Page 2 of The Fifth Heir

“In the cabinet beside the dais, with the seal intact.”

His brows drew together as he searched for something else I might have forgotten.

Master Orin had supervised the Hall for forty-three years and trusted its relics to no one. Three months earlier, he had begun allowing me to handle the less valuable pieces without direct observation. Last week, he had handed me the key to the eastern cases without reminding me that skin oils could damage ancient metal.

It was the closest he had ever come to praising my work.

“Check the western lamps again,” he said.

“Yes, Master.”

He disappeared from the railing.

I waited until his footsteps faded before crossing the circular chamber.

The Hall of Prism had remained closed for most of my life. The Choosing came only once each century, when the reigning dragon’s rule neared its end and the Prism named the heirs who would compete for the next crown. During the long years between ceremonies, a small team of keepers tended the dormant relics and maintained the records.

Most of that work was quiet. Controlled temperatures. Regular cleaning. Careful inspections for decay. I had spent entire afternoons documenting a new hairline fracture in a stone tablet or comparing translations of a single damaged rune.

Preparing for a Choosing was different.

Every lamp had to burn. Every known rune had to be exposed. Every object used in the ceremony had to be awakened in the proper order, including several whose purposes were no longer fully understood. The Hall had begun humming three days ago, a sound too low for most visitors to hear but strong enough to vibrate through the soles of my shoes.

For the past six weeks, I had arrived before sunrise and left after the evening bells. Master Orin credited diligence whenever he assigned me more work, but I didn’t mind.

This was the first Choosing I had ever witnessed.

It was also the only one I was likely to see. By the next, even the youngest dragons currently alive would exist only in academy histories. My own name, if it appeared anywhere, might survive in a keeper’s notation beneath a repaired date or corrected translation.

The western lamps were burning evenly.

I adjusted one wick by less than the width of my fingernail and stepped back.

That was when I noticed the line beneath the lowest bracket.

It was too straight to be a crack.

I crouched and ran my thumb across it. A thin layer of pale residue flaked away beneath my touch, revealing a shallow cut in the black stone.

A rune.

My pulse quickened.

I glanced toward the gallery, but Master Orin had not returned. The candidates’ voices remained beyond the bronze doors as attendants checked invitations and directed them into formation. I had time to mark the location. Perhaps even enough to determine the shape.

I pulled the cloth from my pocket and rubbed the stone more firmly.

One line became three. Another mark emerged beside them, then the curved edge of something larger. Dust filled the cuts, packed so tightly that it had concealed the carving entirely.

That should not have been possible.

We had cleaned every exposed rune in the Hall. I had checked the diagrams myself, matching each carving on the floor and walls to the master inventory.

This one was not recorded.

I lowered myself to both knees. The marks continued behind the lamp stand and disappeared beneath its base. I could not move it alone; the carved pedestal was nearly as tall as my waist and anchored to the floor by its own magic.

A faint pulse touched my fingertips.