Whispers of the Fallen: Whispers of the Fallen, #1

By Andrej Milković

Whispers of the Fallen

In the heart of the enigmatic world of Shadowmere, a hidden power waits to be unveiled. When Isolde, Roderic, Brenna, and Kalen find themselves at the center of a cosmic game that will determine the fate of all realities, they face challenges beyond their wildest imaginings.

Whispers of the Fallen takes readers on an extraordinary journey that spans beyond the boundaries of the known world. Confronted with alternate versions of themselves in parallel realities, our heroes must make decisions that will shape not only their world but countless others. Powerful figures, inner conflicts, and cosmic games push them to the limits of their endurance and resolve.

Filled with intriguing plot twists and emotional upheavals, the book offers a unique blend of epic adventure, magic, and philosophical questions about destiny and responsibility. Will our heroes find balance in chaos or be consumed by their own fears?

Prepare for an exhilarating journey through worlds and dimensions that will lead you on an unforgettable adventure.

Author: Agripa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrej Milković
• Release date: Jul 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227553898

Book preview

Whispers of the Fallen

Chapter 1: Shadows in the Solstice

The candles flickered in the great hall of Solstice Keep, their dancing light a poor imitation of the radiance that once filled these hallowed walls. Lady Isolde Solstice sat at the high table, her back straight and her face a mask of calm serenity that belied the turmoil within. To her right, her father, Lord Cedric Solstice, brooded over his goblet of Dornish red, imported at great expense despite their dwindling coffers. To her left, her younger brother Alric fidgeted, his eyes darting between the laden plates before them and the lesser tables where the household knights and favored retainers dined.

Isolde's gaze swept across the hall, noting the gaps in the benches where once loyal bannermen had sat. House Solstice's influence waned with each passing season, their ancient claim to power eroding like sand against the tides. She could feel it in the whispers that followed her through the keep's corridors, see it in the pitying glances of the servants.

More wine, my lord? A serving girl approached, pitcher in hand, her eyes downcast.

Lord Cedric grunted, thrusting his goblet forward without a word. As the girl poured, her sleeve rode up, revealing a flash of puckered skin—a burn scar. Isolde's breath caught in her throat. In years past, such an injury would have been healed in moments by the house mystics, their elemental magics soothing flesh and easing pain. But those days were long gone, snuffed out like candles in a storm when King Aldren outlawed the practice of sorcery throughout Eldoria.

Clumsy fool, Lord Cedric muttered as the girl withdrew. We're surrounded by incompetence, Isolde. Our house crumbles while these simpletons fumble about.

Isolde bit back a retort. It wasn't the servants' fault that House Solstice teetered on the brink of ruin. The blame for that lay squarely on her father's shoulders—his stubborn pride, his refusal to adapt to the changing tides of power. But to speak such thoughts aloud would be to court disaster. Instead, she reached for her own goblet, the watered wine bitter on her tongue.

Perhaps if we were to reach out to House Blackthorne, she suggested carefully. I've heard whispers that Lord Emeric seeks new alliances. A union between our houses could—

Bah! Lord Cedric slammed his fist on the table, sending ripples through the cups and startling a yelp from Alric. I'll not go crawling to Emeric Blackthorne like some mewling beggar. The blood of the First Mages flows through our veins. We are the rightful rulers of the Summerlands, not those upstart merchants and their ill-gotten gold.

Isolde closed her eyes, willing the frustration from her voice. Father, please. Times have changed. The old ways—

The old ways are all we have left! He leaned in close, the stench of wine heavy on his breath. Or have you forgotten your heritage, girl? Have you forgotten the power that sleeps in your blood?

A chill ran down Isolde's spine. She glanced around, ensuring no servants lingered within earshot. I haven't forgotten, she whispered. But that power is forbidden now. To even speak of it is treason.

Lord Cedric's eyes blazed with a fervor that bordered on madness. Treason? It is Aldren who committed treason when he turned his back on the old magics. When he bowed to the whims of the smallfolk and their superstitions. He grabbed Isolde's wrist, his grip painfully tight. You feel it, don't you? The stirring in your blood when the solstice nears. The whispers of the elements in your dreams.

Isolde's heart raced. She did feel it—a restless energy that coursed through her veins, growing stronger with each passing day. But to acknowledge it, to give voice to the forbidden longings that plagued her nights, was to invite ruin upon them all.

Father, Alric's timid voice cut through the tension. Maester Thorne said I might visit the training yard tomorrow. He thinks the exercise would do me good.

Lord Cedric released Isolde's wrist, turning his attention to his son. His voice softened, though the undercurrent of disappointment remained. Did he now? And what does an old man who's never held a sword know of what's good for you? He shook his head. You're to be lord of this house one day, Alric. It's time you started acting like it.

Isolde's heart ached for her brother. At two-and-ten, Alric was small for his age, his frame willowy where it should have been strong. The maesters whispered of a wasting sickness, one that might have been cured in the days when elemental magic flowed freely through the halls of Solstice Keep. Now, they could do little more than mix tinctures and offer hollow reassurances.

I'll go with him, Father, Isolde offered. We can start with the bow. Alric has a keen eye.

Lord Cedric waved a dismissive hand. Do as you will. But remember your duties, Isolde. The Midsummer Gathering approaches, and with it, our last chance to secure the alliances we need. His gaze sharpened. You're eight-and-ten now. Well past time you were wed. Perhaps Lord Thorn's second son... or that Eastmarch boy. What was his name?

Gareth, Isolde supplied, her stomach churning at the thought. Gareth Eastmarch was a brute of a man, all muscle and no wit. The idea of being bound to him for life made her want to flee the keep and never look back.

Yes, Gareth. A strong match, that would be. Good Eastmarch blood to strengthen the line. Lord Cedric nodded to himself, already lost in his cups and his scheming.

Isolde stood, unable to bear another moment of this farce. If you'll excuse me, Father. I find I've lost my appetite.

She didn't wait for a response, striding from the hall with as much dignity as she could muster. The weight of eyes followed her—pitying, speculating, judging. Let them look, she thought bitterly. Let them wonder at the fate of the once-great House Solstice, reduced to trading their daughter like chattel in a desperate bid for relevance.

The corridors of Solstice Keep were quiet at this hour, the torches casting long shadows across worn stone floors. Isolde's footsteps echoed as she made her way to the family wing, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Anger at her father's stubbornness. Fear for Alric's fragile health. And underneath it all, a restless yearning she dared not name.

She paused before a tapestry that hung in an alcove, its colors faded with age. It depicted the founding of House Solstice—a circle of mages, hands raised as they called forth the elements. Fire danced at their fingertips, water swirled at their feet, earth trembled beneath them, and wind whipped their hair. At the center stood Aurelia Solstice, the First Mage, her eyes alight with power as she wove the forces of nature to her will.

Isolde reached out, her fingers hovering just above the threadbare surface. She could almost feel the hum of magic, a phantom sensation that made her skin prickle. What would Aurelia think if she could see her descendants now? Would she weep for the loss of their heritage, or rage against the injustice that had stripped them of their birthright?

A floorboard creaked behind her, and Isolde whirled, her heart in her throat. But it was only Maester Thorne, his chain clinking softly as he shuffled forward.

My lady, he said, inclining his head. I hope I didn't startle you.

Isolde forced a smile. Not at all, Maester. I was just... reminiscing.

The old man's eyes crinkled with understanding. Ah, yes. The Founding Tapestry. A remarkable piece of history, that. Though perhaps not one we should linger over too long in these times.

There was a weight to his words that made Isolde pause. What do you mean?

Maester Thorne glanced over his shoulder before leaning in close. There are whispers, my lady. Rumors from the capital. It seems King Aldren grows ever more paranoid in his hunt for practitioners of the old arts. There's talk of inquisitors being sent to every corner of the realm.

A chill ran down Isolde's spine. Inquisitors? Here?

The maester nodded gravely. It's only a matter of time, I fear. And with your lord father's... outspoken nature, well... He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Isolde's mind raced. If inquisitors came to Solstice Keep, they would find more than just tapestries and old stories. There were secrets hidden in these walls, remnants of a power that refused to die quietly. And her father, in his cups and his bitterness, might just be fool enough to reveal them.

What can we do? she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.

Maester Thorne's expression softened. Be cautious, my lady. Guard your tongue and your thoughts. And perhaps... He hesitated, then reached into the folds of his robe. Perhaps it's time you learned more of your family's true history.

He pressed a small, leather-bound book into her hands. Isolde's breath caught as she felt the familiar tingle of magic emanating from its pages. Maester, this is—

A record of the old ways, he finished for her. Passed down through generations of Solstice maesters. I had hoped to give it to your brother when he came of age, but... The old man's eyes clouded with sorrow. Well, the future of House Solstice may well rest in your hands now, my lady.

Isolde clutched the book to her chest, her heart pounding. This was treason of the highest order. If they were discovered... But the allure of forbidden knowledge was too strong to resist. Thank you, she whispered. I'll guard it with my life.

Maester Thorne nodded, then straightened, his manner becoming brisk and businesslike once more. Now then, I believe it's time for young Lord Alric's tonic. If you'll excuse me, my lady.

As he shuffled away, Isolde stood frozen, the weight of the book in her hands both thrilling and terrifying. She glanced once more at the Founding Tapestry, at Aurelia Solstice's knowing eyes. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw the threads shimmer, as if the magic woven into them stirred in response to the tome she held.

With a start, Isolde shook off the fanciful notion. She couldn't linger here, not with such dangerous knowledge in her possession. Clutching the book tightly, she hurried to her chambers, her mind awhirl with possibilities and fears.

Once safely behind closed doors, Isolde lit a single candle and settled onto her bed. Her hands trembled as she opened the book, the leather creaking softly. The pages were filled with cramped, spidery writing, diagrams of elemental circles, and notations in a language she didn't recognize.

As she leafed through the tome, a loose page fluttered to the floor. Isolde bent to retrieve it, her breath catching as she saw what was written there. It wasn't a spell or a family record, but a prophecy—one that sent a shiver of recognition through her very bones.

"When shadow and light entwine,And blood of the First Mage runs true,The fallen shall rise once more,To break the chains and renew.

Three must stand against the tide,Blood, Shadow, and Sight combined.To wake the power long denied,And forge anew what time unwinds."

Isolde read the words again and again, her pulse quickening with each repetition. This was it—the key to restoring her family's power, to saving Alric, to changing the very course  of Eldoria's future. But the enormity of it threatened to overwhelm her. How could she, a sheltered noble girl with no true knowledge of magic, hope to fulfill such a destiny?

A knock at the door startled her from her reverie. Hastily, Isolde shoved the book and the prophecy beneath her pillow.

Enter, she called, smoothing her skirts and willing her voice to steadiness.

The door creaked open, revealing Alric's pale face. Izzy? he said, using the childhood nickname she pretended to hate. Can I... can I stay with you for a while? Father's in one of his moods, and I... He trailed off, his lower lip trembling.

Isolde's heart melted. She held out her arms, and Alric rushed into them, burying his face against her shoulder. She stroked his hair, marveling at how small he felt, how fragile.

It's alright, little moon, she murmured. I'm here. I'll always be here for you.

As she held her brother, Isolde's resolve hardened. She would solve the riddle of the prophecy. She would master the old magics, no matter the cost. And she would see House Solstice restored to its former glory—not for her father's pride or for her own ambition, but for Alric. For the future he deserved.

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the keep's ancient stones. And deep within Isolde Solstice, something stirred—a power long dormant, awakening to the call of destiny.

Chapter 2: The Rogue's Gambit

The night air in Kingsport reeked of fish guts and desperation. Roderic crouched on a rooftop overlooking the harbor, his dark cloak blending seamlessly with the shadows. Below, the streets teemed with the usual nocturnal crowd—drunken sailors, prowling cutpurses, and painted women whose smiles never reached their eyes.

But Roderic's gaze was fixed on a grander prize. The Gilded Chalice loomed before him, its marble façade gleaming in the moonlight. Within those walls lay the combined wealth of half the merchant princes in Eldoria, fat nobles grown complacent in their power.

He allowed himself a small smile. They'd learn the folly of complacency soon enough.

A soft whistle from the alley below caught his attention. Roderic peered over the edge to see a familiar face gazing up at him. Lissa, her red hair hidden beneath a cloth cap, gave a quick series of hand signals.

Guards changed. Two at the main entrance. One patrolling the rear.

Roderic nodded, then signaled back.

Stick to the plan. I'll meet you at the rendezvous.

Lissa melted back into the shadows, leaving Roderic alone with his thoughts and the weight of the lock picks in his pocket. He took a deep breath, centering himself. This wasn't just another heist. Tonight would change everything.

With the grace of a cat, Roderic made his way across the rooftops, stopping only when he reached the ornate chimney of the Gilded Chalice. He produced a coil of rope from beneath his cloak, securing it with practiced ease. Then, with one last glance at the starry sky, he began his descent.

The climb down was treacherous, each scrape of boot against stone threatening to give him away. But years of experience guided Roderic's movements, and soon enough, he found himself on a narrow ledge outside a second-story window.

This close, he could hear the murmur of voices from within—the self-satisfied tones of men who believed themselves untouchable. Roderic's lips curled in a sneer. He'd teach them the meaning of fear before the night was through.

With deft fingers, he worked at the window latch. It was a complex mechanism, designed to keep out all but the most determined intruders. But Roderic had spent weeks studying its workings, bribing a locksmith's apprentice for the secrets of its construction. Now, those lessons paid off as the latch gave way with a satisfying click.

Roderic eased the window open and slipped inside, his feet finding purchase on plush Myrish carpets that muffled his steps. He found himself in a opulent study, the walls lined with leather-bound books and priceless artifacts. A mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface cluttered with ledgers and correspondence.

For a moment, Roderic was tempted to rifle through the papers. Information, after all, was often more valuable than gold. But he pushed the urge aside. He had a job to do, and every second he lingered increased the risk of discovery.

Moving with silent efficiency, Roderic made his way to the door. He pressed his ear against the polished wood, listening for any sign of movement in the hallway beyond. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he eased it open and slipped into the corridor.

The Gilded Chalice was a maze of twisting passages and hidden alcoves, designed to confuse and misdirect. But Roderic had spent months memorizing its layout, bribing servants and studying architectural plans. He moved with purpose, avoiding the creaky floorboards and keeping to the shadows cast by guttering torches.

As he rounded a corner, voices drifted from a nearby chamber. Roderic froze, pressing himself against the wall.

...can't believe the audacity of it, a man was saying, his voice thick with wine and indignation. House Thorn thinks they can dictate terms to us? We're the ones with the gold, damn it!

Careful, Melwys, another voice cautioned. The Thorns have ears everywhere. It's said they dabble in magics best left forgotten.

A derisive snort. Superstitious nonsense. There's no real magic left in Eldoria. It's all smoke and mirrors, designed to keep the smallfolk in line.

Tell that to the Solstices, a third voice chimed in. I hear old Cedric still fancies himself a sorcerer-king.

Laughter echoed from the room, and Roderic's fists clenched at his sides. He knew all too well the cruelty of men like these, who played at politics while others starved in the streets. For a moment, he was tempted to burst in and show them just how vulnerable they truly were.

But that wasn't part of the plan. Roderic took a deep breath, forcing the anger down. He couldn't afford to let emotion cloud his judgment. Not tonight.

When the voices faded, he continued on his way, moving deeper into the bowels of the Gilded Chalice. The opulence of the upper floors gave way to stark utility—store rooms and servants' quarters, the hidden machinery that kept the wheels of wealth turning.

At last, Roderic found himself before an unmarked door, distinguished only by the quality of its lock. This was it. The vault that housed the combined riches of Kingsport's elite.

He knelt before the door, producing his picks once more. This lock was a true work of art, a delicate dance of tumblers and wards that would have stymied a lesser thief. But Roderic was no common cutpurse. His fingers moved with surgical precision, feeling out the mechanism's secrets.

Time seemed to stretch as he worked, each second an eternity. Sweat beaded on his brow, and more than once, he had to pause to wipe his palms on his trousers. But slowly, inexorably, the lock began to yield.

With a final, barely audible click, it gave way.

Roderic allowed himself a moment of triumph before easing the door open. The vault beyond was smaller than he'd expected, its walls lined with iron-bound chests and shelves groaning under the weight of gold and silver plate.

But it wasn't the glitter of precious metals that drew Roderic's eye. Instead, his gaze fixed on a small, unassuming box tucked away in a corner. It was made of simple wood, unadorned save for a series of intricate runes carved into its surface.

This was what he'd come for. The true prize, worth more than all the gold in Kingsport.

Roderic approached the box cautiously, his skin prickling with an unseen energy. He'd heard tales of curses laid upon stolen treasures, of thieves struck dead for daring to lay hands on that which did not belong to them. But he'd come too far to turn back now.

With a deep breath, he reached out and lifted the box.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a surge of... something... raced up Roderic's arms. It wasn't pain, exactly, but a sensation so alien that his mind rebelled against it. Images flashed before his eyes—a circle of robed figures, hands raised in supplication; a woman with eyes like burning stars; a darkness that consumed everything in its path.

Roderic gasped, nearly dropping the box. But as quickly as it had come, the vision faded, leaving him disoriented and shaken.

What in the nine hells was that?

He had no time to ponder the question. From somewhere above came the sound of raised voices and running feet. The alarm had been raised.

Cursing under his breath, Roderic shoved the box into a satchel at his hip. He'd have to forgo the rest of the loot—a shame, but the primary objective was secure.

He slipped out of the vault, his mind racing as he plotted his escape route. The main stairway would be watched, and the window he'd entered through was too far. That left only one option.

The servants' stairs.

Roderic sprinted down the hallway, no longer bothering with stealth. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of armored boots—the Chalice's guards, no doubt eager to make an example of the fool who'd dared to rob them.

He burst through a door into a narrow stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. His lungs burned, and his legs protested the abuse, but Roderic pushed on. He couldn't afford to be caught. Not with what he carried.

As he neared the ground floor, a figure loomed before him—a guard, sword already drawn. Roderic didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward, using his momentum to drive his shoulder into the man's midsection.

They went down in a tangle of limbs, the guard's sword clattering away. Roderic's fist connected with a jaw, and he felt something give way beneath his knuckles. The guard went limp, and Roderic scrambled to his feet.

No time for finesse. He ran full-tilt towards the kitchens, shouldering aside a startled scullery maid. Shouts echoed behind him as he burst through the back door and into the alley beyond.

The cool night air hit him like a slap to the face, clearing some of the fog from his mind. Roderic oriented himself quickly, then took off down the twisting backstreets of Kingsport. He knew these alleys like the back of his hand—every hidden nook, every low wall that could be vaulted.

His pursuers weren't so lucky. Their shouts grew more distant as Roderic led them on a merry chase, doubling back and taking seemingly nonsensical turns. By the time he reached the old tannery district, the sounds of pursuit had faded entirely.

Still, Roderic didn't slow his pace. He couldn't risk complacency, not when he was so close to his goal.

The dilapidated warehouse loomed before him, its windows dark and uninviting. To most, it would appear abandoned. But Roderic knew better.

He rapped out a complex rhythm on a side door, then waited, heart pounding. After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open to reveal Lissa's worried face.

Took you long enough, she hissed, ushering him inside. I was about to send out a search party.

Roderic managed a weak grin. You know me. I like to make an entrance.

Lissa rolled her eyes, but there was relief in her expression. Did you get it?

In answer, Roderic produced the wooden box from his satchel. In the dim light of the warehouse, the carved runes seemed to writhe and shift, as if alive.

Lissa's eyes widened. By all the gods. You actually did it.

Was there ever any doubt? Roderic's tone was light, but inside, he felt anything but confident. The strange vision he'd experienced in the vault still haunted him, along with a growing sense that he'd set something in motion that couldn't be undone.

A slow clap echoed through the warehouse, and both Roderic and Lissa whirled to face the source. A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman, tall and regal, with eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness.

Well done, little thief, she said, her voice rich with amusement. You've succeeded where many others have failed.

Roderic's hand went to the dagger at his belt. Who in the blazes are you?

The woman smiled, and it was like watching a cat bare its fangs. I am Seraphine. And I believe you have something that belongs to me.

Lissa stepped forward, placing herself between Roderic and the newcomer. This wasn't part of the deal. We were supposed to deliver the box to—

To a representative of the true heir, Seraphine finished for her. And so you have. Or did you think your mysterious benefactor was some disgruntled noble looking to settle a score?

Roderic's mind raced. He'd known this job was different from the start—the promised payment too high, the target too specific. But he'd never imagined...

You're a mage, he said, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. But that's impossible. Magic is dead in Eldoria.

Seraphine's laugh was like breaking glass. Oh, you poor, blind fool. Magic never died. It only slumbered, waiting for the right moment to awaken. Her gaze fixed on the box in Roderic's hands. And that moment is now.

Before Roderic could react, Seraphine raised her hand. A gust of wind howled through the warehouse, knocking him off his feet. The box flew from his grasp, sailing through the air to land neatly in Seraphine's outstretched palm.

At last, she breathed, running her fingers over the runes. The key to it all.

Lissa helped Roderic to his feet, her expression a mix of fear and awe. What is that thing? she demanded. What have you gotten us into, Roderic?

Seraphine turned her unsettling gaze on them both. This, she said, holding up the box, is the future of Eldoria. And you, my daring thieves, have just helped to usher in a new age.

With a gesture, the air around her began to shimmer and twist. Roderic felt that alien energy again, prickling along his skin. He opened his mouth to speak, to demand answers, but before he could form the words, Seraphine vanished in a swirl of shadow and light.

For a long moment, Roderic and Lissa stood in stunned silence. Then Lissa rounded on him, eyes blazing.

Start talking, she growled. What in the nine hells just happened?

Roderic ran a hand through his hair, his mind still reeling. I don't know, he admitted. But I've got a feeling we've just landed ourselves in something far bigger than a simple heist.

As if in answer to his words, a distant rumble shook the warehouse. It was followed by another, and another—like the footsteps of some great beast awakening from slumber.

Lissa's face paled. Roderic... what have we done?

He had no answer for her. But as he gazed out the warehouse window at the Kingsport skyline, Roderic couldn't shake the feeling that the world as he knew it was about to change forever.

And he, a simple thief with delusions of grandeur, was somehow at the center of it all.

Chapter 3: The Mystic's Burden

Seraphine materialized in a whirl of ethereal mist, her feet touching down on the cool stone floor of her sanctuary. The air here was thick with the scent of incense and old parchment, a stark contrast to the fishy miasma of Kingsport's docks. She allowed herself a moment to breathe deeply, centering herself after the drain of teleportation.

The wooden box thrummed in her hands, its power calling to her like a siren's song. Seraphine placed it reverently on a nearby table, her fingers lingering on its carved surface. After all these years, all the sacrifices, it was finally within her grasp.

I trust your errand was successful?

The voice, dry as autumn leaves, came from the shadows. Seraphine didn't turn, knowing all too well what—or rather, who—she would see.

Was there ever any doubt, Master Thorne?

The old man shuffled into view, his maester's chain clinking softly with each step. His face was a map of wrinkles, his eyes clouded with age, but there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence behind that rheumy gaze.

There is always doubt, child, Thorne rasped. Especially when dealing with matters of prophecy.

Seraphine's lips tightened at the word 'child.' She was nearing her fourth decade, hardly a green girl to be lectured. But she held her tongue. Thorne had been ancient when she was truly young, and his wisdom was not to be discounted lightly.

The box is secure, she said instead, gesturing to the table. And our... tools... performed admirably.

Thorne's bushy eyebrows rose. The thief and his accomplice? They survived the retrieval?

More than survived. They may prove useful yet. Seraphine's mind flashed to the roguish face of Roderic, the fear and wonder in his eyes as she revealed herself. There was potential there, raw and untapped.

The old maester grunted, clearly unconvinced. Thieves and cutthroats are unreliable allies at best. We would do well to eliminate them before they become a liability.

Seraphine shook her head. The prophecy speaks of three. 'Blood, Shadow, and Sight combined.' We cannot afford to discard potential pieces of the puzzle.

And you believe this... Roderic... to be one of the three? Thorne's tone dripped with skepticism.

I believe nothing without proof, Seraphine countered. But I felt something when I took the box from him. A resonance. He may not know it yet, but that man has magic in his blood.

Thorne fell silent, digesting this information. His gnarled hands worried at the links of his chain—a habit Seraphine recognized from her years as his apprentice. It meant he was troubled, turning over possibilities in that labyrinthine mind of his.

What of the Solstice girl? he asked at last. Have you made contact?

Seraphine's jaw clenched. Not yet. The keep is well-guarded, and Lord Cedric grows more paranoid by the day. But I've planted the seed. The book you gave her will guide her to us in time.

Time, Thorne muttered, is a luxury we can ill afford. He shuffled to a nearby window, gazing out at the mist-shrouded mountains beyond. The balance shifts, Seraphine. Surely you can feel it.

She could. The very air seemed charged with potential, like the moments before a lightning strike. Magic, long suppressed, was stirring in the bones of the world. And not all of it was benign.

The Thorns move in shadow, Thorne continued. Their tendrils spread through court and countryside alike. If they secure the throne before we can act...

He left the thought unfinished, but Seraphine could fill in the rest. House Thorn's mastery of shadow magic was formidable, and their ambition knew no bounds. If they gained control of Eldoria, the land would be plunged into an age of darkness from which it might never recover.

We won't let that happen, Seraphine said, infusing her voice with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. She moved to the table, running her fingers over the runes carved into the box's surface. With this, we can awaken the old magics. Restore the balance.

Thorne turned to face her, his expression grave. And you're certain you can control it? The power contained within that box has driven greater mages than you to madness.

Seraphine bristled at the