The box was metal—cool and blackened, but intact.
Old, but waiting. Meant to outlast fire. Meant to findme.
I set it carefully on the desk. Nyx brushed against my side, silent and steady, like she was grounding me. Or guarding me.
Caelen hovered just behind me, voice low.
“Do you want me to open it?”
“No. I can do it.” I said softly. I slipped the latch and pulled it open.
Inside lay a small leather-bound book, charred around the corners but otherwise intact.
And beside it, nestled in dark velvet, a gold medallion.
Both were marked with the same symbol.
A curling, intricate emblem etched deep into the metal and pressed into the book’s cover. It looked like a dragon—wings unfurled, tail wrapped in a circle, jaws open like it was breathing fire.
I blinked.
That was impossible.
The dragons were gone. Dead. Right?
I reached for the medallion. It fit in my hand like it belonged there. I swore, even for a moment, it warmed at my touch.
“What the hell is this?” I whispered.
Caelen looked just as confused. He picked up the book and started leafing through it.
“It’s blank,” He said, his voice surprised.
I took the book back. Lines of script, curling and sharp, covered the page as clear as ink drawn just seconds ago.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, eyes scanning the page.
“I can see everything.”
He stepped closer, peering over my shoulder.
“I swear, I don’t—” He stopped. “It’s still blank for me.”
I looked at him, heart hammering.
“It’s not blank forme.”
The first line shimmered at the top of the page, as if written in light rather than ink:
To the one who bears my name—
If you are reading this, then the blood of Virell still burns.
The dragons shall rise again.
“Holy crap,” I said.
Outside, the stillness shattered— shouts, hurried footsteps, the sharp edge of panic carried on the wind.
