The heavy doors of the infirmary slammed open as the Royal Guard burst through, carrying Anarór? in their arms. Her body trembled violently, wracked with convulsions, her silver eyes dimming beneath a sheen of sweat. Cries echoed through the corridor, but Raphael’s voice cut through them like steel.

  “Clear the table—now!”

  Without hesitation, attendants and soldiers moved aside as Raphael swept aside jars, linens, and tools with a swift motion of his hand. The young elven princess was placed gently onto the polished stone, her back arching with each wave of pain surging through her veins.

  Byronard arrived a moment later, with Wyatt, Cassian, Flint, and the rest of the Seven trailing close behind. The room buzzed with tension, but all fell quiet as Raphael leaned over her, his hand aglow with soft white mana.

  “Uriel,” he said sharply, his voice steady, “I need a full anatomical projection. Elvish body structure—mana flow, lymph channels, energy lines. Now.”

  Uriel stepped forward, closing his eyes. A circle of golden light flared beneath him as angelic runes rotated in mid-air. Within seconds, a delicate and translucent image of an elf’s internal mana system shimmered above the table. Arteries of glowing energy flowed across the projection like riverways through ancient land.

  Raphael’s eyes darted back and forth, absorbing every nuance—the pulsing flow of elvish mana was familiar, yet… there. A rupture. No—a convergence.

  “Her heart is trying to process something…,” he muttered. “But her body wasn’t ready.”

  He reached out with both hands, invoking a layered restoration spell, one far more complex than simple healing. His palms hovered just above her chest, drawing in fine threads of golden energy that wrapped around her core. A surge of white light flooded the room, and with a sharp inhale, Anarór?’s convulsions ceased. Her body fell still, her features softening as sleep overcame her.

  The others exhaled in relief, but a heavy silence followed. Wyatt looked at Raphael, eyes searching. “What just happened?”

  Raphael didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled deeply and glanced at Byronard, then Uriel. “We all need to sit. Now.”

  Uriel raised a brow. “That serious?”

  “Worse. Get me a book from the Royal Archives,” Raphael said, brushing hair back from his forehead. “The one on ancient elvish history. Particularly the chapter on sacred vows. House Alastrassa, if possible.”

  Uriel blinked. “You think this is tied to a vow?”

  Raphael looked over his shoulder at the unconscious Anarór?, then back at the group.

  “She’s bound to something—someone. And it just awakened inside her.”

  The door creaked open as Azrael and Chamuel stepped into the dimly lit chamber, both clad in clean tunics, fresh bandages visible beneath. Though weariness clung to their frames, their eyes burned with determination.

  “You’re both awake,” Byronard said, nodding. “Good. We may need your insight.”

  Uriel returned just behind them, clutching a heavy, leather-bound tome gilded in silver. He handed it off to Raphael, who spread it across a nearby table with reverence. The air was thick with worry and anticipation as the rest of the Seven, Wyatt, Cassian, and Flint took their seats around the infirmary.

  Azrael glanced toward the bed where Anarór? lay, her expression still pained in sleep. “What happened?”

  Raphael didn’t look up from the book. “Something ancient. Something nearly forgotten.” He turned the page, running his finger across faded text before speaking aloud.

  “Sacred Vows,” he began. “A discipline in mana manipulation few still practice, and fewer still survive. Byronard knows this, as do most trained in the Old Ways. A Sacred Vow is an unbreakable pact, etched into the soul through mana. It is not mere law—it is reality reshaped. Primera’s Codex is a Sacred Vow. That is why even kings cannot go against its words.”

  Wyatt exchanged glances with Cassian. “So… Ithilien cast a vow? On Anarór??”

  “Not just on her,” Raphael said gravely. “This brings us to House Alastrassa—a house shrouded in myth. According to fragments I’ve found, Ithilien’s wife, Illyrana, had complications carrying the twins. Normal magic couldn’t help… so he did the unthinkable.”

  He paused, eyes flicking to Byronard for confirmation.

  “He made himself the anchor,” Byronard said softly. “A living vessel to bear their burden.”

  “But what did he give up?” Cassian asked.

  Chamuel stepped forward, brow furrowed. “Wait. When Azrael and I were recovering in Mistveil, we learned something odd about the twins.”

  Azrael nodded. “Anarór? is strong—fierce, like Ithilien—but she’s never been able to access mana. Not a single spell, not even basic manipulation. Everyone believed it was a birth flaw.”

  “But her twin, lóm?,” Chamuel continued, “was the opposite. He has more mana than anyone I’ve ever sensed—beyond even most elders. But he’s weak. Frail, even for an elf. He struggles with anything physical.”

  Uriel, deep in thought, suddenly spoke. “What if… the vow Ithilien cast wasn’t to heal them, but to split them?”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “To divide their potential. One would carry the body, the other the mana. Ithilien took that imbalance onto himself… binding their powers within himself to keep them stable. But now that he’s passed…”

  Raphael closed the book with a soft thud. “The vow is broken.”

  “And the restraints with it,” Byronard added grimly.

  Wyatt looked to Anarór?, suddenly understanding the storm that had been tearing through her body. “She’s waking up to her true self…”

  “And so is lóm?,” Cassian whispered.

  A heavy silence fell upon the room.

  “We may have lost a king,” Flint muttered, “but what we gained… and what we unleashed… could shape the war ahead.”

  A sharp gasp tore through the silence.

  Anarór? bolted upright on the infirmary bed, her silver eyes wide with alarm. Sweat clung to her brow, and her chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. The blankets tangled around her legs as she tried to push herself up.

  Everyone in the room flinched at the sudden movement.

  “Anarór?!” Raphael rushed to her side, steadying her shoulders gently but firmly. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

  She winced, clutching her head. “What—what happened to me?” she asked, her voice tight with strain. “It feels like something is splitting my skull open.”

  Byronard stepped forward, his tone calm but alert. “Can you stand? Do you feel any weakness in your body?”

  She shook her head. “No… no, I feel fine, I think. Strong, even. Just this… headache. And—” Her brows furrowed. She glanced down at her hands, then to the others in the room, visibly unnerved.

  “Something’s stirring inside me,” she murmured. “I don’t know what it is… but it’s there. Like a current beneath my skin. A… hum.”

  Her words hung heavy in the air. The others exchanged glances. Wyatt and Cassian looked to Raphael, while Uriel, Azrael, and Chamuel stood watchfully, as if waiting for her to collapse again.

  But she didn’t.

  Byronard approached, kneeling slightly to be eye-level with her. “You’ve just undergone something none of us have ever truly seen before. Your body is adjusting. You’ve been asleep for a day, and what happened to you will take time to understand. For now, you need to rest.”

  She blinked slowly, then looked at him, then to the others.

  “We’ll explain everything,” Byronard said gently. “But tomorrow. Tonight… sleep. There are many truths you need to hear, and I will not speak them while your mind still reels.”

  Anarór? hesitated, her shoulders slumping slightly. Whatever strength had rushed into her seemed to falter, overtaken by exhaustion. She nodded.

  “…Alright.”

  Byronard turned to the others. “Clear the room. Let her breathe. We’ll resume at dawn.”

  As the others began filing out, one by one, Wyatt cast one last glance at Anarór?, her silver gaze already distant, haunted.

  Something had changed. Not just in her—but in all of them.

  ***

  Morning came with a muted sky, the sun veiled behind thick clouds that had rolled in during the night. A quiet chill settled over the keep, the usual bustle of morning guards and servants subdued, as if the very air mourned what had been lost.

  In the war room atop the eastern tower, a fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows on the faces gathered there.

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  Anarór? stood at the head of the table, her silver eyes steady though her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Wyatt, Flint, Cassian, Raphael, Gabriel, Azrael, and Byronard had assembled. Uriel leaned against the far wall with a tome in his hand, having finished transcribing the remnants of the Sacred Vow the night before.

  “You said I’ve changed,” Anarór? said plainly, her tone even despite the turmoil beneath. “That something was... unsealed.”

  Raphael nodded. “Yes. When your father passed, the Sacred Vow he made at your birth unraveled. Your body, unprepared for the sudden flood of mana once locked away, reacted violently.” He paused. “It’s a miracle you survived the night.”

  “I’m not as fragile as I look,” she replied, though her voice trembled faintly at the edges. “And I can feel it now. Not just stirring—but moving through me. I want to understand it.”

  Azrael stepped forward. Her raven-colored eyes were softer than usual. “Then I’ll help you. I should have done more—I should have protected him.” Her fists clenched. “But I failed. I won’t fail you.”

  Anarór? shook her head gently. “You didn’t fail. He chose to stay behind. And he trusted you to live.” Her words caught in her throat, but she swallowed the pain. “If you’ll help me, I won’t refuse.”

  Gabriel leaned forward, arms crossed. “You’re not alone, Princess. I’ve walked this path before—wielding immense power I didn’t understand. It nearly destroyed me. But with guidance, it became my strength. Let me guide you too.”

  “Thank you,” Anarór? said, bowing her head slightly. “I’ll accept your help… both of you.”

  Byronard gave a firm nod, then turned the conversation. “That brings us to another matter—Lilith.”

  The name chilled the room.

  “She’s still contained beneath Wolfsbane Keep,” Uriel added. “The runes are holding. For now.”

  “What do we do with her?” Cassian asked. “She’s not exactly known for cooperation.”

  “She may be our only lead,” Raphael said. “She knew about Voraxx. Tessarith. About their master’s return. And she might know what Ióm? has become.”

  “I’m going,” Wyatt said, his voice steady. “I’ve defeated one of them already. If she knows anything, I'll not go out without getting any answers.”

  Flint cracked his knuckles and grinned without humor. “You’re not going alone. I’ve got questions for her too.”

  “I’m coming as well,” Byronard added, his tone brooking no argument.

  Anarór? stepped forward. “So am I.”

  Wyatt turned to her. “Anarór?—”

  “I need to know why,” she said sharply. “Why my brother… betrayed us. Why he killed our father. I deserve that much.”

  Byronard studied her, then nodded once. “Very well. The four of us will go.”

  He glanced around the table. “Prepare yourselves. Whatever answers she gives us—whatever truths are unearthed—there will be no turning back from them.”

  And with that, the meeting ended, the gravity of the coming confrontation hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall.

  The stairwell spiraled deep beneath Wolfsbane Keep, its stones slick with old moisture and imbued with faint pulses of protective enchantments. Only the elite of Primera’s royal circles ever walked this path—those entrusted to face what should have never been unearthed.

  Byronard led the descent, white torchlight casting jagged shadows across the curved walls. Wyatt followed closely behind, his warhammer slung behind his back. Flint trailed beside Anarór?, who moved without hesitation despite the gnawing chill in the air that seemed to burrow into her very bones.

  They reached the final landing, where ancient runes softly chimed like wind chimes in a dead breeze—an eerie song of imprisonment. Behind the final door, sealed with a shimmering golden ward, came a voice.

  A soft, seductive whistle echoed through the threshold, lilting with mocking amusement.

  Byronard raised his gauntlet. “Brace yourselves.”

  The heavy doors opened with a grinding rumble.

  Inside was a circular chamber cloaked in dim purple light. The walls were carved with Celestial script, weaving around a radiant sigil that floated above the floor. At its center stood Lilith.

  Still bound by thick enchanted chains to the far wall, she looked utterly relaxed. Her crimson eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled into a smile as if they'd just arrived for dinner.

  “My, my,” she purred, stretching slightly as her shackles groaned. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had visitors. Tell me—” she tilted her head, “what do you desire?”

  Wyatt stepped forward, his expression unreadable.

  Lilith’s gaze snapped to him with predatory delight. “Ah… the Smith’s Vessel. Still alive, I see. Impressive.” Her smile widened. “Though you didn’t stop Limbo from fulfilling his role. You were too late, little flame. The echoes lingered long enough for the next Circle to take root. Everything is on schedule.”

  She turned slowly to Flint.

  “Oh... Alexander.” The name slipped off her tongue like silk, sweet and damning. “Still pretending to be someone you’re not? Your brother was meant for the throne, not you. Do you really think Primera’s crown fits your head without slipping?” Her eyes narrowed. “That burden will crush you, if the people don’t first.”

  Flint tensed, jaw clenching.

  Then, Lilith turned to Byronard—and for the first time, her smile sharpened.

  “And you. Byronard. The so-called Captain of the fabled Royal Guards. The Vessel of the Mother. A man drowning in regret. Tell me, how does it feel… to be the strongest among them, and yet fail over and over again?” She leaned forward against her chains. “You let a boy become king. You let Ithilien die. Tell me—do you dream of the day you kneel too?”

  Byronard’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

  Then, Lilith’s attention shifted—and her grin turned cruel.

  “And now, finally, the elven princess arrives.”

  Anarór? stood her ground as Lilith’s gaze swept over her like cold fire.

  “I was beginning to think you’d never step out of your precious little forest. Tell me—how does it feel, Anarór?, daughter of Ithilien, to be exposed to the real world? To trade the singing trees for rotting corpses and betrayal?”

  Anarór?’s fists clenched, but she didn’t respond. Her silence was steel.

  Lilith laughed—a sound that echoed like a blade drawn across glass.

  “You wear your father’s grief well. But let’s see if you wear his strength just as proudly. After all…” She tilted her head, voice lowering to a near whisper, “...your brother does.”

  The room fell silent.

  Only the hum of the runes and the distant thrum of magic filled the void between them.

  Byronard took one step forward. “Enough games, Lilith. We’re not here for riddles. Tell us what the Circles are planning—or we will find a way to make you talk.”

  “Oh, darling Byronard…” Lilith leaned her head back, chains creaking. “I want to talk. But only if you’re truly ready to hear what your world has already traded away.”

  Lilith’s laughter echoed faintly through the chamber, dancing off the carved walls like wind on crystal. Her chains remained unmoving, but her presence filled the air like incense—sweet, intoxicating, and dangerous.

  “Come now,” she sighed. “Is this it? Four of Primera’s finest come to interrogate a woman in chains. You’ve asked your questions before. The answers never satisfied you.”

  Wyatt stepped forward, eyes steeled. “Then let’s cut through the games.”

  Without hesitation, he stepped through the shimmering barrier. It shimmered against his chest, rippling like water—but did not burn or reject him. The mana recognized him.

  Lilith tilted her head with amused interest.

  “My, my. Bold as ever. But be careful, Vessel,” she purred. “Being marked by a god doesn’t mean you’re immortal. If anything, it paints a bigger target.”

  The rest of the group followed. Byronard passed through without a sound, his dark cloak sweeping against the stone floor. Flint stepped through with wariness but didn’t flinch. Anarór? crossed last—her gaze locked on Lilith’s, cold and unwavering.

  The four stood within the circle now. The air was heavier, charged with dormant power.

  “Enough,” Byronard said. “Tell us what the Circles are planning.”

  Lilith gave a theatrical sigh, rolling her crimson eyes. “This conversation is becoming dreadfully repetitive. Surely you’re all growing tired of asking the same questions, expecting different answers.”

  Flint stepped forward, voice low and edged with threat. “Then maybe we’ll find another way to make you talk.”

  Lilith turned toward him, almost gleeful. “Oh, please, do. I thrive in torment, Alexander. Let me teach you how much pain a Circle can endure—then multiply it by pleasure.”

  Flint’s knuckles whitened.

  But before another word could be traded, Anarór? spoke. Her voice was soft, yet firm.

  “Why?”

  Lilith paused.

  That single word lingered in the air longer than any threat or challenge.

  Slowly, the demoness turned her gaze toward the elven princess, eyes narrowing with something more curious than mocking.

  “…Interesting,” she whispered. “No pretense. No rage. Just… why.”

  She straightened against her bindings. “It’s always the ones who’ve suffered who ask the right questions.”

  She addressed the room, but her eyes never left Anarór?.

  “She’s the only one among you who isn’t looking for answers. She’s searching for truth. And so…” Lilith grinned. “She shall receive it.”

  The room fell still.

  Lilith's voice softened, almost wistful.

  “Your brother was jealous.”

  Anarór? didn’t move.

  “Overburdened with raw talent, mana reserves even Ithilien would envy… yet bound in a frail shell. No swordsmanship. No great feats. No hunts in the wild like you. While you were revered by your kin for your strength and spirit, he was… trapped. Surrounded by tomes and sages. Spoken to, but never heard.”

  Anarór?’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He could’ve spoken to me. I never turned my back on him. I never hid from my faults.”

  “No,” Lilith said gently, “but you were his mirror. One he could never live up to.”

  She leaned her head back, eyes half-lidded. “Nothing is perfect, Anarór?. Not even your father. In all things, there is a flaw. And in those flaws… lies truth. Lies beauty.”

  Her eyes shimmered again with crimson light.

  “Tell me, isn’t it comforting? To realize you were never meant to be perfect. That your scars… make you whole.”

  No one spoke.

  Even Byronard remained silent.

  Lilith smiled.

  “For what it’s worth… I think the wrong twin stayed.”

  Anarór? didn’t flinch—but Wyatt stepped beside her.

  “That’s enough.”

  Lilith’s smile faded slowly.

  Byronard exhaled slowly, his gaze unreadable beneath the shadows of his dark helm. “We’ve heard enough. We’ll get no answers here.”

  He turned to leave, the faint shift of his cloak whispering across the floor. But Lilith’s voice rose behind them—sing-song, sweet as poison.

  “Oh, but I always answer the questions whispered from the heart. It's what makes me such a good conversationalist.”

  The group halted.

  Wyatt looked back, conflicted.

  His voice cracked the silence. “Then… what happened to Coraline Applewood?”

  Lilith’s eyes sparkled, her smile sharpening like a knife dipped in honey. “Ahhh… the little songbird who tamed a wolf.”

  She leaned forward slightly, her chains creaking. “So brave. So full of light. It's… adorable how you think of her, Vessel. Your heart stirs even now.”

  Wyatt’s jaw tightened.

  “She’s… safe. For now,” Lilith cooed. “No harm has befallen her. Yet.”

  Her voice dipped. “But hearts are such fragile things, aren’t they? And yours burns so bright, Wyatt. I wonder—how long before someone tries to break it?”

  Wyatt stepped back in silence, eyes shadowed.

  Flint shifted uncomfortably, gaze lowered. His fingers curled tightly before he finally spoke.

  “…Did my father ever truly care for me?”

  Lilith’s expression changed—just slightly. The mirth didn’t vanish, but it softened into something older. Sadder.

  “If he hadn’t… you wouldn’t be standing here.”

  Her tone was unreadable. It carried both the warmth of truth and the cold weight of manipulation.

  “But then again,” she murmured, tilting her head, “a blade can be sharp and still unwanted.”

  Flint looked away, unsure if the ache in his chest was relief or pain.

  “Enough,” Byronard growled. “We’re done.”

  But before anyone could take another step, Lilith raised her voice again.

  “Don’t you want to know where Dante is, Byronard?”

  The room fell still.

  Byronard froze, fists clenching so hard the leather of his gloves strained.

  “Don’t—” he snarled, “—don’t you dare say his name unless you mean it.”

  Lilith grinned.

  “You needn’t wait much longer, old wolf. The board is set. The pieces are in motion.”

  She slowly leaned her head back, eyes half-lidded.

  “Godric. Michael. Azane. Such a dangerous game you’ve sent them into. But then again…” she chuckled, “…what’s a little fire, if not to forge what’s broken?”

  Anarór? stepped forward, her voice cutting the tension. “What do you know of their journey? What are the Circles planning?”

  Lilith laughed—a soft, melodic sound with no mirth behind it.

  “Oh, child,” she said with mock affection, “how nice it must be to be young again. And in love.”

  Anarór?’s expression darkened, but Lilith simply shrugged, feigning innocence.

  “But some truths… aren’t ready to be spoken aloud. Not yet. The fun is in watching, don’t you think?”

  Her crimson eyes gleamed. “Besides… some questions are best left unanswered.”

  Byronard said nothing—but this time, when he turned to leave, no one stopped him.

  One by one, they exited the chamber, Lilith’s laughter trailing behind them like a haunting lullaby.

  And behind the unbreakable runes, the Lady of Lust waited—chained not in body, but in truth, knowing it was only a matter of time before the world came to her.