From the journals of Serren Valheir
The wind in Velthren never truly stopped.
It moved like a murmur beneath the leaves, skimming across the broken statues and crumbled paths of old. Even when the world stood still, the wind remembered. It remembered what had been buried—what had been lost.
Serren stood just outside the temple's ruined arch, cloak drawn tight. Her fingers brushed the worn stone, feeling for carvings long faded. She didn't need to see them to know what they once were—sigils of the old gods, the dead gods. The ones her family whispered about in forbidden tones. The ones she was never supposed to find.
But Naia had found them.
Serren turned her head slightly, eyes resting on the girl now curled near the fire, whispering softly to Lyxra. Her voice didn't carry, but Lyxra listened with eerie stillness—like the stars themselves were quieting to hear her speak. That beast… That celestial thing cloaked in loyalty and light. There was more to it. More to her. More to Naia.
She was changing.
No, not changing—becoming.
And that terrified Serren.
Not because she feared power. No, she had grown up with tales of saints and tyrants—of bloodlines tainted by stars and curses. Power could be wielded, bent, broken. It was the unknown that unsettled her.
Because when Naia had spoken the name of the sigil—had traced it in firelight with trembling fingers—something in Serren's soul had recoiled. Not in fear, but recognition.
It was a name she had once buried beneath ash and oath.
"First Flame," Naia had whispered. And the ruin had breathed.
Serren closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.
> She shouldn't know that name. No one alive should.
---
Later that night, as the others slept, Serren remained near the edge of the ruins. Her journal lay open on her lap, but the ink had long since dried at the corner of a half-written line.
> The girl bleeds starlight now. The more she speaks, the more the world remembers her. But I… I remember her too. From a place that shouldn't exist. A tale my mother locked behind iron and silence. She is not just a vessel. She is a key. And I don't know what she will open.
A sound stirred behind her.
Soft footsteps. Ivyra.
The God Slayer never walked like others. Her presence didn't announce itself—it happened, like a storm on the horizon. Cold. Inevitable.
"You're watching her again," Ivyra said.
Serren didn't deny it. "Aren't you?"
Ivyra didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed beyond the fire, toward Naia's slumbering form. The girl stirred slightly in her sleep, one hand clutching a pendant none of them remembered her ever wearing before. It glowed faintly now—celestial runes pulsing in time with her breath.
"She's dreaming of things that existed before we had words for them," Ivyra said at last.
Serren nodded. "And if she wakes… remembering too much?"
"Then we remember with her," Ivyra replied. "Or we run."
That unsettled Serren more than she let show. If Ivyra—the blade that felled an immortal god—if she was uncertain…
Then maybe none of them would survive what Naia was becoming.
---
A few hours later, just before dawn, Serren found herself near the stone basin at the heart of the ruin. The same place where Naia had first traced the sigil. Where her blood had mingled with ancient dust. The basin was empty now, but in the silence, Serren could almost hear a voice whispering:
> "You remember me, don't you, little girl? The song beneath your tongue, the fire beneath your name."
She shuddered.
She didn't tell the others.
But that night, she carved a new symbol at the bottom of her journal.
One she hadn't dared draw in years.
---
By morning, the air had shifted.
Naia awoke with stars in her eyes—quite literally. Tiny flecks of glowing light shimmered beneath her irises, like echoes of constellations only she could see. She didn't speak at first. Just sat, staring at her hands, turning them over slowly.
"I saw something," she murmured finally.
Lyxra nudged her gently. "A memory?"
Naia shook her head. "Not mine. Not entirely. A voice. She kept calling me daughter. Kept asking if I remembered the flame."
Ivyra crouched nearby, sharpening her blade, but her movements stilled. "What did you say?"
Naia looked up. "I told her I wasn't ready."
Silence.
Then Ivyra stood and turned away.
Serren couldn't help but notice the tremble in her hand.
---
They left the ruin shortly after, traveling east toward the river that marked the edge of the forgotten lands. The road was quiet, broken only by the occasional murmur of birds or the crunch of boots over old stone.
For once, Ivyra spoke little. She walked ahead, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other brushing the edge of her cloak.
Serren remained close to Naia.
"I think you scared her," she said gently.
Naia blinked. "I didn't mean to."
"I know. But she's not used to being uncertain. You're… rewriting things she thought were solid."
Naia hesitated. "Do you think I'm dangerous?"
Serren thought carefully before answering. "I think you're important. And sometimes… important things burn."
They walked in silence after that.
Until Lyxra—still in her small, soft form—trotted up between them, tail flicking.
"I think you're both moody," she announced. "And we need fruit. Or chocolate. Or both."
Naia laughed.
And just like that, the tension broke—if only for a moment.
---
That night, under a sky bruised with dusk, Serren looked up at the stars.
They were different somehow. Not in placement, but in how they felt—as if they were waiting.
She touched the edge of the symbol she'd carved into her journal.
And for the first time in years, she whispered a prayer to a god she didn't believe in:
> "Let her be the light… or let me be the blade."
---
To be continued...