For a breath, no one moves.Even the humming of the room forgets itself.
Kael breathes my name like a warning.“Seren.”
I look at the broken silver as the corner of my mouth lifts.
Then the room remembers to panic.The scholars shout; guards rush forward with hands outstretched as silver lines weave into a gilded net.Above, the chandelier spits sparks down like false stars.
Shadows rush up my legs and across my ribs—not violent, but urgent.Protective.They pool over my heart, dark as ink spilled on a page.In the chaos, a voice threads through my mind, warm and inevitable.
You are not theirs to weigh, child of the night.
The floor tilts.Light rushes inward as the net falls, trapping me in woven moonlight—cold, smooth and utterly unbreakable.
The room narrows to a keyhole and clicks shut.
22
KAEL
The day ends the way it always does in Auria: with light pretending it never fades.
I’ve spent hours drafting the report for Riven, and it’s early nightfall by the time I finish.The ink dries unevenly where my hand shakes—fatigue, not fear, I tell myself.
Phase Two: Subject displayed unprecedented reaction.Artifact 11-B fractured.Containment lost momentarily; light-forged netting reestablished containment.Next course of action - Luminary Triarch testing.
I omit the part where I tried to intervene.
The parchment curls as it dries, the filigree of the Sun House crest catching the lamplight.I sign my name in an unbroken scrawl, roll the sheet, and press the aureate wax seal into place.One report for Riven, one copy for the Triarch.No doubt after today’s performance, they’ll want to see her in person.
I hate that I know the protocol so well.
The war drum of the past still beats beneath the surface.Even now, a century later, Auria thrives on the myth of its own salvation.Every decree, every trial, every burning is written as mercy.We call it peace, but I know what peace smells like; polish and decay.
After years of studying the shadows, I know how deep the lie runs.It’s ingrained so thoroughly into the fabric of society that no one remembers what is real and what is merely a disguise.
My hand fumbles in my pocket, the miren crystal warming against my palm.I step to the window of the Archives and look out over the golden city.
It unfurls below like a tapestry stitched in gold thread.Streets are veins of light; the towers gleam as if the sun were still caught in their tips.From here, I can almost see the entrance to the tunnels that lead to the Hollow—a bruise at the base of the world.
I know I shouldn’t look, but I always do.It’s where I first saw what the light left behind.
The flame sputters within my core, my mark pulsing at the memory; a faint warmth beneath my glove, the same colour as her shadows.I press a thumb into the ache until it stops.
They say the war began because the gods couldn’t agree on who owned the sky.Solan believed the darkness was a fracturing of the soul; to succumb to the void was to submit to weakness, chaos and corruption.How could the strength of the sun collapse so easily under the weight of the dark?
The Veiled Mother believed in a balance where purity and order cannot coexist without chaos and weakness.Fearing the growing dominion of her mortal dreams, Solan brought about the War of Sun and Shadow, shattering her divine essence into three, and cleansing all who whispered to the old faith—those who ‘bent to the fragility of their own minds.’
The Hollow was born to house the non-conformists.Solan’s will became law, ridding the world of those who practiced memory magic, shadowcraft and balance.Now, they live in our shadow, tending to Auria’s underground network with a plague that has spread through their tunnels, dooming generations to forced labour and slow decay.
That is the version they teach.It isn’t the one I’ve seen.
People like Seren, or those that carry the dark mark, are proof that the darkness still breathes.She said it herself today: her people know suffering.She isn’t wrong.
I glance down at the sealed report.The words inside feel like the lies the Triarch always twists.They will call the artifacts destruction ‘containment failure,’ never what it truly was: resistance.
I think of Riven—his wine-stained lips that look like blood—and his voice echoes in my mind:Purity through pain.I see the scholars behind their translucent panels again, their pens scratching her agony into their ledgers.
The Triarch will want to strike while she’s weak, expediting the process to meet tomorrow.Riven will stand before them—gilded and composed—claiming control over a phenomenon he still doesn’t understand.Not like I do.The mark on my wrist prickles in acknowledgement.
