Below the Skyborne Spires
Beneath the oldest tower of the Skyborne Hall, where light seldom reached and the stone floor still bore the marks of long-erased glyphs, twelve chairs stood in a ring of silence.
Each chair was carved from a different tree—oak, ironwood, black ash, silver yew—and bound with strips of red cloth older than names. Wax pooled at their feet, melted from candles that never fully burned out. Shadows leaned in to listen.
In the center, a shallow basin of glass held water that never rippled unless a truth became unbearable.
Tonight, it churned.
High Arbiter Voss stood over it, his voice low. "The Vault at Blackbriar opened. Lenora walked freely through its blood wards. The Mourner did not stop her."
"And Cassian?" murmured Lady Caldria. Her veil was spider silk dyed with ash. "Is it truly him?"
Magistrate Elden approached the basin. He did not speak. Instead, he reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a sliver of ivory—thin, brittle, and etched with writing that crawled like vines.
It was a name-shard.
He dropped it into the basin.
The water hissed.
The shard cracked.
Cassian's name broke in two.
Not erased.
Not replaced.
But changed.
A silence followed—deep and heavy.
Then the basin glowed red.
The Council Splinters
"He's not dead," Elden whispered.
"No," said Voss. "But he's not alive either. Not in the way that matters."
The basin's glow ebbed slowly. Beneath the surface, blood spidered in veins—forming the outline of a lily.
Lady Caldria pressed her fingers together. "You all feel it, don't you? The city... holding its breath. Something inside Vullum is waking. We've kept its name hidden long enough."
One of the older Council members, a man who hadn't spoken in years, finally rasped, "We should have destroyed the ritual. Not sealed it. This is our doing."
Another slammed her palm to the table. "No. This is his doing. Cassian never should have survived the severing."
"But he did," Caldria whispered. "And now he's rewriting the rite."
"We still have Lenora," said one. "She can be used—again."
"No," said Voss sharply. "We bound her as a child. Burned the memories, carved her body, fed her lies. And she still found her way back."
"So we eliminate her."
Voss turned. "And become the monsters he says we are?"
"She is the rite now," Caldria said. "Or what's left of it."
Then, from the shadows, a new voice:
"Then it's already too late."
They all turned.
A figure stepped into the circle—wearing the bone mask of a Writ-Keeper. Silent for decades, this Keeper had only ever appeared for death rites or prophecy fulfillments.
Now he removed his mask.
His eyes were completely black.
"Three glyphs have awakened," he said. "The Ashkeeper breathes."
Blackbriar Chapel – The Following Night
Lenora had not slept.
Neither had Dorian.
But they'd said little.
Between them sat the Mourner's mask, laid carefully between folded linen as though it might dissolve if handled too roughly.
Lenora traced the lid of the sealed velvet book again. Her gloves were back on. But she could feel its pulse through the leather—old magic, still living.
"I used to think the Council was cruel," she said finally, voice soft. "But they weren't just cruel. They were afraid."
Dorian stood at the cracked archway of the chapel, looking out into the night. "Fear drives sharper knives than hatred."
Lenora looked up. "You don't believe I'm dangerous?"
He turned.
His gaze was unreadable.
"I think," he said, "you were made dangerous. There's a difference."
A silence passed. Lenora leaned back against the stone pillar behind her, exhaling like it hurt.
"He said we begin again," she murmured. "But I never agreed to begin anything."
Dorian hesitated before walking to her. He sat beside her on the cold floor. "If Cassian survived... then maybe so did others. The rite didn't bind just two."
Her head snapped toward him. "You think there are more?"
"I think," he said carefully, "that whatever this is... it was meant to scale. Not stay in a snow-covered garden under moonlight."
Lenora swallowed hard. "Then we're walking into a cathedral made from the bones of children."
Dorian tried not to show it, but her words cut deep.
Especially after what they'd seen in the vault.
The Council's Next Move
In a tower draped in silence and velvet, four council members met in secret.
Voss was not among them.
Nor Caldria.
This was a new quorum—formed of those who no longer believed the Heartbinder rite could be stopped.
"We send the Blade," said one, her mouth barely moving. "If we wait any longer, Lenora will reach the threshold."
"And Cassian will become more than memory."
They brought out the sealed box—ornate, blackwood, and bound in iron chain.
Inside it was fire given form.
The Ashkeeper's Blade.
It had no hilt. It wasn't meant to be held—only summoned.
Once drawn, it didn't kill.
It unwound.
"We deliver the decree," said the leader. "And we end this before it begins again."
In the Forest Near Blackbriar
Lenora could feel the glyphs again.
Under her skin. Whispering.
Cassian's name pulsed against her spine like a ghost's hand.
"We can't go back to Vullum," she said. "Not yet."
"Then where?"
"There's another estate," she said slowly. "North of the marshlands. A sister site. It was abandoned after the rite failed. But my mother always said if something ever broke—truly broke—it would call us back."
Dorian eyed her. "You sure that's not just guilt?"
"I'm not sure of anything anymore."
He nodded once.
"Good. Let's go."