The phrase on the parchment burned in Elyria's eyes, sharper than any blade:
"The Veil guards the truth, but the truth cuts."
The words pulsed in her mind, echoing like an ancient spell. The silver key, hidden in her bodice, seemed to vibrate in response, spreading a nearly living chill across her skin. Every step she took through the deserted palace corridors felt heavy, as if the stones themselves were judging her.
"You feel it, don't you?" whispered Kaelith, his voice velvety and venomous. "The call. The key opens more than doors, Elyria... it opens wounds."
She ignored the shiver crawling up her spine. The entity's presence grew within her like a black flame, wanting her to yield. But Elyria knew she could not lose herself now, not when she was so close to the truth she had chased for twelve years.
The scream that had echoed through the palace depths still throbbed in her memory, sharp and desperate. It was not the sound of just any victim. There was something familiar, something scratching at memories she dared not revisit.
As she turned a corridor, a shadow emerged from the columns. Rhaevan Duskryn.
"You vanish like a ghost and think I won't follow?" he said, his voice low, grave like contained thunder. His gaze burned on her, a mix of fury and desire. "I don't trust Veyre, and I don't trust that cursed parchment you hold."
Elyria raised the parchment, holding it close to her chest.
"You don't need to trust. I trust myself."
He closed the distance between them, his body heat surrounding her. He gripped her wrist firmly, as if anchoring her by force.
"This key will lead you to ruin," his whisper brushed her ear. "But if you fall, you will fall with me."
Elyria's heart raced, torn between revulsion and an impulse she dared not name. Rhaevan was danger, but also a shield. One that could crush her as easily as it could protect her.
Before she could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows—elegant, smiling, venomous. Lysarion Veyre.
"Well, what a touching scene," he applauded softly, eyes gleaming with malice. "The lovestruck general and the cursed assassin. It would make a beautiful romance... if they survive."
Rhaevan stepped forward, hand already on the sword hilt. Elyria, instinctively, positioned herself between them, her dagger glinting in the dim light.
"Enough." Her voice cut through the air like ice. "If you want to dispute something, do it after I uncover the truth. Until then, either follow me or leave me be."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel. Finally, Lysarion tilted his head in a theatrical gesture.
"Then at midnight, in the Chapel of Shadows. The key belongs to this place."
Rhaevan narrowed his eyes but did not argue.
The Chapel of Shadows rose at the edges of Eryndral like a forgotten scar. Its broken columns resembled fingers reaching for the sky, and the shattered windows were hollow eyes staring into nothingness. The gate creaked as Elyria pushed it open, the sound echoing like a mournful groan.
Inside, the air smelled of burnt incense and rusted iron. Symbols of Nyxara covered the walls in dried ink and ancient blood. The key on her bodice burned, vibrating as if recognizing the place.
"Enter..." Kaelith whispered in her mind, excited. "The truth waits like a hungry lover."
At the central altar, a hidden staircase opened as Elyria brought the key closer. The mechanism responded to her as if it had been waiting for this moment for centuries.
Rhaevan ground his teeth.
"This reeks of a trap."
"All truth is a trap," Lysarion replied, smiling.
Elyria descended first. The underground corridor was damp and narrow, lit by torches burning with blue flames. Voices murmured from the walls, ancient tongues she could not understand, but that made her blood pulse.
Until they reached a circular chamber.
At the center, suspended by black iron chains, was a cell. Inside knelt a woman, wrists shackled by manacles exuding shadows. Her long, black hair fell tangled over her shoulders.
When she lifted her face, Elyria lost her breath.
It was like looking at a distorted reflection: eyes the same color, the same mouth line, but older, marked by scars and pain.
The prisoner smiled, a broken smile, and whispered:
"Elyria... my daughter."
The world stopped.
Kaelith erupted in laughter inside her mind.
"Ah, finally! The Veil opens, and the blade discovers where the blood that forged it came from."
The key slipped from Elyria's hand, clinking on the stone floor.
And fate, more than ever, seemed to have begun cutting.