4 days before the king's audience
The ceremony had passed—but its echoes lingered.
What began with music and rising flame had ended in silence. Fireworks had climbed into the heavens, bursting in cascading gold and silver, illuminating the skyline of Nareth'Mir like a crown of stars. And when the final blaze faded into smoke… she appeared.
Not of flesh. Not even shadow. A woman, shaped from absence—as if reality itself had peeled open to reveal what it had tried to forget. Cloaked in the void, she emerged from the air beyond the city's borders, and with a soundless exhale, shattered the barrier that had protected the kingdom for centuries.
Glass, stone, and wards alike collapsed under her unseen force. Buildings near the perimeter crumbled like clay struck by time. The quake that followed rippled far—tremors that shook the foundations of monuments and temples, that split roads and silenced even the wind.
And then, just as quickly, she was gone.
But she left something behind—not damage, not destruction.
A question.
Graveth hadn't spoken since that night.
Kael noticed it first—the way the man kept to shadows longer, stayed at rooftops until dawn. His gaze no longer drifted toward the city's statues or spires. It remained fixed beyond them. Toward where the crack in the sky had been. Toward the memory of the void.
The others noticed too, but no one pressed. Not yet.
The memory of the woman still pulsed behind their thoughts.
The Forge, they had been told, created the statue. A weapon in the shape of stillness. But who created her?
Three days later, the group returned to the Ashen Library.
They passed through its carved stone halls with less awe than before—but more purpose. The scent of ink and aged leather, once calming, now held tension. Even the silence felt tighter, like the breath before a truth is spoken.
Selmira waited for them—not with her usual formal grace, but quiet urgency. Her gloves were marked with ink and old dust, her hair pulled back as if she had been pacing. Without a word, she led them past the known wings of the library, deeper into a corridor flanked by robed statues with faces long worn smooth by time.
"This wing," she said, "has no name in the indexes. Few come here."
Sylvi touched the edge of a stone shelf as they passed. "Then why bring us?"
Selmira stopped at an archway framed in brass vinework.
"Because you saw her," she said. "And you deserve to know why."
They entered a chamber unlike the others. No books. No tables. Only a circular floor of black marble and a single mural spanning the curved wall. Two figures. One kneeling, one standing.
The kneeling one was the first king. Younger than the statue showed him. Hands outstretched, eyes filled not with command—but regret.
Behind him stood a woman. Her face was carved in less detail, but her posture was gentle, protective. One hand hovered above his shoulder.
Ayra stepped forward, voice quiet. "That's not the Forge."
"No," Selmira whispered. "She came before it."
The silence thickened. Dust drifted like memory in the sunbeams from the stained-glass dome above.
Selmira stepped into the center and began:
"Before the Forge. Before the statue. Before the king had a crown… there was a woman."
"Her name was Asha. Or at least, that's how a few broken records name her. One who remained. She was not a sorceress. Not a noble. Just a healer. A girl who sang to herself when she worked and braided reeds into rings for children to wear."
"She loved this land. Not the sand. Not the sun. But the people. She once said, 'Even the wounded deserve a place where they are not reminders of pain, but proof of survival.'"
Sylvi blinked. Ayra glanced sideways, her expression unreadable.
Selmira continued:
"She loved the man who would become the first king. Loved him long before others called him anything more than foolish. She stood beside him as the village grew. As crops were coaxed from dust. As wells deepened and laughter returned to the courtyards. They were never wed. But the villagers called her Queen of the Soft Morning. The kind soul. The voice of patience."
Kael stepped closer to the mural. "And what happened?"
Selmira's expression tightened.
"When the empire's first army approached, he tried to shield the people through negotiation. But she…" Selmira paused. "…she walked to meet the soldiers before he could."
"They struck her down in front of the village gates. A warning."
Silence gripped the room. Kael clenched his fists.
"She did not die in battle. She died trying to stop one. And that broke him. The man. And maybe… the world."
"And then came the Forge," Sylvi said softly.
Selmira nodded. "Not for her. But for what she left behind. It came not out of grief. But to restore what should not have broken. It carved the statue. It sealed the land. And it never spoke of her."
"She was… forgotten," Ayra whispered.
"Not by him," Selmira replied. "But yes. By everything else."
A long silence followed.
The group sat on the floor now, some leaning against stone, some staring at the mural.
Kael asked, "So why does she return now?"
Selmira turned to him, her gaze heavy.
"Because perhaps… love leaves marks even the Paradox Forge cannot erase. She was made of gentleness. Of warmth. But if what she became was shaped not by death, but by betrayal… then she is not void by nature. Only by loss."
Back at the estate, the group sat in the open-air courtyard under flickering lanterns. The air was quiet, but not still.
Saerion arrived halfway through dinner, brushing dust from his shoulder, dropping a rolled-up ledger onto the table like it meant nothing.
"Still alive?" he asked casually, pouring himself tea without asking.
"Barely," Fenric muttered. "Thanks for the concern."
Saerion took a sip and made a face. "Cold."
Niera chuckled. "So are your manners."
"I bring updates," Saerion said, stretching. "None good. Grain taxes are up, the inner ring is a mess after the quake, and a minor noble tried to declare a new god from the fireworks."
Sylvi blinked. "A god?"
"He said it looked like a flame-born angel. Then fell into a well," Saerion deadpanned.
Ayra almost smiled. "That's the most noble thing I've ever heard."
Kael didn't laugh. His gaze wandered to the statue in the distance. Even from here, it loomed—silent, sword still in stone.
Graveth was not with them.
Far above, on the rooftops, Graveth stood alone.
He had not told them.
Not about the compass. Not about the resonance.
Not about the woman who looked not at the world—but into it.
He gripped the device. The needle was still now, resting exactly toward the center of Nareth'Mir.
Toward the seal.
He turned slowly.
And the sword of the statue twitched again—so subtly the wind could be blamed.
But he saw it.
And in that moment, he understood something dreadful.
The Forge had made a weapon.
But it had forgotten what it was defending against.