The sky over Sinay deepened into a bruised violet, the last light of day curling into smoke as Velastra moved once more to the center of the forgotten square.
No guards yet. No official summons yet. The Immortal had answered her first dance only with a ring.
So she danced again.
Her bare feet bled where stone had flayed skin, but she did not stop. Not when the air thickened, not when her legs faltered beneath her. She called upon memory—not just her own, but the memory of fire, of silence, of flame-seared ancestors. The Ashveil Dance, taught to her by her grandfather in shadows and echoes, pulsed through her veins like an ancient rhythm demanding to be remembered.
With each movement, she poured the weight of her purpose—Orion and Cael, every oath broken and buried. Her wrists traced runes in the air. Her spine bowed and twisted in a mix of reverence and rebellion.
Then, with one final turn, she dropped to her knees.
The ground did not quake. Every immortal watching walked to help her stand.
Yet, he pulled one young immortal, and with her blade, with a scream, but not loud enough as her throat could not let out a voice, she threatened to kill everyone.
There was no kindness in her gaze. The desperation turned her merciless. If crime is the only way to be called, then she will no longer hesitate.
Only when the wind blew cooler, now scented with cedar and cinder, did sanity return to her.
And the space before her began to shimmer.
The stone, which had once seemed blank and solid, flickered with a dull crimson light. Then, soundlessly, it gave way. Not with force, but with surrender—like the land itself remembering its promise.
An entrance had appeared.
Velastra blinked hard, her vision swimming with exhaustion. She had let the young immortal free. Then, she stood with strength and hope.
Six figures stepped from the darkness, robed in gray with faces hidden beneath deep cowls. They moved like mist over stone, silent and without heat. They didn't speak. They didn't offer a hand. But they waited.
Velastra before walking, looked at the young immortal.
"Young one, my most profound apology and gratitude."
Then, she forced herself to walk upright. Her body trembled. Her knees ached. Blood stained the hem of her robes. But she followed them.
The streets of Sinay changed as she walked; the trees were growing older, and their leaves were going darker. Gone were the crowds and merchant stalls. Here, the faces they met bore no names, and trees bent in impossible ways. Time itself felt unstitched. Velastra tightened her grip on her sword, though her arms ached. Her breath was ragged, but her mind was steady.
Gone were the golden spires she'd imagined. The grandeur of the stories she thought had faded into stone corridors covered in ivy, long halls swallowed by moss and silence.
She didn't speak.
Neither did the Immortals.
Velastra looked around and smiled bitterly. She knew the place, with its peaceful yet powerful air, the shadows of green and flowerless colors.
They walked through what had once been a throne hall for exiles, its tapestries long since rotted, now looking clear and detailed, its statues melted by time, now looking grand and powerful. Vines curled like veins over cracked marble do not exist anymore, and the scent of damp earth filled every breath no longer lingers.
Then the path sloped upward.
They exited into the open air.
Cliffside.
She was right.
NAVORIS- is where they are.
The wind met her first, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of salt and forgotten battles. The horizon stretched endlessly, dusk casting the ocean below in steel and violet.
And there he was.
Orren.
The Ash-Seer.
Seated on the edge of the cliff as though he had been waiting there for a hundred years.
He wore no crown, but his presence was no less commanding. His long ash-colored hair danced with the breeze, and his gaze—pale as bone—met hers without surprise.
Velastra's breath caught.
The last time she had stood face-to-face with her grandfather was when she decided to leave and move to Irithiel's palace, to be with her mother and father. From the infantry, it was her grandfather who was by her side. He'd carved her names into the stone and had already remolded her sword a hundred times. She had always been a humble immortal under his care. Never in war. Never in hierarchy.
This time, Velastra's tears didn't well up in her eyes. They feel like falls. And somewhere in those memories, she felt a sense of repentance.
She kneeled.
Then, bowed..
Orren stood slowly, as if moved not by duty but by something more profound—recognition.
"Stand."
But Velastra didn't obey.
"You are taller than Serathe," he said, voice like burned parchment.
Velastra's throat tightened. "Ash-Seer, you know me."
"I can tell those who carry my fire."
He moved toward her, slower than she expected but with undeniable weight. When he reached her, he did not touch her. He simply looked.
The silence stretched between them like a thread, humming with things unspoken.
"You danced," he said. "Twice."
"No one came."
"I was watching."
She frowned. "Then why—"
"I have rung the bell, but the soldiers took a long time to travel and fetch you. You are just impatient."
His eyes, pale and clouded and fierce, searched her.
"Why are you taking this risk?"
"For them."
He didn't ask who. He didn't need to.
Orren exhaled slowly and turned his face back toward the sea.
"Sit with me."
She did.
The ledge was colder than she remembered, or perhaps the memories of sitting with Callum in the same spot, raising awareness of discomfort. The salt air stung her cuts. Still, she sat. Quietly.
"Cael used to hum when the wind came like this," she said. "He said it made the sea feel alive."
Velastra looks shattered.
"Ash-Sheer, I failed him."
"You tried."
She clenched her fists. "Not enough."
He looked at her again, and this time, his face softened.
"You bear guilt like armor. Heavy and sharp. It protects you, but it will also bleed you dry."
Velastra's voice trembled. "I need to find him. And Orion."
At that, Orren stood again.
"Then it is time you met the ones who guard the doorway."
She blinked. "The Soul-Watcher?"
"No." His eyes narrowed. "The Watchers. Plenty. You will understand soon."
The air shifted again.
From the forested edges behind them came a distant, rhythmic sound—like stone against stone, metal against wind—the humming of Immortals.
Orren extended a hand—not like a king summoning a subject, but like a grandfather offering something sacred.
"Come. They are waiting."
Velastra took his hand.
Together, they stepped down from the cliff and toward the sacred circle.
Toward the reckoning.