The crypt library that was the Ashledger Archive had a particular atmosphere to it. Vera had designed it to be similarly gothic and stoic as the rest of the estate, but the Archive might have been one of the more self-indulgent areas. Even discounting all of the shadowed alcoves, the engraved pillars, and the uniquely ornate display cases, the place looked like somewhere you’d expect to find an ancient lich poring over cursed grimoires.

  She loved it, of course. She just wasn’t sure she’d have wanted to show it to friends and family.

  The lack of proper lighting, though, was a design choice she regretted now that she had to live with it. You could only squint at faded paper and dust-worn ink under the faint glow of an ember sconce mounted too high on the wall before your patience—and your eyesight—started having enough.

  When she had the time, she was definitely going to refurbish this place. Keep the gothic theme, but maybe make it feel less like a catacomb and more like a well-lit underground sanctum.

  Still, spending the afternoon going through the Archive properly for the first time was… strangely satisfying. There were so many texts here she didn’t recognize—some new, some familiar but more detailed, expanded beyond the fragments she remembered from the game. There was a kind of quiet thrill in flipping through them now, seeing them as real, tangible histories rather than flavor text on a menu screen. It even brought a small smile to her lips.

  That said, she wasn’t finding what she’d come for.

  The Archive was large, and she was nowhere near having combed through all of its shelves. But if she’d understood the system of categorization correctly, she had already looked through the sections most likely to mention a Forgotten Throne without much success. There were passing references to the Graven Daughter, but nothing that told her more than what she already knew.

  Which wasn’t too much to begin with.

  The Forgotten Thrones were called that for a reason. They were, by all accounts, forgotten. Even in Ashen Legacy, the Thrones had only been mentioned rarely, often with an air of mystery. The Silence Between, the antagonist meant to headline the fourth expansion, had at least been foreshadowed in earlier patches. The Graven Daughter, though, had considerably less representation.

  There were a few items and abilities that referenced her in their names and descriptions, as well as the occasional dungeon. But the most significant tie to her was a branching path questline from the third expansion involving a grueling grind only to unlock a couple of unique Marks and Forms. Few players bothered completing it since the rewards barely justified losing access to the more efficient paths.

  ‘Mireya Halstrad,’ one of Vera’s oldest gaming friends and guildmates, had been one of the few who did.

  Whether Mireya had been brought to this world the same way Vera had… she really had no idea. Considering she hadn’t seen anyone else who clearly came from her world wandering Marrowfen, nor heard talks about masses of high-level players running around, it seemed safe to assume there hadn’t been a mass displacement or anything of the sort. But the fact that Mireya—and a few other names Vera was familiar with—existed here as historical figures and ‘Marked Ones’ at least opened the possibility that Vera wasn’t the only one.

  It was a mystery she hoped to dig further into once she ventured beyond Marrowfen.

  She couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a part of her that hoped she wasn’t the only one. The idea of having others in the same impossible situation was comforting, in a way. Especially if they were people she’d known before.

  But of course there was another part of her that hoped the opposite. After all, she wouldn’t wish this kind of disorienting, half-fantasy existence on anyone who hadn’t chosen it.

  Though knowing Mireya, if she’d somehow been brought here too, she probably would’ve been thrilled about it from the very start.

  Beyond searching for information on the Forgotten Thrones, Vera also spent some time combing through other sections of the Archive, skimming records, scanning notes on lesser lore fragments, and even pulling a few texts about dragons that she thought Serel might like once they’d finished the books they had borrowed.

  At one point, she passed a section that made her stop.

  It only took a minute of leafing through its contents to figure out that it was a collection of materials she herself had created.

  She recognized much of it: PvP records, fragments of old questlines, and various pieces of lore she’d once written down as in-game notes, now preserved as actual artifacts and histories in this world.

  But among them were also writings she didn’t recognize. Writings that looked like they might have been made by ‘Veralyth Mournvale.’

  Vera pulled one down—a thick, ash-leather bestiary detailing various types of spirits and spectral fauna in the Mistvale Reaches. The margins were full of annotations and neat sketches, with some cross-references between entries.

  Reading it felt like going through thoughts she didn’t remember having. It was her handwriting, her own tone, her phrasing, her strokes. Every word truly felt like something she could have written.

  She supposed it only further confirmed that she and Veralyth were somehow reflections of the same personality.

  Her gaze drifted along the shelf. She wondered if there was any chance she’d find something like a journal hidden here. A record of thoughts, something personal. But knowing herself, that was unlikely.

  For a while, she browsed through a few more of the texts, freezing when she came across one of her more… awkward entries that she did remember writing back in the game. She quickly pretended she hadn’t flipped a few extra pages through it, then moved on to other parts of the Archive, where she kept going until evening settled in. That was when she began to take her leave.

  Serel was waiting for her in a small alcove near the entrance, curled up on a cushioned sofa and busy sketching on a piece of parchment. The drawing was of a large, winged dragon, with Serel herself riding on its back, along with what was probably meant to be Howl. Vera hadn’t wanted to let the girl wander too far from her for the time being.

  Together, they went to the dining chamber and shared a meal Caldrin had prepared before departing. Once they’d finished, Vera got ready to return them to Marrowfen.

  Enough time had passed since her earlier uses of Hollow Reach—both her return to Sablewatch Hollow and sending Caldrin to the city—that her Resonance had mostly recovered. She summoned Stillwake into her hand, took Serel’s with the other, and let the power flow through her body. A large amount of Resonance gathered, burning in her veins before channeling into the halberd as she cut a rift through reality.

  They stepped through and emerged into a familiar, warmly lit room lined with mirrors and polished wood. A low counter stretched across the far wall.

  Serel’s eyes immediately widened as she recognized where they were. “Mommy! This is the funny weird man’s shop!”

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  Vera smiled. “It is.”

  “Hmm? Weird?” a voice rasped from behind the counter, followed by the rustle of fabric and the creak of wood. Wisps of white air appeared first, then the rest of an old man with a grand curled mustache and sharp eyes. “Who are you calling weird in their own home, little lass? You save those remarks for when you’re outside, where they can’t hear you! And it goes thrice over for old relics like me, brittle bones and all!”

  Vera looked at Korrin, the owner of The Hallowed Shear, for a long few seconds. Had he been… hiding behind the counter? Lying on the floor?

  “…Sorry,” Serel murmured, gaze falling toward the floor.

  “No, no, no, no apologies.” The barber waved a dismissive hand while twirling the end of his mustache with the other. “Stand by your words, little lass! Grow that spine! It’s true—I’m very funny.”

  Serel blinked, mouth now halfway open, not quite sure how to respond.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t confuse her like that,” Vera said, letting Stillwake dissolve back into her Vaultring. “I’m having enough trouble figuring out how to raise her as it is.”

  Korrin turned his eyes to her. “That’s your problem, lassie. The eternal struggle of a parent. I’ve raised sons, daughters, and more grandchildren than I remember! I’m allowed to lecture others about it.”

  His gaze narrowed slightly, focusing on her face as though appraising it. He nodded once. “Good, good. Nothing ruined yet. I feared the worst from the Ashborn Ascendant. Mind you don’t scorch the locks.”

  Vera unconsciously lifted a hand to her hair, currently its natural silver-gray. A faint pulse of Resonance shimmered through it, darkening the strands to a glossy black.

  Korrin came around the counter with that oddly nimble grace of his despite the very noticeable hunch of his frame. He stopped beside Serel, crouching and circling her slowly as he examined the girl’s hair. Serel just stood there, bewildered.

  “That butler of yours—the one with the lazy haircut—was here about an hour ago,” the old man said conversationally, tapping his chin with a crooked finger. “Told me to tell you he’d be late. Something about a missing high-born, or a high-born missing something, or… bah, I forget which. I stopped listening halfway through.”

  “He’ll be late?” Vera frowned.

  She wondered what exactly Caldrin was doing if high-borns were involved.

  When she’d considered where to send him in Marrowfen, she hadn’t been sure what would be best. The Bleeding Chalicefelt unwise after the scene they’d caused there, and Hollowstone Table wasn’t her first choice either. Meanwhile, dropping him somewhere random in the city risked random witnesses.

  So she’d thought of this place. Korrin had already figured out who she was, and he hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by it. He hadn’t even been that surprised earlier when she’d opened a Hollow Reach into his establishment with Caldrin in tow and asked if it was okay for them to move back and forth for a bit. When she’d offered to pay him, he’d waved her off, saying she could ‘tear holes in the air or the floorboards’ for all he cared, so long as she didn’t touch his mirrors.

  Which was why they were here now. This was the meeting spot she and Caldrin had agreed on for when he finished his investigation. It was somewhat concerning that he was late, but Vera did trust him to handle himself.

  Her attention stayed on Korrin and Serel as the barber continued pacing around the girl, mumbling about split ends and the ‘tragedy of untrained Resonance growth,’ while Serel tried not to turn her head to follow him.

  That comment caught Vera’s attention. “What do you mean by that?”

  He glanced at her. “Hmm? Exactly what I said.”

  “You can tell her Resonance is growing?”

  “Of course I can! The hair is the soul’s vanity made visible. She’s a bit young for it, but what can you expect from the little lass of the Ashborn Ascendant?”

  “…Is it a problem?”

  “For her roots, certainly!” Korrin huffed. “You’ll have to keep an eye on these, lassie. Can’t have her Resonance boiling over and frizzing the poor things into cinders.”

  “But could it affect her otherwise?”

  “What do I know? Had a granddaughter once—Resonance shot up like a geyser when she hit those teens. Hair was wilder than a forgefire for a year, but she seemed none the worse for it.” The old man muttered something else under his breath as a pair of scissors and a comb suddenly appeared in his hands, the tools catching the light as he began trimming Serel’s hair with impressive precision right there and then.

  Vera watched, brow slightly furrowed, but stayed silent. She might have to look into how excess Resonance affected growth. Serel was already of the Eight Binding, after all.

  A few minutes passed while Korrin fussed over the girl’s hair, occasionally clicking his tongue in approval or disapproval. Serel shifted a little under the attention, but surprisingly didn’t appear to mind it too much. When he finally stepped back, looking pleased, he complimented her ‘natural sheen’ as she started playfully shifting her hair’s color from its pale silver-gray to the deep, glossy black in front of a mirror.

  Vera placed a hand on Serel’s shoulder. “We’ll head out for a bit,” she told Korrin. “We won’t be gone for long. If Caldrin returns, mind telling him to wait?”

  “Hmm? Fine, fine,” Korrin said, now rummaging through a drawer of combs and odd instruments.

  Vera gave a faint smile in thanks, then summoned Stillwake and invoked Mark of the Hollow Reach.

  The air split. The destination wasn’t the most discreet place to open a portal, but it was what it was.

  She took Serel’s hand, and together they stepped through into the Vice-Master of Hollowstone Table’s office.

  Gard looked up from his desk as the rift opened, depositing the mother and daughter pair onto the wooden floor before him. The table was cluttered with every Ashmark and Veil letter the Chapter still had at its disposal.

  “Miss Morgans,” Gard said, rising to his feet. “I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again today.”

  “Given what happened, I couldn’t exactly stay away,” she replied. “How did it go with your people?”

  “Safe for now—thanks to your help. You have our gratitude for stepping in when you did.”

  The woman shrugged lightly. “It was just coincidence.”

  Gard studied her, uncertain if he believed that. Then his gaze shifted down to her daughter, who smiled up at him and tugged at her mother’s hand. “Mommy, show him!”

  Veralyth glanced at the girl, looking amused for a moment, then extended her hand. A shimmer of light gathered in it, forming a sheet of parchment. On it was a drawing of what Gard assumed was meant to be a black dragon soaring through the air. The proportions were wrong, the wings too short, the tail far too long, not to mention that it was lacking any real attention to detail. Perched on its back was a tiny silver-haired figure beside a large… wolf? He wasn’t quite sure.

  “I made this,” the girl said proudly, pointing at the painting of Vaerazhul, the Wyrm-Eclipsed hanging on the wall. “It’s the same dragon!”

  Gard looked between the painting and the drawing, silent for several seconds. Eventually, his eyes flicked to the ludicrously powerful woman standing beside the child and holding the drawing before returning to Serel. “…Very impressive.”

  The dragon enthusiast in him wanted to point out the inaccuracies, but he wisely kept it to himself. For a first attempt, perhaps it wasn’t too terrible. And he wasn’t about to crush the spirit of a budding dragon admirer.

  Serel beamed, clearly pleased by his reaction, and nodded to herself.

  “Honestly,” the woman said as the drawing disappeared from her hand, “I’m surprised you’re here. I gave it a fifty-fifty chance you would have fled after what happened. What’s the current situation?”

  Gard’s expression darkened. “Dire, I’m afraid.”

  “In what way?”

  He sighed. “The Chapter-Master and I visited the Pale Hall this morning to meet with the Boneward Concord, but we were denied entry. It was following that the city guard appears to have received orders to apprehend our members. We suspect the Concord has been compromised entirely, with the High Warden and other members potentially missing or dead.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “They haven’t moved against the Table yet,” Gard continued, “but that’s likely only a matter of time. A conflict between the Concord and our Chapter seems inevitable, and we are preparing with that assumption in mind.”

  At any time, at least a fourth of the Chapter’s active members were outside the city on various assignments, and having them all return within a day wasn’t an easy task.

  He gestured toward the desk and the mess scattered across it, including the half dozen Ashmarks. “I’ve been trying to contact as many of the other Chapters and allied circles as I can, to warn them. But our options are limited. It’s unlikely we’ll be afforded much help.”

  None of the Ashmarks they had at hand were primed to their closest partners, so the best they could do is send word that something’s gone wrong in Marrowfen.

  Veralyth frowned. “That’s far from encouraging.”

  “No,” Gard said quietly. “It isn’t.”

  Hollowstone Table was meant to face monsters and protect lives, not to stand against a political faction controlling an entire city.

  The woman crossed her arms, her previously casual air giving way to a hint of the sharper composure Gard had seen before when he first realized her identity as the Ashborn Ascendant. “Do you think you can handle what’s coming?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “It’s difficult to say. We still don’t know what we are up against. The city guard aren’t what they once were. If it were only them, the Chapter-Master would be enough. But we have to consider what you showed me beneath the Marrowvault.”

  “Speaking of Vanded, where is he?”

  She glanced toward the door, as if expecting the large man to stride in at any moment.

  Gard stiffened, just slightly. “He’s… preparing a gift.”

  “A gift?” Her clear silver eyes shifted back to him. “For who?”

  “…For you.”