The trees thinned by morning.
Mist curled around Seraphira's boots as she stepped into a strange clearing wider than the last, but not peaceful. The silence here was too perfect, like breath held too long.
At its center stood a structure long forgotten: a shrine.
Or what was left of one.
Its stone arches had crumbled, overtaken by vines and moss. The altar had split clean down the middle, blackened by fire. Strange markings, worn by time, covered the broken floor.
She approached carefully, the dagger still at her side. She didn't know why the shrine called to her but it did.
Not with words.
Not with sound.
But with memory.
As her hand brushed the altar's edge, something thrummed beneath her skin. Not pain. Not magic.
Recognition.
She stepped back, staring.
What is this place…?
"It was once sacred," a voice said behind her.
She spun, blade drawn but it was not the bone-masked stranger from before.
This one was different.
A woman, tall and sharp-featured, with long silver hair braided down her back. Her eyes were pale green, nearly white, and glowed faintly in the dim morning light. Her robes were deep forest green, marked with the sigils of the old world.
Witch.
Who are you? Seraphira demanded.
A question often asked by those who do not yet know who they are, the woman replied calmly. But if you wish a name, I am Theryn of the Outer Circle.
The Circle of Thamorra? Seraphira's voice stiffened.
The witches had once stood before her cradle, offering prophecy. And a curse.
I remember what your kind said of me. That I would burn what I love.
And you have, Theryn said gently. But that is not the end of your tale.
Seraphira's jaw tightened. Then why are you here?
To see if you are ready.
For what?
"To decide who you are without a crown. Without a name. Without the safety of your prison."
Seraphira's eyes narrowed. You came all this way to ask riddles?
Theryn stepped toward the altar. Her fingers trailed across the cracked stone reverently.
"This shrine was once a bridge," she said. "A place where surface and shadow met. It was sealed long ago, after a great betrayal. But it still listens, even in ruin. Especially to those marked by fire."
The witch turned her gaze on Seraphira.
"Tell me, cursed child… has the fire returned to you yet?"
She hesitated.
No, she whispered.
Not truly.
Not since that night long ago, when it destroyed everything she loved.
Theryn nodded once. "Then the Veil is still kind. For when it does return, your path shall change forever. Blood shall call to blood, flame to shadow, and the forgotten shall rise again."
She stepped back into the trees.
Wait, Seraphira called. You said it was a bridge. A bridge to what?
The witch paused, her voice echoing faintly.
"To the one who waits beneath."
And then she was gone.
Seraphira turned back to the broken shrine, heart pounding. The air grew colder. The stone beneath her hand pulsed once like a heartbeat.
She jerked her hand away.
But something deep inside her whispered:
"Not yet… but soon."
Far beneath the surface, in his throne of ash and fire, Kaelreth Azarion rose from his seat.
The fire had answered the stone.
The Veil was thinning. And she had touched the first gate.