The beat of wings thundered through the vale. Crimson scales flared in the lake’s reflection below as they cut a low path over the waters of Duskfall Vale.

  Elaria’s eyes fixed on the estate at the far edge, huddled against the mountain’s base like a nested sanctuary.

  A low rumble rose from beneath her. She laid a hand on Vorthalor’s neck, feeling the living heat beneath his scales, the pulse that tremored faintly through her gauntlet.

  They crossed the lake, then the treeline, bursting through a veil of pale mist as they descended toward the stretch of flattened grass before the estate.

  Elaria inhaled once, slow.

  Sablewatch Hollow.

  She dismounted. Vorthalor’s great head turned, a golden eye following her as she stepped away.

  Wind tugged at her cape. It smelled of bone and old cinder. The last time she had come here, the visit had proved fruitless.

  A frown settled beneath her helm.

  “Wait for me.”

  The dragon lowered himself to the ground, settling on the grass.

  Elaria approached the gates. Twin serpents coiled beneath a split-moon crest in the wrought iron, their stone eyes gleaming faintly as her shadow fell over them. She paused, then reached out.

  The gates opened soundlessly.

  Sablewatch Hollow was open to her once more.

  It was true, then.

  She crossed the courtyard, her gaze moving over ashcrown trees and curling thornvine trellises, over the black plinths where carved beasts and faceless sentinels stood as warnings to any who entered.

  A mirror of the woman who was this place’s master.

  The doors opened as she neared the entrance. Emberlight spilled across obsidian tile and glass. Rows of armor, weapons, and mannequins frozen mid-battle filled the wide hall in imitations of preserved triumph.

  Her lips thinned.

  The ‘Ember Gallery,’ she recalled, was the name of this hall.

  She lingered before crossing into the adjoining chamber. The air grew colder, the space more akin to a crypt, statues lining a central walkway—each carved in the likeness of a legendary beast or foe, several of which Elaria recalled having a hand in slaying. All of them stared toward an empty alabaster throne set upon a dais.

  Few who knew Veralyth Mournvale would ever accuse her of being vainglorious, self-aggrandizing, or excessive.

  To Elaria, those were the words that suited the woman best.

  She knew no other who would fashion a throne room in her own honor.

  Finding it empty, Elaria turned back into the gallery and continued on, navigating by memory through long corridors lined with dark oil paintings and bonework filigree. Eventually, she reached an exit leading to the outer wing.

  Tombstones greeted her in a shadowed garden. A narrow stone path wound between them, lined with blood-red bloomspikes.

  She followed the path, eyes flicking across the inscriptions. Not a single tombstone commemorated a person—instead, they only bore dates of battle, duels, and victories Mournvale had taken part in.

  Elaria shook her head.

  There was a saying that if you wished to know a soul, you should walk the halls they build for themselves. In the case of Sablewatch Hollow’s master, this was perhaps more relevant than ever.

  Past the garden stood a separate wing, its face etched with inverted crowns, stone hands frozen in plea, and empty arches that gaped like wounds.

  Elaria entered without granting the symbols of House Hollow another glance. The Resonance inside bristled faintly at her intrusion, but she steadied it with a measured pulse of her own.

  The foyer was excessive to the point of suffocation. Her gaze went straight to the staircase.

  Her plated boots struck dully against the carpet as she crossed the room and ascended. The corridor above stretched silent and dim, lined with dustless sconces and shut doors. She reached the far end, where two stood.

  Her eyes settled on the one to the left.

  She stilled, noticing her hand already on the handle. Jaw tightening, she pulled it back.

  But her eyes lingered.

  Eventually, she turned to leave. She could tell this part of the estate was empty. She had come only to confirm that. The next step was to finish her sweep of the other sections.

  She took a step, then paused.

  Her head turned.

  There was still the other door.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she walked up to it, took the handle, and pushed it open.

  She blinked.

  A canopied bed dominated the room, buried beneath a small mountain of stuffed creatures and toys.

  Mournvale’s…?

  Elaria stared for several long seconds, scanning the absurd heap—then saw one that made her stop. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

  She stepped closer and picked it up.

  A small doll, stitched in dark plate and crimson eyes, with vermilion hair and a blackened sun sewn across its chestplate. A miniature caricature of herself with childish proportions and a smug grin.

  Flame rippled up her gauntlet’s plates. The doll turned to ash between her fingers.

  Her gaze swept the room for any other offending items. She checked the shelves first, then the low table beside the bed. At the dresser, she opened each drawer in turn, rifling through neatly folded garments, hair ribbons, scraps of parchment, until she reached the bottom and found nothing more. She crossed to the vanity, looked beneath it, then turned to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

  She froze.

  A quiet beat passed before she shut the wardrobe again, eyes fixed on the closed doors.

  Mournvale…

  Even after all these years, there were things she still didn’t understand about the woman.

  What was even the function of…?

  Elaria turned and left the room, not looking back. She moved through the rest of the estate in silence, searching all the main halls and chambers. There were signs of life, but there was no one here.

  Once satisfied, she descended to the courtyard. The iron gates opened at her approach.

  Vorthalor raised his head from where it had rested on the grass, a pale scorched imprint marking the ground. His golden eyes followed her.

  Elaria set her hand against his snout and bowed her head slightly before climbing onto his back.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “We’re leaving,” she said. “Freybrook is next.”

  Vera had a hard time focusing on the remainder of the assembly. The discussions had shifted deep into logistical specifics and civic details she didn’t fully grasp, and her mind kept circling back to the strange presence she’d felt earlier. It had come and gone too quickly to identify, but the sense of it lingered. She’d considered using Mark of the Stillbound Veil to track it, but that invocation wasn’t exactly subtle, and she’d already drawn enough attention for one day. Besides, whatever it had been was probably well outside her effective range.

  By the time the assembly finally concluded, they’d managed to reach what Caldrin later called a ‘better-than-expected accord.’ Most of those present had agreed on forming a temporary ruling council to stabilize the city and outline the groundwork for rebuilding the Boneward Concord, even if the specifics of how that would look weren’t nailed down. Still, according to Caldrin, that much progress from a gathering this large was a small miracle.

  The council’s final composition wasn’t yet fixed, but Rathor, Vanded, and a few guild leaders and notable surviving sigilists were the ones likely positioned to lead it. At one point, someone had suggested Vera’s name as well—and she wasn’t above admitting that she’d inwardly panicked at that—but thankfully, Rathor had cut it down before the idea could gain traction, pointing out that governing their city wasn’t her duty. Technically, she wasn’t even a citizen.

  All things considered, the meeting wasn’t a complete success, but it wasn’t too bad either. Vera was just impressed she’d made it through with only one minor incident.

  Though she would still have preferred not attending at all.

  The last few hours had been an endless drone of debate, and by the time she left the hall with Caldrin, Gard, and Vanded, her head felt like it had after cramming all night for an exam.

  “Lady Mournvale, if you’d spare a moment,” a voice called as they stepped outside into the cool air.

  Vera turned. Rathor Grandhair approached with two attendants and a guard in tow, leaning lightly on his cane, his silver hair catching the evening light.

  “Did you need something?” she asked, briefly scanning the group before meeting his gaze.

  “I only wished to thank you personally,” he said. “An old fossil like me never had many chances to speak with the legends of the current generation, but I am nonetheless deeply grateful for all that you’ve done.”

  “You already thanked me inside. That’s more than enough.”

  He chuckled. “It truly isn’t. Is there nothing else I can do for you? I imagine there isn’t much in terms of wealth or resources that I can offer, but I still have connections within and beyond Marrowfen, some even the Chapter-Master here lacks. They might serve you well.”

  Vera paused, thinking, then looked to Vanded. “You said you’ve had trouble getting any news about Mireya in Darnelle? No Ashmarks left that still link there, right?”

  The man nodded. “That’s the trouble. I sent someone to Karthvale since their Chapter-Master might have a faster way of contacting them, but it’ll be a while before we hear back.”

  Vera turned back to Rathor. “Do you have a way of reaching Darnelle?”

  He frowned. “I’m afraid not. What few Ashmarks I had were used to send word of Marrowfen’s situation to our allies in other cities. I could dispatch a courier, but it would take weeks to reach that far. Likely no faster than Blazegrip’s people.”

  “I figured as much.” She scratched the back of her head, considering for another beat. “Then… you wouldn’t happen to have any books or materials for teaching a kid, would you?”

  He blinked. “Teaching a kid?”

  “Yeah. Six years old. Bright. Can already read.”

  “This… child. What is their relation to you?”

  “Not your concern.”

  One of his eyebrows arched, but he didn’t press as a smile formed on his face. “It just so happens that my grandchildren recently outgrew the materials that were used in their schooling. I imagine I can arrange something suitable for your situation.”

  “That would help,” Vera said, gesturing toward Caldrin. “You can work out the details with him later.”

  Caldrin gave a respectful nod.

  “Very well.” Rathor inclined his head. “Then I’ll take my leave. Until next time, Lady Mournvale. Emberlain. Blazegrip. Whiteforest.”

  He offered his farewells to the others and departed with his attendants and guard. Vera watched him go, then exhaled.

  “Right. We’re off, then. I need to pick up Serel.”

  Everything was probably fine, but she wanted to see for herself how the girl had managed after half a day apart.

  “Mind if I join?” Vanded asked, grinning.

  She gave him a dry look. “Aren’t you likely to be appointed to that council soon? Do you really have time to wander off?”

  “It’s not me they’d draft. That honor naturally goes to my loyal Vice-Master here.” He clapped a heavy hand on Gard’s shoulder. “‘Sides, I’ve been buried in pointless work for three days straight. A short visit to the Chalice will do me good. And you wouldn’t deny a man a chance to see his goddaughter, would you?”

  “Serel’s not your goddaughter.”

  “But she could be! Can you imagine a better godfather for such a bright kid?”

  “I can.” Vera shook her head. “If you really want to come, sure. I won’t stop you. Gard’s the one who’ll suffer.”

  The man in question breathed out a long, resigned sigh. “It’s alright, Miss Mournvale. The Chapter-Master’s done enough work for today. And from personal experience, after gatherings like this, it’s best to let him… release some energy. Otherwise, he’ll be more likely to get in your way.”

  “Hah!” Vanded clapped his hands together. “Hear that? You’re doing the man a favor, Mournvale.”

  Vera stared at him. Did he not have any shame? Was this the same man who’d talked to her all seriously about the work that needed to be done, not even a week ago?

  “…Fine. Come along, then.”

  Ignoring the eyes on them, she summoned Stillwake, the halberd forming in her grip with a cold shimmer. She dragged the blade through the air, and Hollow sigils flared in its wake as pale, spectral hands tore open a rift before them.

  Mark of Hollow Reach.

  Saying her goodbyes to Gard, Vera stepped through the rift with Caldrin and Vanded, emerging in a narrow alley across the city. She pulled on her jacket, hiding the sigil-scars along her arms, redyed her hair beneath her hood, and dismissed Stillwake as the rift sealed shut behind them. Then she led the way out of the alley, emerging not far from The Bleeding Chalice.

  “By the way,” she said as they crossed the street, looking at the few passersby who only seemed to give Vanded’s massive frame brief glances, “have you always been a patron to this place, or is that a recent thing?”

  “Hmm?” Vanded scratched at his beard. “The Chalice has been a favorite of ours at the Table for years. I’ve been drinking there longer than you’ve been walking Marrowfen’s streets, I reckon.”

  “Yeah? From what I’ve heard, the matron and her daughter have a few choice words about your ‘behavior’ when you visit, though.”

  The man just laughed. “Sure, we can get a bit rowdy, but Hilde doesn’t mind. She knows to send word if any of us go too far. Little harm in enjoying yourself at times.”

  “I do imagine it is more likely to become harm when ‘at times’ turns into ‘all the time,’” Caldrin remarked beside them.

  That only had Vanded laughing louder, this time drawing more stares. “Fair point. Happens some weeks, I’ll admit!”

  Vera gave him a look but decided to let it drop, focusing forward instead.

  They didn’t even make it to the tavern’s entrance before the door burst open and Serel came sprinting out, a slightly out-of-breath Gloria hurrying behind her.

  “Mommy!” Serel shouted, crashing into Vera’s arms with more force than a kid her size should’ve mustered.

  Vera smiled, running a hand through the girl’s hair. “Hello to you too, Serel. Did you have fun?”

  Serel leaned back, nodding eagerly. “Mmm! It was super fun! I showed Gloria the Wick, and she said your singing was beautiful!”

  Vera paused, her smile faltering slightly as her gaze shifted to the now-blushing teen. “Is that so?”

  She’d had time over the past few days to experiment with the Quiet Wake, and it was a fascinating artifact.

  The memories it captured weren’t just visual echoes or sounds. They felt real, in a hands-off way. Reliving them was like stepping back into the moment itself, complete with faint impressions of the emotions of those present. That included things like affection, warmth, fear, even love.

  Vera suspected that was part of why Serel adored the thing so much.

  She liked it as well, honestly. It was a unique kind of experience. Feeling your own emotions from the outside like that was… disarming, but strangely grounding. It gave her perspective.

  Lately, though, Serel had started experimenting on her own, recording herself humming little tunes. Vera hadn’t been too surprised when she recognized a few of them, nor when the girl couldn’t explain where she knew them from. She had been caught off guard, though, when Serel had shyly wondered if she could record something for her instead.

  Vera had hesitated, but in the end, she’d agreed. Music had been a big part of her life once. She hadn’t touched an instrument in three years, but singing to herself was one of the few things she still did now and then. She wasn’t as good a singer as she’d been a guitarist, and it wasn’t quite the same without music behind it, but it had been… nice, recording something just for Serel. And Serel loved it.

  Of course, logically, Vera had known her daughter would probably share it. Emotionally, though, it was still embarrassing to know Gloria had now heard it.

  “I—I really liked your singing,” the teen managed under Vera’s stare.

  “You sing, Mournvale?” Vanded asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.

  “This is news to me as well,” Caldrin said.

  “I do,” Vera replied flatly. “But neither of you will hear it.”

  “Come now. There’s no shame in baring your soul with song,” Vanded said with a grin. “I sing too, you know.”

  Vera looked him up and down. He did not strike her as a singer.

  Not that she was unwinding that particular thread.

  She turned back to Serel, gently shifting the girl and settling her own arms over Serel’s shoulders just as Hilde appeared in the doorway behind Gloria, drying her hands on a cloth.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little one’s mama bear,” the woman said with a grin.

  “I hope Serel wasn’t any trouble?” Vera asked.

  Hilde smiled warmly, stopping beside her daughter. “Trouble? That one couldn’t manage if she tried.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Then maybe—”

  Vera stilled as a surge of Resonance rippled at the edge of her senses. Her hands instinctively tightened around Serel as her eyes lifted to the sky.

  “Mommy?” Serel asked, confusion threading her small voice.

  “Mournvale?” Vanded’s tone shifted, turning serious.

  A deep, distant roar rolled across the city, shaking windowpanes and causing everyone to tense.

  Vera’s gaze locked on a single point in the cloud, where a small shape cut through the light, moving fast.

  Even from here, she could tell it was something strong.

  “Caldrin,” she said, starting to shift Serel into his arms as Stillwake manifested in her hand. “I’ll send you back to Sablewatch Hollow. Keep her safe. No matter what—”

  “Mama…?” Serel’s uncertain voice broke through the rising hum of Resonance, her eyes fixed on the approaching figure.

  Vera’s thoughts stalled. The alarm bells that were ringing in her mind went silent—only to be replaced by another set of alarms.

  She looked down at her daughter. “What did you just say?”