Chapter Eleven: Family Reunions and Other Forms of Torture
Elliott's brain short-circuited.
There were many things he was ready for: flaming death traps, riddles, ghosts that asked existential questions at inconvenient times. But his sister—the one he was sure had vanished in the fire a decade ago—appearing beside Lord Corrick with a smirk like a dagger?
That wasn't even on the list.
"Lyra?" he breathed.
The woman tilted her head. "Oh, so you do remember me. I was worried you'd forgotten your favorite sibling."
"You're my only sibling."
"Exactly. So it shouldn't have taken you this long to find me."
Sibling Revelations, Dramatic Edition
Behind Elliott, Dorian reached slowly for his sword.
"Wait," Elliott said, raising a hand. "Let's maybe not stab family. Yet."
Corrick chuckled. "Touching. Truly. But the reunion tour must be brief."
He stepped forward, the shadows curling around him like snakes. "You've meddled long enough, nephew."
Elliott's fingers curled. "So you did kill my parents."
Corrick looked offended. "What? No! Good heavens, Elliott. I may be a manipulative tyrant with a mild god complex, but I'm not a murderer. Your father died because he refused the power meant for him. The Ember Key chose differently."
"And Mother?" Marlow asked, her voice like flint on steel.
Corrick's smile faltered. "She chose you. That was her mistake."
Lyra shrugged. "To be fair, I would've picked me too."
Meanwhile, in the Background of Drama
Seraphine whispered to Dorian, "Why does every villain monologue? Is there, like, a guild?"
Dorian nodded solemnly. "Union rules. If they don't deliver at least one cryptic speech a week, they lose shadow privileges."
Elric, half-hidden behind a pillar, tried to signal run. Unfortunately, he used the official Thornwatch sign for delivered pies ahead, which caused Marlow to perk up in confusion.
"Pies?" she mouthed.
"No—RUN," Elric mouthed back.
Too late.
Corrick raised his hand—and the shadows lunged.
Escape, Badly Choreographed
Everything went wrong with impressive speed.
The relic pulsed. The walls howled. One of the mirrors exploded (probably out of dramatic sympathy). Marlow yanked Elliott backward just as Corrick hurled a bolt of obsidian flame.
Seraphine grabbed Elric and shouted, "BACK EXIT, NOW!"
"There is no back exit!" Elric cried.
"Well then invent one!"
Dorian tackled two guards, shouted something that sounded like "FOR QUACKENSHIRE," and disappeared into smoke. (The smoke was from the exploding lantern he had accidentally kicked over. Purely coincidental. Very heroic.)
Elliott looked back at Lyra, who just watched him.
"Why?" he asked.
Her expression shifted. Sadness? Regret?
Then she smiled again. "Because someone has to fix what our family broke. And you're not strong enough."
Alleyways and Existential Crises
The group regrouped three alleys over, smelling of soot, confusion, and questionable morality.
Elliott paced.
"She's alive," he muttered. "She's alive and working with him."
"She could be undercover," Marlow offered.
"She called me weak."
"Oh," Marlow said. "Yeah, okay, that's not great."
Seraphine checked their stolen relic. "The shard's intact. It reacted when Corrick entered the room."
"That means he's bound to it," Elric said, rubbing his temples. "Or at least… connected."
"Like a wireless user account," Dorian said.
Everyone stared.
"What? I read."
Plot Development, But Make It Cryptic
They snuck back to The Whispering Kettle, which, true to its name, was currently humming to itself on the counter. Agatha was nowhere in sight, though a fresh tray of cookies had appeared. (Oatmeal. Suspiciously warm.)
They laid the relic on the table.
It glowed faintly.
Then—just as Elliott reached toward it—a figure shimmered into existence above the table. A hologram. No, not quite. A memory.
It was his father.
Prince Caelan of the House of Flame. Tired eyes, scorched armor, and a voice like fire whispering through the trees.
"If you're hearing this… I'm gone. And the Ember Key has chosen again. My brother cannot hold it. He's twisted it into something… wrong."
Elliott's breath hitched.
"You must gather the remaining shards. Three remain. One in the Forgotten Wilds. One in the drowned city of Noctveil. And the last… with the true heir."
The memory flickered.
"Protect Marlow. Trust no council. And whatever happens—don't let Lyra touch the full Key. Her path… is not yet her own."
The image vanished.
Everyone stared at Marlow.
She blinked. "Wait. Me?"
And Now, a Brief Existential Spiral
"Wait, wait, wait," Elliott said, holding his head. "Let's recap. I have a sister. Who's alive. And working with our power-mad uncle. There's a magic relic that can apparently choose people. And now Marlow's the key to it all?"
Marlow held up her hands. "Hey, I didn't sign up to be the 'Chosen One.' I'm more of a 'Chosen Adjacent' at best."
Seraphine crossed her arms. "This complicates things."
"You think?!"
"Good news," Dorian said, pouring tea with the calm of someone used to calamity. "We have a lead. Forgotten Wilds. Sounds lovely. Probably only mildly cursed."
Elric paled. "That forest eats horses."
Marlow nodded. "Great. So we'll walk."
A Final Whisper
That night, Elliott sat awake in the inn's attic, staring at the stars through a crooked window.
He didn't feel like a prince. Or a hero. Or even someone who should be leading a rebellion.
He just felt… tired.
A shadow moved behind him.
"Can't sleep?" Marlow asked, dropping beside him.
He shook his head. "Lyra was always smarter than me. Faster. Braver. What if she's right? What if I'm not enough?"
Marlow leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Then we'll fake it together until we are."
He smiled, weakly.
And somewhere, far across the continent, a dark wind howled over a forgotten ruin.
The next shard waited.
And so did the monsters guarding it.
End of Chapter Eleven