The morning sun filtered through stained glass, casting fractured colors over the marble floors of the Moonspire. In the light of day, the estate seemed calmer—less haunted by whispers, less steeped in secrets.
But Alira Thorne knew better.
She stepped into the inner sanctum of House Thorne—The Black Archive. Few had ever seen it. Fewer still left unchanged.
Rows of obsidian shelves rose like walls, filled with scrolls and crystals humming faintly with sealed memories. Every volume was alive, pulsating with the blood and knowledge of centuries.
Alira moved with purpose. She had read every report, memorized every trace of forbidden flame ever recorded by the Veiled Eye.
None of it matched Sylas.
No flares. No violent surges. No signs of possession or madness. Just a slow, steady presence. Cold. Aware.
And the letter…
She reached into her cloak and retrieved the note again.
"You're being watched too."
The ink hadn't faded overnight. Strange. Even enchanted parchment usually wore signs of magical energy within hours. This felt older. Timeless, almost.
She placed it on a spectral reader. Runes flickered around it. The Archive groaned. Then—
No match found.
Her breath caught. That wasn't possible. Every known magical handprint, signature, and essence left a trace. Even ancient ones.
Only one kind of energy resisted detection completely.
Soulweave.
She whispered the word, almost reverently.
Only six known practitioners in recorded history. All presumed dead. And yet…
A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"You're digging too fast," said Myra Thorne, emerging from the shadows as if she'd always been there.
Alira didn't flinch.
"I'm following orders."
"No," Myra said calmly. "You're following curiosity. That's far more dangerous."
Alira turned to face her aunt, eyes calm but unyielding.
"He's hiding something. But I don't think it's what we expected."
"Then dig slower. If he truly is Soulweave-bonded, we don't prod. We observe. And if he's something worse…"
She left the sentence unfinished, but Alira understood.
We kill him.
Back at the Drevin estate, Sylas stood before a silver mirror in his private study.
He wasn't admiring his reflection. He was watching the flicker of light just behind it.
The room was warded. Triple-sealed. But something had breached the outer layer last night. A whisper. A gaze.
Not hers.
Something older.
He pressed a finger to the frame. The illusion shimmered, revealing a hidden seal behind the glass: the broken crest of the First Flame Cult—his true legacy.
He had hoped to escape it. To disappear into obscurity, cultivate quietly, and one day leave this world behind like mist at dawn.
But fate had other ideas.
A knock came at the door.
Sylas didn't move. "Enter."
A servant stepped in—young, trembling slightly, holding a scroll bound in House Thorne's crimson wax.
"From Lady Alira, my lord."
He took the scroll silently. The servant bowed and retreated like a mouse fleeing a storm.
Sylas broke the seal and unfolded the message.
It was brief. No signature. No seal. Just a single line:
"We should talk. Privately."
And a location: The Southern Orchid Pavilion. Midnight.
That night, as the city slumbered, Sylas made his way through the moonlit gardens of Elarion. The Southern Orchid Pavilion sat in the midst of a forgotten sanctuary, overgrown with blue lotus vines and whispering reeds. Once a sacred site. Now a ruin.
He found her standing alone by the pond, her reflection wavering like a lie told too often.
"You're late," Alira said without turning.
"I'm careful," Sylas replied.
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then she said, "You're not what you pretend to be."
"Neither are you."
Another pause.
She turned now, and he noticed—for the first time—her eyes weren't sharp tonight. They were tired. Curious. Almost… vulnerable.
"You knew about the agents I brought," she said.
"Yes."
"You left a letter."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He studied her face.
"Because they weren't the only ones watching."
She blinked.
"What do you mean?"
"There's a presence," he said. "Old. Watching both of us. I don't know what it wants yet. But I know this: you'll be dead before morning if you keep acting like you're in control."
Alira stepped closer.
"I don't like riddles, Sylas."
"I'm not giving you one," he said quietly. "I'm giving you a warning."
A rustle of leaves.
Her hand darted to her dagger—but Sylas's arm was already raised.
"Don't move."
A dark shape slithered across the pond surface. Not a snake. Not a shadow. Something… in between.
It coiled near the water's edge, eyes glowing with faint green fire.
"A Wraith Serpent," Alira breathed. "But they were all killed during the Ninth Hunt."
"Not all," Sylas murmured.
The creature hissed. Then lunged.
Alira moved to intercept—but Sylas was faster. A ripple of flame burst from his palm, silent and silver, slicing through the air like a whisper of judgment.
The serpent dissolved before it touched the ground—its ashes falling like snow.
Alira stood frozen.
"What… was that?" she asked.
Sylas didn't answer right away.
He looked at her, and this time, he didn't hide the quiet burn in his eyes.
"It's something I was never meant to awaken," he said. "But now that I have… there's no going back."
She said nothing.
And for the first time, Alira Thorne, the feared blade of the Veiled Eye, didn't know whether she was standing next to a monster—
—or the only man who could stop one.