Chapter 10) Dagger Between Shadows
The pendant pulsed faintly in the darkness.
Caelum lay awake, staring at it from his bed, the glow washing faint silver across the wooden floorboards. Around it lay the three violet petals, delicate and quiet, like fallen warnings from a tree he'd never seen.
He didn't sleep.
Not fully.
Every time his eyes shut, he saw Seraphine dancing. Not her face—her hand. The symbol. The final pose. The unspoken message. It circled him like a hawk in moonlight.
What did it mean?
He had to know.
And he couldn't ask directly. Not Seraphine. Not any of them. Especially now.
So he rose at dawn, dressed in silence, and slipped from the estate.
The city was still half-asleep. Merchants were setting up their stalls. The smell of fresh bread drifted through alleys. A fog crawled low over the river, and the bridges looked like broken ribbons tied between rooftops.
Caelum kept his head down.
He wasn't heading to the palace or to the court.
He had another destination.
The Archives of the Forgotten.
Few people knew it existed. Fewer dared visit.
It lay beneath the Hall of Glass—a sealed sublevel filled with dust, ruin, and history that had outlived its usefulness. Ardyn had whispered of it once, calling it "a graveyard of royal lies."
If there was truth anywhere, it would be there.
He slipped through the side gate, bypassed the guards with the stolen key Selene had handed him nights ago, and descended into the dark.
It smelled of paper and stone.
The air was thick with the weight of centuries. Books lined iron shelves like prisoners—spines cracked, titles fading, words eaten by time.
He moved by torchlight, searching.
He didn't know what for—just a sign. A pattern. Anything.
It was in a cracked volume near the back.
Buried beneath dust and cobwebs.
The cover bore no title.
But inside was a drawing.
Seven women, cloaked in crowns, each facing outward like spokes on a wheel.
In the center—a single figure, faceless, holding a star-shaped pendant.
Beneath it:
"When the seven mirrors turn to one, the reflection shall awaken."
He exhaled slowly.
Turned the page.
There, in the corner, was the same chalk symbol.
Seven points. A line across the middle.
But beneath it—a word.
"Petalborn."
He touched the page with trembling fingers.
Then a voice echoed behind him.
"You weren't supposed to find that."
He spun.
Dagger half-drawn.
But the speaker only raised their hands in peace.
It was a girl. His age. Maybe younger.
Sharp eyes. Messy black hair. Cloak stitched with gold thread on the inside. No crest. No ring.
Just a pendant.
Seven-pointed.
Exactly like his.
Caelum froze.
"…Who are you?"
The girl stepped forward. "I'm someone who was warned about you."
She smiled.
"But I don't listen to warnings."
They moved to the surface. Sat across from each other in an abandoned courtyard, where ivy grew unchecked across statues of forgotten kings.
"My name's Eline," she said, brushing dirt from her sleeves. "I'm… let's say, the failed version."
Caelum frowned. "Failed?"
"They tried the same thing with me two years ago. Gather the seven, stir the kingdom, create the center. Me."
"Who's 'they'?"
She hesitated. Then pointed skyward.
Not the sky itself—beyond it. As if something waited above the world.
"The Petal Circle," she said. "They don't rule. They predict. Guide. Manipulate."
"I don't understand—"
"They've been trying to recreate the Court of Origin for decades. Using 'connectors'—people like you and me. Born with just enough pull to bring the royal lines together."
Caelum sat back.
His pulse roared.
"So what happened with you?"
Eline laughed softly. "They got it wrong. I wasn't the one. I connected three houses. Not enough. I wasn't beautiful enough. Not charming enough. Not tragic enough."
She leaned forward.
"But you? You're the perfect storm."
He wanted to run.
Wanted to disappear.
Instead, he whispered, "What do they want from me?"
"To be the anchor," she said. "The chain that binds the kingdoms. Willingly or not."
"And if I refuse?"
Eline looked away.
"They make you disappear. Rewrite your memory. Or worse—turn the seven against each other using you as the spark."
Caelum clenched his fists. "So the petals…"
She nodded. "They're not gifts. They're brands. Warnings. Every one you collect brings you closer to the center."
He breathed shallow.
"Can I stop it?"
Eline looked at him.
"I tried."
He waited.
She didn't finish the sentence.
Back at the estate, Ardyn was waiting again.
She didn't yell this time.
Just placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "You're shaking."
He hadn't noticed.
"I'm fine," he said, and it was a lie.
But she didn't press.
Not today.
That evening, a raven arrived.
Not a letter.
Not a messenger.
Just a raven with a ribbon tied to its leg.
Caelum untied it and found a single word burned into the fabric:
"Soon."
No seal. No crest. No hint.
But he knew.
It had begun.
The petals were blooming faster now.
And he only had one weapon left.
Time.
That night, he returned to the hidden floorboard.
Three petals.
One pendant.
And a dagger.
He added the word "Petalborn" to the wood, carving it carefully beside the others.
Then he whispered a promise to the darkness:
"I am not your anchor."
And the pendant pulsed once.
Like it heard him.