The vault was a place of silence and stone, buried beneath the Elvaron estate like a forgotten heart. Only the High Mages of the family could enter—those deemed worthy by the ancient wards. Aeren had no business being there. But something had called him.
It was a whisper that curled behind his ear, a chill in his spine. While the others feasted in the Hall of Stars, Aeren wandered, his feet moving before thought could catch up. Down staircases worn smooth by centuries, past runes that glowed faintly as he passed.
He should've been stopped. The wards should have flared, alarms should have screamed. But none did.
The iron door stood before him, etched with the symbol of the First Flame—his family's crest. He reached out, expecting nothing.
The door opened.
Inside, relics hummed with dormant power—ancient grimoires, shattered staves, a silver mask that watched him with hollow eyes. But it was a small thing that caught him—a simple stone orb, no bigger than an apple, pulsing softly with pale blue light.
It floated toward him, slow and curious.
The moment Aeren's fingers brushed it, pain ripped through him like lightning. Images flooded his mind—war, stars falling from the sky, a name lost in time: Kael'tharan. And then, silence.
When he opened his eyes, the orb was gone. Burned into his palm was a mark—an eye surrounded by flame.
Voices rose behind him. Footsteps. The vault had noticed, now.
And so had the others.