowing birds. One flew into her chest.
And suddenly—she remembered.
Not words. But power.
How to weave it.
How to call it.
How to bend the veil between what was and what could be.
But as the magic surged through her, something else stirred.
A shadow.
A figure formed of mist and ash appeared in the chamber—tall, hollow-eyed, its mouth stitched shut with thorns.
"A Wraithborn," Faelan breathed. "One of her watchers."
Serelith stepped back, but the mark on her collarbone blazed with light.
The creature hissed.
Then lunged.
Faelan drew his blade, but Serelith raised her hand—and the power came to her like breath. She spoke a word she didn't know she knew:
> "Nathariel."
Light erupted from her palm.
The Wraithborn howled—then burst into smoke and vanished.
The chamber fell silent.
Faelan stared at her, stunned.
"You just—"
"I didn't mean to," she said, trembling. "It just happened."
He smiled—grim and proud. "Then the Codex is waking faster than we feared."
Serelith looked down at her hand.
Still glowing.
Still trembling.
"I don't want to become her," she whispered. "I don't want to become like the Hollow Queen."
Faelan touched her arm. "Then don't. Let the power be yours—not hers."
Outside, wind howled through the temple halls.
Far away, a war was beginning.
And Serelith had taken her first step toward becoming its flame.