Within the halls of Albareen, the day had reached its golden hour — that strange lull between duty and dusk, when shadows began to stretch but the sun still clung to the sky. The corridors were quiet, bathed in cool shadow and slivers of moonlight. Tapestries stirred faintly from unseen drafts. Somewhere far off, a fountain whispered.
But beneath the calm, chaos waited.
The stones groaned — not loudly, but just enough to ripple unease down Yasri's spine. Her steps quickened, heart thudding harder with each stride. Clutched in her arms was Sulien, small and silent against her chest, as if the child too sensed the weight pressing in.
The corridor shook with frantic motion. Yasri, clutching Sulien to her chest, fled down the hallway with the baby dragons chirping in alarm on her shoulders. Their small wings flared, tails twitching as they sensed the panic in the air.
Three robed figures blocked their escape.
Yasri's breath caught in her throat, eyes darting around the corridor. Her gaze landed on a heavy clay vase perched near a carved niche. Without hesitation, she snatched it and hurled it directly at the figures. The vase struck one of them with a dull thud before exploding in a cloud of dust and shards, blinding the robed men as they reeled back in surprise.
They snarled and flailed, momentarily blinded.
Yasri didn't wait.
She charged forward, slamming past them with a surprising burst of strength, using her body to shield Sulien and the dragons. Their chirps turned shrill as they clung to her robes. Behind her, the figures cursed in a language she couldn't place — guttural and sharp.
Inside Sulien's mind, panic thundered. "Oh gods—oh gods, move! Run! Faster, damn it! I'm not dying again!"
His thoughts raced faster than Yasri's steps. His baby eyes blinked rapidly, locking on the glint of curved daggers in the men's hands as they gave chase.
He could see her face now — the sheer desperation etched in every line. Yasri was not just running — she was throwing herself between death and a child not even her own. A child not even human. She could've saved herself. She could've left him and the dragons behind, but she didn't.
And that made it worse.
"Please—don't let me die again. Not now. Not when she's trying so hard."
Back in the garden pavilion, the air hung heavy.
Merakh's voice lingered with veiled implication, but Elarya had already risen.
"I must go," she said curtly, taking a step back from the table. "This conversation is over." Ser Kael flanked her without needing to be told, his hand already resting on the pommel of his sword.
They had taken only a few steps when Merakh called out behind them, tone too casual to be innocent, "In such a hurry, Lady Elarya? One might think you've someone waiting... someone small. Fragile. Not quite ordinary."
His smile never reached his eyes. There was something too calm, too knowing in his expression — like a blade she couldn't see, hovering just behind his gaze.
Elarya stopped — not just in motion, but in breath. Something in Merakh's words had curled under her skin, sharp and deliberate. She turned, her eyes searching. Merakh stood as if he hadn't moved. But behind him, the crimson-robed woman slowly rose.
Kael's voice cracked the tension. "Shakareen!"
Elarya flinched. The sound of his panic struck her like a slap, breaking through her stunned haze. Her heart lurched, as if her body remembered danger before her mind caught up.
The sound of steel followed. He had drawn his sword.
Behind them — five more robed figures emerged from the trees, gliding silently between columns.
Elarya's blood turned cold.
She spun back — more figures. Every angle, every path blocked. And then, without sound or warning, the crimson woman stood before her.
Elarya gasped, instinctively stumbling back.
Kael shouted again, lunging toward her. His hand reached out, desperate to pull her back, to shield her with his body before the robed woman could do anything. But he was too far — a heartbeat too slow, and too late.
The crimson-robed woman stepped forward, her movement eerily graceful. Time felt thick, like the air between Elarya and the woman had congealed into glass. The robed figure hovered her pale hand in front of Elarya's face. Elarya breathed hard, her eyes wide with confusion, her feet frozen. She didn't understand what was happening — only that something terrible was.
The woman raised one finger. Ancient words crackled in the air between them, spoken like an invocation from a world long dead.
Then, with a whisper of finality, the finger touched Elarya's forehead. A sudden force, invisible but immense, slammed through her. Her head snapped back as if struck by a hammer of wind and thought. The breath left her lungs. Her knees buckled.
And then — everything went black. Her vision didn't fade. It collapsed. She blinked once and she was elsewhere.
Dark. Cold. Empty.
Elarya staggered, clutching her arms. "I was... just in the garden," she murmured, voice trembling. When she opened her eyes, she stood alone in a place that felt neither real nor imagined.
Darkness wrapped the space around her like velvet. The ground was cold. The air thinner. Only a dim sphere of light hovered directly above her, casting a pale glow that barely reached beyond her feet. It was as though the world had shrunk to a single spotlight, and she stood alone at its center — exposed, watched, forgotten.
Elarya staggered, gripping her arms.
"What... what is this?" she whispered to no one.
A flicker of red — then the woman in crimson stepped into view, her silhouette illuminated by the same pale glow that hovered from above, cold and unwavering. It painted her robes in hues of ember and shadow, her presence more silhouette than person — as though the light revealed only what the world should fear.
"You are here because you must listen," the woman said, walking in a slow, serpentine arc around her. "Before the curtain burns, the truth must be whispered — even if you refuse to believe it."
Elarya's voice cracked. "What did you do to me? Where is my knight?"
"He is alive. For now." The woman's voice was calm, almost amused.
Elarya's fists clenched. "What is this sorcery?"
"Magic," the woman replied, with a tilt of her hooded head. "Something your kind buried under the sand and ashes. Some call it myth, but myths are only truths swallowed by time."
For a heartbeat, Elarya simply stared — not in fear, but in denial. The word magic echoed in her mind, absurd and offensive. Her brows furrowed, not from confusion, but from disbelief. As if the very utterance of it was an insult to reason. She shook her head slightly, as if to chase the thought away, her mouth twitching like she might scoff.
It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Not here. Not now. She wanted to laugh. To bark a retort. To curse the woman for even suggesting it.
"There's no such thing," Elarya snapped. "Magic is a lie. Stories for children."
The crimson woman stiffened. Her voice dropped.
"Even fairy tales are history — written by believers. Forgotten by fools. Just like your son." As the words left her lips, the woman in crimson smiled — not warmly, but with a quiet, plotting satisfaction.
Elarya went still. "My son?"
The words echoed in her skull, sharp and cruel. Her confusion twisted into fury. How dare this witch speak of Sulien — speak his name like it was hers to touch. Elarya's hands curled into fists, trembling.
"You stay away from him!" she snapped. Her heart thudded wildly, not from fear, but from rage. Was it her fault? Had she led danger straight to him?
She lunged forward, trying to grab her — only to pass through her form as if reaching through fog.
Elarya gasped — The woman had vanished like smoke, and yet the echo of her words still rang in Elarya's bones — wrong, raw, and too close to the truth.
The woman's voice whispered behind her.
"You try to cling to what you know. But you know nothing. Not of the fire that brought him, not of the power he carries."
Elarya turned, wide-eyed.
"He is only a child!" she pleaded — not with reason, but with the raw desperation of a mother who had already cradled death once. The memory of that lifeless form haunted her — Sulien had died once in her arms. She would not let it happen again. Not because of her. Not because she brought him into this cursed world.
The crimson woman took a step closer. "He is not just a child. He is a key — a flicker of what once was, and what can be again if shaped by the right hands. They will come for him, not for who he is, but for what he could bring back."
Elarya backed away, step by step.Elarya stared, trying to grasp meaning from the woman's words. They felt like riddles, strung together with eerie certainty. She said nothing — only watched, tense and unsure, as her heart pounded louder than sense.
"Why?" she asked, breathless.
The woman's voice turned quiet, almost reverent.
"Because they fear what he proves. That magic is not dead. That the Hollow Star failed. That a child of flame can live again."
The crimson woman's expression twisted — not with pity, but something near exhilaration. Her eyes gleamed, wild with belief. "I'm not mad," she said sharply, almost laughing.
"They call me mad, but it's the men of this city who are blind! They worship their gold and crowns, but what use are riches when the old truths stir beneath their feet?" she said mockingly.
Elarya, still stunned, found her voice. Her words wavered. "Are you not with them? With Merakh? I thought you served the trade — served the gold of this city."
The woman's smile darkened. "I do not serve men who weigh worth in coin. I seek what no city or kingdom can buy — and your children, Lady Elarya, all three of them, are priceless."
Elarya's back struck a wall that hadn't been there before. The red-robed woman came to a stop before her — and for the first time, lifted her hood.
But what Elarya saw beneath the hood was a woman's face — pale, calm, and disturbingly composed. Her eyes held something unspoken, something cold. And somehow, that made it worse.
Elarya stared, her heart thunderous.
The woman in crimson leaned close once more, voice soft and mocking. "Don't worry, Lady Elarya. I will find the boy. I will raise him as my own — my little prince. He is the echo of something old. I will make him sing that song again — and the world will remember what it buried."
She turned her back on Elarya then, as if the conversation had ended, as if Elarya herself no longer mattered. Her form began to fade into the shadows, dissolving into smoke and drifting into the void.
"No!" Elarya shouted, lurching forward. She reached out, grasping for the woman's cloak — but her fingers closed around nothing. The darkness swallowed all.
"They are my children!" she screamed into the void, her voice cracking — not just with rage, but with heartbreak. The words tore from her throat like a vow and a curse all at once.
Elarya sank to her knees. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold the weight of her failure in place. Her body trembled — not from cold, but from helplessness.
She had once held Sulien lifeless in her arms — a moment seared into her soul. And now, he was being torn from her again, not alone, but alongside the two small dragons who had become his kin. All three of them — her children now, not by blood but by bond — were being hunted, taken by shadows she couldn't fight. The terror that gripped her chest was unlike anything she had ever known — the agony of facing a loss not yet final, but already unbearable.
And all she could do was weep.