The path to Veyle Manor wound through a tangle of thorns and mist, its spires rising like blackened bones against a sky choked with storm clouds. Elara Wren's boots sank into the sodden earth, each step a battle against the weight of fear and Seraphine's journal, its pages creased from the hollow's quake hours ago. The Wraith's requiem—a piercing wail that had split the stone circle—still clawed at her mind, its red eyes locked on her, not Seraphine, before the sorceress's shield collapsed. The Mira ring, tucked in her pocket, pressed against her thigh, its worn silver a silent scream of the order's betrayal. Elara's silver crescent pendant pulsed, its warmth a jagged pulse, the journal's sketch—her face as The Vessel—a truth she couldn't outrun.
Torin Hale matched her stride, his blacksmith's frame rigid, his hammer swinging at his belt, its iron catching the dawn's faint light. His scar—a burn from a forge fire—cut across his cheek, his gray eyes flicking to the manor's shadowed windows, sharp with distrust. "This place is a trap, Elara," he said, his voice rough, scraped raw by the hollow's terror. "That thing—it wanted you." His hand grazed hers, a fleeting warmth, but his doubt was a blade. Elara's throat tightened—she leaned on Torin's strength, but the journal's map, pointing to a chamber in the manor, was a fire in her veins. "Joren's here somewhere," she said, her voice low but fierce. "And my mother's answers are too."
Lira trailed behind, her blonde curls matted with mist, her blue eyes dim with faltering faith. She clutched Seraphine's herb vial, her hands trembling, her voice barely a whisper. "Lady Veyle stopped it in the hollow," she said, her words fragile, her guilt over Joren's absence eroding her trust. Torin's jaw tightened, his voice sharp. "Stopped it? She's playing us, Lira. That Wraith's hers." Elara's stomach twisted—Lira's loyalty to Seraphine's charity warred with the journal's warning, and her own doubt gnawed. Seraphine's broken plea—You don't understand the cost—felt like a shield, but her silence was a wall.
The manor's doors groaned open, revealing a hall of cracked marble and cobwebbed chandeliers, their crystals dull like dead stars. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper, and Elara's pendant flared, its heat stinging her skin. The journal's map marked a library within, labeled The Order's Lament, a place of hidden truths about the curse. She led them through the hall, past faded portraits of stern faces, their eyes following like judges. A heavy oak door loomed, its carvings etched with crescent moons and thorns—order symbols, like the Mira ring. Elara pushed it open, her heart pounding, revealing a library of towering shelves, their books sagging under centuries of secrets.
The library was a crypt of knowledge, its air heavy with mildew and wax, a single candelabrum flickering on a table. Elara's pendant glowed, casting shadows that writhed like ghosts, and she moved to a shelf, her fingers tracing spines until one caught her eye—a tome bound in black leather, its cover embossed with a crescent moon, its title faded but legible: The Order's Covenant. Her breath caught, the journal's words echoing: The order's sin lies in their writings, where the vessel's fate was sealed. She opened it, her hands trembling, finding a list of names—her mother's, Mira's, others—marked Cursed Blood, with a note: The vessel binds the Wraith, forged by the order's rites.
Torin's voice broke the silence, low and tense. "What's it say?" He stood close, his hammer unhooked, his eyes scanning the shadows. Elara's voice shook as she read aloud, "The order cursed my bloodline… to trap the Wraith." Her heart raced, the Mira ring heavy in her pocket. Lira's face paled, her vial slipping from her hands, clattering on the floor. "Lady Veyle wouldn't do this," she whispered, but her voice cracked, her faith crumbling. Torin's hand tightened on his hammer, his voice a growl. "She's part of it, Lira. Wake up."
A creak echoed, and Seraphine Veyle stepped from a shadowed alcove, her raven-black hair loose, her velvet gown trailing like a wound. Her silver eyes glinted, sharp but unsteady, her hands clenched as if fighting a storm within. "You're meddling in things you can't grasp," she said, her voice smooth but brittle, like a thread about to snap. Her gaze locked on the tome, then Elara's pendant, and her lips twitched, a flicker of fear breaking her mask. Elara stepped forward, her voice raw, trembling with defiance. "This tome names my mother, Mira. You knew her. What's the Wraith to you?"
Seraphine's laugh was sharp, a jagged edge, but her hands shook, her overconfidence cracking. "You think you can unravel my pain?" she said, her silver eyes storming with grief, her voice breaking. "Mira was my sister, cursed like you." Her admission hit Elara like a blow, her paranoia flaring—Seraphine, tied to the order's sin, yet her grief felt raw, real. Torin's hammer rose, his voice fierce. "Where's Joren? No more secrets!" Lira's face crumpled, her voice small. "She's not lying," she said, but her eyes wavered, her faith a fragile thread.
The library trembled, shelves creaking, and the requiem's wail rose, a low cry from beneath the floor. Elara's pendant burned, its light casting shadows that twisted like claws, and a trapdoor in the corner shuddered, its runes glowing red like the hollow's stones. Seraphine's hands flared with dark energy, a shield crackling, but her face was tight, her breath uneven. "Stay back!" she hissed, her voice raw, her magic flickering like a dying flame. The Wraith's shadow coiled through the trapdoor, its red eyes fixed on Elara, its hunger pressing against her chest. Her heart pounded—why her, always her?
Torin kicked the trapdoor open, revealing a stone stair spiraling into darkness, and the wail sharpened, dust falling like ash. "What's down there?" he shouted, his voice raw, his eyes wild. Seraphine's shield faltered, her silver eyes wide with panic. "You're waking it!" she snapped, her impulsiveness bared, her voice trembling with fear. Elara clutched the Mira ring, her voice fierce. "Why protect me?" Seraphine's face crumpled, her paranoia breaking through. "Because I failed her," she whispered, her hands shaking, her magic collapsing.
The floor cracked, a chasm opening beneath the candelabrum, and the Wraith's void swelled, its wail a scream that tore at Elara's soul. Seraphine stumbled, her knees buckling, her eyes locked on Elara. The tome fell, its pages scattering, and the trapdoor's runes flared, a pulse that shook the library. Elara's pendant dimmed, the stair's darkness beckoning, and a faint cry—Joren's?—echoed below. Was Seraphine's grief her shield, or had her failure called the Wraith's requiem to consume them all?