The noise above Wolfsbane Keep did not reach the depths beneath it.

  Far below the stone foundations of the fortress, beyond layers of iron gates and rune-etched corridors, silence ruled the undercroft.

  Torches burned low along the narrow passageway, their flames struggling against a cold that did not belong to the season. The deeper one walked, the heavier the air became—as though the stone itself remembered something terrible.

  Godric felt it immediately. Not fear. Something…stranger.

  A pull.

  He slowed as the corridor bent downward into a spiral stair carved directly into the bedrock. Ancient sigils glowed faintly along the walls—circles, runes, and seals woven together with the unmistakable precision of barrier magic.

  Chamuel’s work. And beneath that… another layer. Burning threads of crimson light ran through the carvings like veins beneath skin.

  Byronard’s mana.

  Godric exhaled slowly. "Was she trouble?” he murmured.

  Gabriel, walking a step ahead with one hand resting on the hilt of her dagger, didn’t turn around. “Stronger than anyone would like. Not stronger than me, though.” Godric rolled his eyes. "Her attitude's more troublesome than her magic, to be honest."

  Her voice was playful, but her shoulders were tense. She remembered this place well. The last time she had come down these stairs, the fields above them were still burning.

  The staircase opened into a circular chamber.

  Golden light filled the room.

  A barrier of pure mana stretched across the center of the chamber like a dome of molten glass. The sigils feeding it were carved into the floor in concentric circles—dozens of them, each glowing faintly as power coursed through the ancient runework.

  At the edge of it all sat a solitary figure. Shackled in chains that brimmed with mana.

  Lilith.

  She looked almost relaxed.

  Silk draped her form like liquid shadow, clinging to her movements as though the fabric itself obeyed her will. Her long hair spilled across her shoulders in dark waves, and faint tendrils of living shadow pooled at her feet like restless serpents.

  Her eyes glowed faintly. Soft. Inviting. Dangerous.

  She was sitting on a low stone platform, one leg crossed over the other, humming quietly to herself, as though she had been expecting visitors.

  Godric felt the pull again, but this time it was stronger. Not physical. Something deeper. A whisper brushing against the edges of his thoughts.

  Come closer.

  Gabriel stepped forward immediately.

  The royal guard planted herself between Godric and the barrier, her gaze locked on the imprisoned demon. Slowly, she lifted her head.

  Her glowing eyes settled first on Gabriel. Recognition flickered instantly.

  Then she smiled. “Well,” she said softly. Her voice flowed through the chamber like warm honey. “I was wondering when my favorite plaything would come visit again.”

  “You’re still breathing,” Gabriel replied flatly. “Disappointing.”

  Lilith laughed quietly. “You’re still alive,” Lilith continued, tilting her head slightly. “I must admit, I'm surprised that all of you were able to survive thus far."

  Gabriel didn’t respond.

  The golden barrier shimmered faintly as shadowy tendrils stretched lazily across its surface, testing the edges like curious fingers. They dissolved instantly upon contact with the divine sigils. Lilith didn’t seem bothered. Her gaze drifted past Gabriel and landed on Godric.

  The shift in her expression was immediate.

  “Oh.” Her voice softened. “Well now…” She rose slowly from the stone platform, silk whispering against the floor. The shadows at her feet stirred eagerly.

  "I believe this is the first time we've formally met, my dear." Godric felt the weight of her attention like a hand pressing gently against his chest.

  Not painful. Not threatening. Just…intimate.

  Too intimate.

  Lilith took a few slow steps toward the barrier. The golden dome shimmered as she approached, the sigils along the floor brightening defensively. Still smiling, she leaned slightly forward, studying him.

  Godric stepped forward beside Gabriel. “You’ve been expecting me?”

  Lilith tilted her head. “Expecting? No.” Her glowing eyes narrowed slightly. “But I did wonder when the son of the Stranger would come looking for answers.” Gabriel shifted slightly. Godric ignored her.

  He stopped just outside the barrier, studying Lilith carefully.

  “You can smell it, can’t you?”

  Lilith smiled wider.

  “The Stranger’s blood.”

  Her gaze lingered on him with unsettling intensity. “It’s quite strong.” The shadows around her feet stirred eagerly.

  Godric crossed his arms.

  “Good. That saves us time.”

  Lilith blinked. Then she laughed. “Oh, I like you already.”

  Godric’s voice remained calm. “Lord Rykard detected dark magic appearing in these dungeons.” Lilith’s smile faltered, but only slightly.

  “Appearing and disappearing,” Godric continued. “Like someone stepping in and out of reality.” Her expression turned thoughtful.

  “How fascinating.”

  Godric didn’t blink. “You’ve had visitors.”

  Lilith chuckled. “You make it sound scandalous, my dear.”

  Gabriel’s hands tightened on her twin daggers. Godric took another step closer to the barrier. The golden dome flared slightly in response.

  “Who was it?”

  Lilith walked slowly toward him, stopping just inches from the glowing barrier. The light illuminated her features in warm gold, but the shadows behind her seemed deeper than before.

  “You came all this way,” she said softly. “And that’s your first question?”

  Godric met her gaze.

  “Yes.”

  Lilith studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed dramatically.

  “You’re no fun at all.”

  The shadows behind her shifted.

  Something long and thin stretched across the barrier’s surface before dissolving into harmless smoke. “You’re looking for someone,” she said. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.”

  Godric didn’t respond. Lilith leaned slightly closer to the barrier. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “You’re looking for him.”

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. Godric remained still. “What do you know about him?” he asked. Lilith’s smile returned, slow and knowing.

  “Oh, I know quite a bit. After all, who doesn't get to know their companions after spending nearly hundreds of lifetimes co-existing with them?”

  Godric’s voice hardened.

  “Then talk.”

  Lilith lifted a hand, tapping the barrier lightly with one finger. Golden energy surged instantly, forcing her hand back. She didn’t seem bothered.

  “You know, you really should be more careful,” she said softly.

  Godric frowned. “About what?”

  Lilith’s glowing eyes flicked briefly toward the stone ceiling above them, then back to him.

  “About asking questions that might attract attention. You and your father share the same reckless bravado. Charming, but reckless." Gabriel stepped forward slightly.

  “Explain.”

  Lilith ignored her. Her gaze remained fixed on Godric. “The one you’re searching for,” she said quietly, “is very… particular about words.” Godric felt a strange chill crawl up his spine.

  Lilith’s smile widened. “He doesn’t like being spoken about.” Gabriel scoffed. “And why should we believe anything you say?”

  Lilith glanced at her. Amusement flickered across her face.

  “Because,” she said sweetly, “if he’s truly here…then he’s probably listening already.”

  The shadows behind her twisted suddenly. Not violently. Just enough to send a ripple through the chamber. Silence filled the room. Godric frowned.

  “You’re lying.”

  Lilith shrugged.

  “Maybe.”

  She stepped away from the barrier again, her silk robes whispering across the stone floor.

  “But if I were you,” she continued lightly, “I’d ask your scholar friend how someone could slip through wards designed by Chamuel, and fueled by Byronard’s mana, reinforced by Divine power."

  Godric didn’t answer.

  Lilith turned her back to them, strolling lazily across the barrier’s interior.

  “Reality is such a fragile thing,” she mused. “Especially when someone knows how to… rewrite it.” Gabriel and Godric exchanged a glance. Lilith looked over her shoulder and smiled.

  “Do be careful, my dear,” she said softly. “Some words…” Her glowing eyes gleamed. “…have the power to change the world.”

  The corridors above the dungeon felt strangely brighter after the oppressive silence of Lilith’s chamber.

  Godric didn’t realize how tense his shoulders had been until the heavy iron doors of the council chamber came into view again. Gabriel walked beside him, arms folded and expression thoughtful.

  Neither of them spoke for most of the walk. Lilith’s words lingered in the air like smoke.

  Reality is fragile.

  Godric didn’t like the sound of that.

  When they entered the meeting chamber again, the atmosphere inside had changed entirely. The formal gathering had dissolved into smaller clusters of conversation, as nobles, commanders, and foreign leaders mingled throughout the room.

  The war council had become something closer to a war camp.

  Wyatt stood near the tall windows speaking with the dwarven kings, Sindras and Vargas. The three of them leaned over the edge of a large map table, deep in discussion.

  Nearby, Michael and Gabriel’s fellow royal guards had begun arguing about supply routes.

  Godric approached the map table.

  Wyatt noticed him first.

  “Well?” he asked. “How did the interrogation go?” Godric exhaled slowly.

  “Unpleasant.”

  Vargas barked out a short laugh.

  “That describes most conversations with demons.”

  Sindras stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “Did she speak?”

  Godric nodded.

  “She claims someone has been visiting the dungeon.” That immediately caught their attention. Wyatt straightened.

  “What kind of someone?”

  Godric glanced briefly at Gabriel, then he explained everything: Lilith’s strange certainty. The way she spoke about someone listening and the warning about words changing reality.

  And most importantly—

  “Rykard’s right,” Godric finished. “Something has been slipping through the wards.” Silence fell over the table.

  Sindras slowly leaned back. “That should be impossible. Byronard's mana is enchanted by the Mother herself. His powers would be the most refined out of all the Vessels, given his experience.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Chamuel’s seals alone would stop most awakened. Hells—a simple spell he taught Raphael even stopped Lilith from causing more trouble.”

  “And Byronard’s mana is layered over the barrier,” Godric added. “As powerful as she is, Lilith can’t breach it.”

  Vargas folded his arms.

  “So someone is walking through magic strong enough to cage a Circle.”

  Godric nodded.

  "Yes."

  "Well, that's terrifying."

  Wyatt had gone very still. His eyes drifted toward the floor. Sindras noticed immediately. “Lad,” the dwarf king said slowly, “something on your mind?”

  Wyatt didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

  Vargas frowned.

  “Out with it, boy.”

  “Limbo.”

  Godric blinked. “Wait...that's the First Circle? Right?”

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  Wyatt nodded. “After we defeated the Circle that stole the dwarven relic.” Vargas’s expression darkened immediately. "By the old gods, you might be onto something." Sindras exchanged a glance with his brother.

  Wyatt leaned against the table. “There was someone else there.”

  Godric’s attention sharpened. “Someone powerful.”

  Wyatt nodded slowly.

  “I thought he was just another Circle servant at first.” He shook his head. “But then he spoke.”

  Gabriel frowned. “What do you mean?” Wyatt hesitated.

  “He told us to kneel,” he said quietly. Vargas snorted, bitterly remembering the experience.

  “And you listened?”

  Wyatt met his eyes. “Everyone did."

  “You're shitting me.”

  Wyatt’s voice remained calm, but the memory clearly unsettled him. “It wasn’t intimidation. It wasn’t magic the way we understand it.”

  He paused.

  “It was just a word.”

  “What happened?”

  Wyatt continued slowly. “The moment he spoke…everyone dropped to their knees.”

  His fingers curled slightly. Godric felt a chill run through him. Gabriel’s brows furrowed.

  “Everyone?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  "Royal guards, dwarves, elves, even some of the demons that were still alive. Heck, even Uriel was forced to kneel.”

  Michael frowned deeply. “That’s impossible.”

  Wyatt shrugged slightly. “I thought so too. It was a surreal moment, but it did happen.” He turned to Sindras and Vargas, who experienced it firsthand.

  Godric leaned forward.

  “And you?”

  Wyatt hesitated.

  “I didn’t kneel.”

  Sindras nodded slowly. "Aye, that's true. Wyatt had already become the Smith's vessel by then. He was still coming to with the power, but the Smith protects his own. The lad resisted that monster's charms.”

  Godric’s mind was already racing. “What did he look like?”

  Wyatt closed his eyes briefly, trying to recall. “Tall. Black robes. His face was mostly hidden, but his voice…” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  Gabriel crossed her arms.

  “Did he fight you?”

  Wyatt let out a humorless laugh. “No. He acknowledged me for resisting his power, but that's about it. He appeared out of nowhere, spoke with Limbo, took the relic, ordered everyone to kneel, and left, just like that." Wyatt continued.

  He looked at Godric. "Did she say he manipulated reality with words?”

  Godric nodded slowly. “That’s exactly what she implied.”

  Sindras sighed heavily. “Well then,” He folded his arms. “We have a problem, and a big one at that. If the same man who stole our relic can walk through Chamuel’s wards…”

  Vargas finished the sentence grimly.

  “…then the prison beneath this keep may not be as secure as we thought.”

  Gabriel glanced toward the distant dungeon stairs. A faint unease crept into her voice. “And if Lilith knows he’s here…” Godric finished the thought quietly.

  “…then she’s not the most dangerous thing that exists in this castle anymore.”

  The castle had grown quiet.

  War councils had a way of draining the life from a place. Hours earlier, the halls of Wolfsbane Keep had been loud with discussion, clashing opinions, and the low rumble of dwarven voices. Now, only the occasional footsteps of a patrolling guard echoed through the stone corridors.

  Lord Rykard Wintertomb preferred it this way.

  Silence made thinking easier.

  A single lantern burned beside him at a long oak table in the scholar’s chamber he had temporarily claimed as his own. Scrolls, parchments, and journals covered nearly every inch of the surface. Some were his notes, others borrowed from the royal archives.

  Rykard dipped his quill into ink and scribbled another observation.

  Pattern emerging.

  He paused, then leaned back slightly in his chair. The candlelight flickered against the lenses of his spectacles as he reviewed the information gathered over the past weeks.

  Relics. It was always relics.

  He turned a page in his notebook and tapped the parchment thoughtfully. “The Tears of the Crescent Moon,” he muttered softly. It was the sacred necklace of the elves. Princess Anarór?’s report had been clear: the relic had vanished from his father's grave without any sign of forced entry.

  No broken wards. No disturbed guardians. It was simply…gone.

  Rykard flipped another page.

  “The Dwarven Relic of Khaz Gareth.” The one retrieved by the First Circle that disappeared along with the mysterious figure. Two ancient artifacts. Two impossibly precise thefts, and now whispers of dark magic stirred beneath Wolfsbane Keep itself.

  Rykard tapped his quill against the table. “Patterns rarely appear without purpose,” he murmured.

  His foundation of Clarity hummed quietly within him. Most awakened used mana to bend the world, but Rykard used it to understand it. Clarity did not grant overwhelming power, but it sharpened the mind in ways most people never noticed. Subtle shifts in mana. Faint distortions in magical currents. Echoes left behind by things that should not exist. It was the reason Byronard valued his rescue during the expedition north.

  And right now…something was wrong. Rykard frowned. The air in the chamber felt… strange. It was not hostile. Not dangerous. It was just…present. He slowly lowered his quill.

  “…Curious.”

  A faint whisper brushed through the room, one as soft as a passing breeze. Rykard’s head snapped up. The windows were closed tight.

  He slowly stood, cautious. His mana stirred instinctively, the quiet awareness of Clarity stretching outward like invisible threads.

  “Who’s there?” he asked calmly. There was no answer. Only silence. Rykard exhaled slowly and shook his head. “Too many sleepless nights,” he muttered.

  He returned to his seat. The next page of his notebook lay blank. He dipped the quill again—

  Then froze.

  There was writing on the page.

  Rykard blinked, making sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He was certain the parchment had been empty moments ago.

  Slowly, carefully, he leaned closer. The ink was still fresh. But he hadn’t written it. The words were elegant. Precise. Almost…mocking.

  You search for patterns. How admirable.

  Rykard’s fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. His mana flared slightly. He hadn’t sensed anyone entering the room. There was no teleportation, no illusion, no magical distortion.

  Nothing.

  And yet the words continued appearing across the page. Ink forming letter by letter, as though an invisible hand was writing.

  The Tears of the Crescent Moon.

  The Dwarven Relic.

  You wonder why they are taken.

  Rykard swallowed. He forced himself to stay calm. Fear had always clouded clarity, and clarity was the one weapon he possessed.

  The writing continued.

  Because history must be corrected.

  Because the world was built upon the greatest lie ever told.

  Rykard’s heart skipped. “What lie?” he whispered. The quill on the table rolled slightly as if it were nudged. New words appeared.

  The lie of Primera.

  Rykard’s breath caught.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded quietly. The ink paused. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the final line appeared.

  You are not ready to know.

  The lantern flickered, and the writing stopped. Rykard stared at the page. His Clarity foundation pulsed violently now. Not from danger, but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

  Whoever had done this hadn’t used mana the way normal awakened did. It was something else. Something…deeper. Something that bent reality rather than touching it. Rykard suddenly pushed back from the desk.

  “I need confirmation,” he said under his breath.

  There was only one place in Wolfsbane Keep that might contain answers. The Royal Library.

  He grabbed the notebook and hurried out of the chamber.

  The vast doors of the Royal Library were already open when Rykard arrived. Warm light spilled into the hallway. Inside, towering shelves stretched upward into shadowed arches. Thousands of books. Centuries of history. The beating heart of Primera’s knowledge.

  And, unsurprisingly, Raphael was there.

  The tall physician sat at a reading table near the center of the hall, surrounded by open tomes and glass vials. Across from him sat Cassian, who was hunched over a thick medical text with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to fall asleep.

  Raphael looked up first.

  “Lord Rykard.”

  Cassian followed his gaze.

  “Oh—hey, Lord Wintertomb.”

  Rykard barely acknowledged the greeting. “Raphael,” he said quickly. “Tell me something.” Raphael raised an eyebrow.

  “That depends.”

  Rykard stepped forward and placed his notebook on the table. “Have you ever heard of a magic that writes without a hand?”

  Cassian blinked. “…That sounds like cheating.” Raphael ignored him. Instead, he studied Rykard carefully. “You look troubled, my lord.”

  “That's because I am.”

  Rykard opened the notebook to the page. The writing was still there. Raphael leaned closer. Cassian peeked over his shoulder.

  “Whoa,” Cassian said.

  “You didn’t write that?”

  “No,” Rykard replied. Raphael’s expression slowly changed. Concern replaced curiosity.

  “…When did this appear?”

  “Moments ago.”

  Raphael straightened.

  “And you sensed no mana?”

  “None.”

  That worried Raphael more than anything. Because in a world governed by mana…magic without mana was something else entirely.

  Cassian scratched his head.

  “Uh… guys?”

  They both looked at him. Cassian pointed to the bottom of the page.

  “…I think it’s still writing.”

  Slowly and quietly, new words appeared beneath the others. Four simple words.

  Good luck, Rykard Wintertomb.

  Rykard felt the Clarity within him flare like a warning bell. Not a threat. Not an attack, but the unmistakable sensation of being observed. Somewhere in Wolfsbane Keep—

  Something was watching them.

  The Royal Library of Wolfsbane Keep had always been a place of quiet contemplation.

  Tonight, it felt like a war room.

  Shelves of ancient tomes towered toward the vaulted ceiling, their spines whispering centuries of forgotten knowledge. Candlelight flickered across polished stone floors as the gathered assembly formed a loose circle around the large reading table where Lord Rykard’s notes were spread.

  The room had filled quickly.

  Cassian had done well.

  Lord Dunwick stood near the door, half-awake and rubbing his eyes, his hair slightly disheveled as though he had been dragged from bed. The Azanean leaders stood together near the far shelves, alert and watchful.

  Wyatt leaned against a bookcase beside Sindras and Vargas, the dwarves murmuring among themselves.

  Godric stood near the table with Anarór? at his side, her silver hair catching the candlelight like threads of moonlight. Alexander stood beside them, arms crossed, his violet eye glowing faintly in the dim room.

  The members of the Seven clustered nearby—Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Azrael exchanging uneasy glances. Raphael remained calm, though his gaze lingered on Rykard with quiet curiosity.

  Rykard remained standing at the center of the table, his notes spread before him like pieces of an unfinished puzzle.

  “The pattern is too precise to be a coincidence,” he said quietly. He gestured to the parchment in front of him. “First, the Tears of the Crescent Moon—the sacred relic of the elves.”

  Anarór?’s gaze hardened slightly, but she remained silent.

  “Then the dwarven relic was retrieved from Limbo,” Rykard continued, nodding toward Sindras and Vargas. Wyatt leaned back against a shelf, arms folded.

  “And now you believe there’s a third,” Michael said.

  “I do.” Rykard looked up. “And I believe it may already be here.”

  The room shifted uneasily.

  Byronard frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rykard hesitated before answering. “Earlier tonight, while studying the records of Primera’s early dynasties, I came across references to royal heirlooms passed down through the line of King Unrel Wolfsbane, your ancestor.”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The founder.”

  “Yes.”

  Rykard turned another page. “Several relics were said to exist—objects bound to the earliest days of the kingdom. Artifacts not merely symbolic… but powerful.”

  Gabriel crossed her arms.

  “And you think one of them is in Wolfsbane Keep.”

  Rykard nodded. “I believe we have already seen it.”

  Byronard’s brow furrowed. “Seen it where?” Rykard looked directly at him.

  “During the final days of King Septimus.”

  Byronard froze. For a moment, the room went silent. Then realization flickered in his eyes.

  “…the dagger.”

  Alexander looked toward him. “What dagger?” Byronard exhaled slowly. “Your father carried it during his final months.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if recalling something long buried. “A ceremonial blade with a ruby set into the hilt.”

  Godric tilted his head. “A ruby?”

  “Yes.”

  Byronard nodded slowly. “I remember thinking it strange at the time. Septimus rarely carried weapons unless he was traveling.”

  Michael glanced at Rykard. “And after Septimus died?”

  Byronard answered quietly.

  “Alaric took it out of grief.”

  The name hung in the air. Alexander’s expression darkened slightly at the name.

  “He carried it when he fought Dante,” Byronard continued. “I saw it myself.” Wyatt pushed away from the shelf.

  “And after he died?”

  “Alaric was buried with it,” Byronard said. Silence settled over the room.

  Then Rykard spoke. “If the pattern holds…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  Vargas was the one who did.

  “…then that dagger is a relic.”

  Sindras grunted.

  “And if someone is stealing relics…”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed.

  “…then they’ll come for it.”

  Godric looked toward Byronard. “Where is Alaric buried?”

  “In the royal catacombs,” Byronard answered. His jaw tightened. Beneath Wolfsbane Keep. Protected by centuries-old wards.

  Alexander’s violet eye glowed faintly as he thought.

  “If Rykard is correct,” he said, “then we cannot assume the dagger is still there.” The implication was clear. Godric straightened.

  “Then we should check.”

  Byronard was already moving.

  “Yes.”

  The word came out like iron. “If anyone has dared disturb my nephew’s resting place…” His fiery mana flickered dangerously around him. “…they will come to sorely regret it.”

  Michael grabbed a lantern. “Looks like we’re going tomb diving.”

  Wyatt cracked his knuckles. “Finally something interesting.”

  Sindras grunted. “Let us see if grave robbers can swing a hammer.” Vargas shot him a sideways glance. “You mean axe.”

  Anarór? stepped beside Godric, her hand brushing lightly against his.

  “Stay close,” she murmured.

  Godric gave a small nod.

  Alexander turned toward the door. He paused briefly. “Raphael, remain here with the library.” Raphael inclined his head.

  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  The king looked back at the group.

  “Let’s see if our kingdom’s dead are still resting in peace.”

  Torches were lit. Steel was readied. And together, they began descending toward the depths of Wolfsbane Keep, toward the silent halls of the royal dead.

  The descent into the catacombs of Wolfsbane Keep was older than the castle itself.

  The staircase spiraled downward through stone worn smooth by centuries of passage. Torches flickered along the walls in iron sconces, their flames bending slightly as cool air drifted upward from the depths below.

  Byronard led the procession.

  His hand rested against the pommel of his longsword, Wolfsbane, though he had not drawn it. A faint glow of orange fire mana lingered around his fingers, just enough to illuminate the steps before him.

  Behind him came Alexander and Godric, followed by Gabriel and Michael. Wyatt walked beside the dwarven kings, Sindras and Vargas, their heavy boots echoing softly against the stone.

  The Azaneans followed not far behind—Rashid, Khor'gul, and Malrik—each of them quiet, observing.

  Rykard brought up the rear, clutching a lantern and several folded parchments. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. At the bottom of the spiral staircase, the passage opened into a long vaulted corridor.

  Rows of stone tombs lined the walls on either side, each marked with carved names and dates worn by time. Some bore statues of the kings and queens buried beneath them—figures frozen in prayer or standing with swords planted before them.

  Godric slowed as he passed one.

  “So these are… all the rulers of Primera?”

  “Most of them,” Byronard replied quietly. “The oldest tombs lie further in." His voice echoed slightly through the chamber.

  Wyatt glanced around the hall. “You nobles really like your underground monuments.”

  Sindras snorted. “We dwarves prefer mountains.” Vargas nodded approvingly. “Better structural integrity.”

  Gabriel rolled her eyes slightly but said nothing.

  They continued deeper. Alexander walked in silence beside his uncle, his violet eye faintly glowing in the low light. The mana within him stirred uneasily, reacting to the old enchantments woven into the tombs.

  “These wards are still active,” he murmured.

  Byronard nodded.

  “They have been maintained for centuries.” His gaze hardened slightly. “No one should be able to disturb anything here.” At last, Byronard slowed. They had reached a newer section of the catacombs.

  The tombs here were not worn with age. The carvings were sharp, the marble pale and unmarred. Byronard stopped before one in particular. A stone sarcophagus rested beneath a carved arch bearing the sigil of the royal line.

  The inscription read:

  Alaric Ilyn

  Prince of Primera

  Son of Septimus

  Defender of the Realm

  Alexander looked at the name for a long moment. Silence filled the chamber. Then Gabriel spoke.

  “…Something’s wrong.”

  Everyone followed her gaze. The stone lid of the sarcophagus had been shifted. Not shattered. Not destroyed. Just…moved enough to break the seal. Byronard’s expression darkened instantly.

  “That’s impossible.”

  He stepped forward quickly, kneeling beside the tomb. His hand hovered over the stone edge, trembling slightly before he pushed the lid aside completely. The sound of grinding marble echoed through the catacomb hall.

  Inside—nothing.

  No dagger. Only the still form of Alaric, preserved by burial rites. But the weapon that should have rested upon his chest was gone. Wyatt let out a low whistle.

  “Well.” Sindras folded his arms. “That answers that question.”

  But Rykard wasn’t looking at the tomb. He had stopped several steps back, staring at something in the air.

  “…Wait.”

  Everyone turned toward him.

  “What is it?” Alexander asked. Rykard slowly raised the lantern, and there, floating in the space before the tomb, was a symbol. A glyph drawn in black mana. It hung in the air like ink suspended in water, shifting slightly as if alive.

  Godric frowned. “Was that there before?”

  “No,” Gabriel said immediately. Her hand moved to the hilt of her dagger. “What is it?”

  Rykard stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. The mana within him stirred—the foundation of Clarity awakening as it brushed against the foreign magic. He studied the shape carefully. The symbol was unfamiliar. Ancient. Its strokes curved unnaturally, twisting like language that had forgotten how to belong to the world. Rykard inhaled slowly.

  “…It’s a command.”

  Alexander looked at him. “Can you read it?”

  Rykard hesitated. Then nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He pointed toward the glyph. “It says…” His voice lowered slightly. “…Open.”

  The word echoed faintly in the chamber. For a moment, no one spoke. Wyatt scratched the back of his neck. “So whoever took the dagger just… told the tomb to open?”

  Rykard nodded slowly. “That would appear to be the case.”

  Gabriel frowned. “That shouldn’t be possible.” Alexander agreed. “The wards on these tombs are layered with centuries of enchantments.”

  Sindras grunted. “Then whoever did this is very powerful.” Vargas added thoughtfully, “Or very old.”

  Malrik studied the floating glyph with quiet interest. “The magic feels… deliberate.”

  Rashid nodded. “Not crude force.”

  Khor'gul tapped the haft of his massive axe against the floor. “Someone with authority.”

  Godric glanced toward Rykard. “Authority over what?” Rykard didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the glyph for another long moment before turning back toward the group. His expression had changed. Not fear. Something else.

  Realization.

  “This isn’t random.”

  Michael groaned quietly. "Please tell me you’re not about to say that.”

  Rykard ignored him. “The relics being stolen.” He began pacing slowly. “The Tears of the Crescent Moon.” He nodded toward Anarór?. “The dwarven relic.” He gestured toward Sindras and Vargas. “And now this dagger.”

  Alexander crossed his arms. “You think they’re connected.”

  “I know they are.”

  Rykard stopped. “And if we want to understand why…” He looked back toward the tomb. “…then we need to understand where these relics came from.”

  Godric tilted his head. “You mean their history?”

  Rykard nodded. “The true history of Primera.”

  Wyatt groaned. “Ah, hells,” Michael smirked. “Don’t tell me the mighty Vessel of the Smith fears books?” Wyatt pointed at him. “I fear boring ones.”

  Rykard gathered his parchments. “So.” He looked around the group. “Is anyone here willing to go history diving?” Silence followed.

  Then Vargas shrugged. “If the books explain why someone is stealing sacred weapons…” Sindras nodded. “…then we will read.”

  Godric smiled slightly. He clasped his hands together. “Well, it looks like we’re going back to the library.” Behind them, the black glyph slowly faded from the air. And deep within the silent catacombs of Wolfsbane Keep, the tomb of Alaric Ilyn remained open.

  Empty of the blade that had once rested there.