The archives smelled of dust and old blood. Hidden beneath a derelict library in the Lower Quarters, it was a place only smugglers, relic-hunters, and desperate scholars knew. Shelves sagged under the weight of scrolls bound in human skin, books whose ink still whispered when the pages turned.
Zara lit a small ward-lamp, its glow a fragile circle in the dark. "If the Oathstone's real, the records here will mention it," she muttered.
Nyasha's fingers trailed over spines, feeling the faint hum of old power. The Emberheart thrummed in response, restless. It didn't like this place.
She pulled a scroll free and unfurled it on the table. Faded ink revealed a sigil—stone encircled by chains. Beneath it, words scratched in Old Tongue: Those who swear, serve. Those who serve, forget.
Nyasha frowned. "It doesn't just bind. It erases."
Zara leaned over her shoulder. "Which means your father's men don't even remember who they are."
Before Nyasha could answer, the ward-lamp flickered. Then died.
The darkness pressed close.
From the far end of the archive, a voice slithered: smooth, cold, and wrong.
"You seek what you cannot bear to hold, child of fire."
Nyasha spun, flames sparking in her palm. A figure emerged from the shadows—not fully man, not fully spirit. Its cloak rippled like smoke, and where its face should have been was only a mask of shifting glass, reflecting her own image back at her.
Zara drew her dagger. "Covenant," she spat.
The figure inclined its head. "We prefer keepers. And we keep what is ours." Its gaze—or rather, the shifting reflection of Nyasha's face—fixed on the Emberheart. "That flame does not belong to you."
Nyasha's fire flared hotter. "It belonged to my mother. And now it's mine."
The masked thing laughed, a sound like glass breaking. "Your mother defied us. She paid the price. You will too… unless you kneel."
The shelves shuddered as chains of shadow burst from the walls, snapping toward Nyasha and Zara.
Nyasha threw up her hand, fire clashing with darkness. The Emberheart pulsed violently, its flame searing brighter than before, burning through the chains like paper. The whole archive shook, scrolls tumbling, shelves collapsing.
Zara slashed one chain, ducked another, and shouted, "Nyasha, this place won't hold!"
Nyasha's fire erupted in a wave, driving the masked figure back. But it didn't fall. Instead, it melted into the shadows, its voice echoing in the ruins:
"Your father was wise to bow. Will you be wiser? Or will you burn with him?"
The last of the chains snapped apart. Silence rushed back into the archive, broken only by Nyasha's ragged breathing.
Zara wiped dust from her cheek, dagger still trembling in her hand. "So. That was a Covenant emissary."
Nyasha stared at the spot where the figure had vanished, the Emberheart still blazing against her chest.
"They killed her," she whispered. "They killed my mother. And now they think I'll bow."
Her hand closed into a fist, flames licking her knuckles.
"Let them try."