The manor's vault lay hidden beneath the undercroft's rune-lit altar, its iron door sealed like a tomb, its surface etched with crescent moons that glowed faintly in the torchlight's wavering gleam. Elara Wren stood before it, her boots grinding against the undercroft's cracked stone, her breath shallow, her hands trembling as she clutched the Mira ring, its silver cold against her palm. The Wraith's requiem—a keening wail that had shaken the crypt two nights ago—still echoed in her ears, its red eyes haunting her, fixed on her as Joren was freed, the ceiling crumbling. Her silver crescent pendant hung heavy, its warmth gone, its surface dull as if drained by the order's curse. The relic from the undercroft, a carved stone etched with Vessel's Blood, burned in her pocket, its weight a confirmation: she was the Wraith's vessel, bound by the order's sin.
Torin Hale stood at her side, his blacksmith's frame tense, his hammer swinging at his belt, its iron head glinting like a promise of violence. His scar—a jagged burn across his cheek—stood stark against his pale skin, his gray eyes flickering with distrust as they scanned the vault's door. "This place feels wrong," he said, his voice rough, scraped raw by the crypt's collapse. "That thing's still after you, Elara." His hand brushed hers, a fleeting anchor, but his doubt stung. Elara's throat tightened—she needed Torin's strength, but the relic's truth, Seraphine's half-spoken guilt in the undercroft, drove her forward. "Joren's safe, but the order's not done," she said, her voice low but fierce. "The answers are in there."
Lira lingered behind, her blonde curls tangled, her blue eyes hollow with guilt and fading faith. She clutched Seraphine's herb vial, its contents nearly gone, her hands trembling. "Lady Veyle saved Joren," she whispered, her voice small, her belief in Seraphine's charity a fragile thread after the crypt's terror. Torin's jaw clenched, his voice sharp. "Saved him? She's tied to that Wraith, Lira. Open your eyes." Elara's stomach twisted—Lira's loyalty clashed with Seraphine's cryptic admission of guilt, and her own doubt gnawed. Seraphine's plea in the crypt—I won't fail you too—felt like protection, but her silence was a wall.
The vault's door groaned as Elara pushed it open, revealing a chamber of cold iron and shattered mirrors, their jagged edges reflecting torchlight like broken stars. The air was thick with the scent of rust and wax, and the requiem's wail lingered, a faint hum that seemed to seep from the walls. Elara's pendant twitched, a faint spark of heat prickling her skin, and the relic in her pocket pulsed, its runes glowing red. The journal, tucked in her cloak, held a sketch from the undercroft—a vault chamber, labeled The Order's Confession, where the vessel's truth lay hidden. She stepped inside, her boots echoing on the iron floor, her heart pounding. The mirrors showed her face, distorted, her hazel eyes wide, her dark hair framing a fear she couldn't hide.
A figure moved in the shadows, and Lady Seraphine Veyle emerged, her raven-black hair loose, her velvet gown frayed, its threads trailing like spilled blood. Her silver eyes glinted, sharp but unsteady, her hands clenched as if fighting a storm within. "You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice smooth but brittle, like glass under strain. Her gaze locked on Elara's pendant, then the relic, and her lips twitched, a crack in her mask. Elara stepped forward, her voice raw, trembling with defiance. "You admitted guilt in the undercroft, Seraphine. What's the order hiding? What's the Wraith to you?" Her hand gripped the Mira ring, its silver a silent demand.
Seraphine's laugh was sharp, a blade of sound, but her hands shook, her overconfidence crumbling. "You think truth will save you?" she said, her silver eyes storming with grief, her voice breaking. "Mira thought so, too." Her admission hit Elara like a blow, her paranoia flaring—Seraphine, tied to the order, to Mira, to the Wraith. Torin's hammer rose, his voice a growl. "Where's the order now? What's this place?" Lira's face crumpled, her voice small. "She's not the enemy," she said, but her eyes wavered, her faith fracturing. Seraphine's gaze softened on Lira, then hardened on Elara, her paranoia spiking. "You're stirring their curse," she said, her voice cracking, raw with fear.
The vault trembled, mirrors rattling, and the requiem's wail rose, a low cry from the chamber's heart. Elara's pendant flared, its light casting distorted reflections, and a stone pedestal emerged from the floor, its surface holding a sealed letter, its wax stamped with a crescent moon. The relic in her pocket burned, its runes pulsing in sync. She approached, her heart racing, and broke the seal, revealing Seraphine's handwriting: To the Vessel: I swore to Mira to shield you, to bind the Wraith, but the order's curse runs deeper. My magic falters. Forgive me. Elara's breath caught—Seraphine's protective vow, clear at last, but her failure loomed.
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. The Wraith's shadow coiled around the pedestal, its red eyes blazing, fixed on Seraphine, not Elara. Her heart pounded—why her? The mirrors cracked, their shards falling, and the Wraith's void surged, its wail a scream that shook the vault. Seraphine's shield collapsed, her body trapped in a web of shadow, her silver eyes wide with panic. "Run!" she screamed, her impulsiveness breaking, her hands clawing at the void.
Torin swung his hammer at the pedestal, its stone splintering, and the requiem sharpened, mirrors shattering into a storm of glass. "Get her out!" he shouted, his voice raw, his eyes wild. Lira sobbed, her hands covering her face, her guilt overwhelming. "I trusted you," she whispered to Seraphine, her voice breaking. Elara's pendant burned, then cracked, its silver shattering in her hand, its light gone. She clutched the letter, her voice fierce. "Why you, Seraphine? Why now?" Seraphine's face crumpled, her voice a whisper from the Wraith's grasp. "Because I failed her… and you."
The vault's floor quaked, iron bending, and a hidden grate opened, revealing a spiral stair descending into darkness. The Wraith's void swelled, its red eyes shifting to Elara, its hunger a roar in her chest. Seraphine's body trembled, her magic gone, her eyes dim. The letter slipped from Elara's hand, its words—Forgive me—burning in her mind. The vault's ceiling groaned, shards raining, and the Wraith's shadow lunged, its scream drowning Seraphine's cry. Had her vow shielded Elara, or had her failure trapped them all in the Wraith's requiem?