The black root no longer grew upward.
It turned inward—coiling around itself in the Vault of Echoes, pulsing like a sleeping heart. And when Lira placed her ear against its surface, it spoke.
Not in words.
In blood.
"Three lines remain. Three remember the oath."
She pulled back, breathless. "What does it mean?"
Aelarion stood in the doorway, his void-eyes dim.
"Only those who carry Valenthis's blood can walk the Ashen Path without breaking."
Lira's mind raced. House Valtharis—yes. But who else?
That evening, she pored over the Great Genealogy Scroll in Elmara's deepest archive. By candlelight, she traced lines of marriage, alliance, and secret kinship.
And there it was.
— House Cyreth had wed a Valtharis daughter during the Frost Rebellion (812 years ago).
— House Morindel took a Valtharis son as consort after the War of Shattered Groves (798 years ago).
Their blood carried a diluted echo of the true name.
But House Darkuan? No ties. No mingling. They prided themselves on purity of lineage—ironic, given their shadow-work.
The next morning, Lira summoned the three Martial Lords.
"I believe we can train others to wield the Unlight," she said. "But only those with Valtharis blood."
Thorin Cyreth grunted. "My grandmother was Lyria Valtharis. I've felt it—the ash stirs in my veins when I dream."
Elyar Morindel nodded slowly. "My ancestor's journals speak of 'the gray gift.' We thought it madness. Now… I understand."
Then all eyes turned to Malrik Darkuan.
He stood silent for a long moment. Then:
"My house guards the edges of light. We do not step into the dark. We watch it. Name it. Contain it."
He met Lira's gaze. "To become the shadow is to lose the right to judge it."
He bowed and left.
Word spread quickly.
By dusk, envoys from eight of the Twelve Noble Houses gathered in the Hall of Whispers.
Lord Selvor of House Narell—a wealthy merchant line—spoke first:
"If only three houses may hold this power, then it is not balance. It is inheritance."
Lady Ilyra of House Thalrian added coldly: "Knowledge should be shared. Not hoarded by blood."
Prince Kaelin tried to calm them. "This isn't about privilege. It's about survival. The Unlight breaks those it doesn't recognize."
But the seed was planted.
Jealousy, not fear, began to coil through Lyothara's courts.
That night, Lira returned to the ridge.
She found Darien standing where the white flowers grew thickest.
"They're calling it a dynasty," she said softly.
He didn't turn. "Power always corrupts memory. Even mine."
"But it's not power," she insisted. "It's sacrifice."
He finally looked at her—his form more solid than before, his ash-hand steady.
"Then let them see the cost."
He raised his hand. Where the ash touched the air, it didn't dissolve—it held, shaping a shield, a blade, a bridge.
"This is not a weapon," he said. "It's a vow."
Below, in the city, a single window glowed with violet light—Thorin beginning his first trial.
And in another, darker quarter, a nobleman crushed a scroll bearing the Valtharis seal.
The war was over.
But the peace?
That would be harder to win.