At the bottom of the slab, half-etched and glowing faintly silver-black, was my name.
Elira of Blackfang.
I recoiled. “What is this?”
“A warning,” he replied. “You are not immortal because you have suffered. If you forget why this mountain accepted you, you will join the ledger like the rest.”
My voice came out hoarse. “Then why bind me at all?”
“Because the Moon-root does not choose saints,” he said. “It chooses survivors.”
---
That night, the dreams returned.
Not memories — visions.
I stood in a forest I did not recognize, crimson leaves falling like blood-rain as wolves howled from every direction. At the center of the clearing, Lyra knelt before a jagged altar, her hands drenched in silver fire, the stolen heir suspended above her in a cage of bone-light.
Kael stood behind her.
Not as a tyrant.
As a worshiper.
I woke gasping, my sheets twisted around me, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The vision didn’t fade.
It lingered like a warning etched into my skull.
I found Nicero in the war chamber, studying border reports.
“She’s preparing something,” I said without preamble.
His eyes snapped up. “Lyra?”