Delyra
The chamber was no longer breathing. It was listening.
Delyra stepped carefully across the fractured floor, her boots crunching over shards of glyph light that hadn’t yet reformed. The air was thick with memory—not the kind preserved in stone, but the kind that lingered. The kind that watched.
Veyra’s body had been taken. Her glyph remained.
It hovered in the center of the room, red and complete, pulsing in slow rhythm like a heart that had learned to beat after death. It didn’t mourn. It didn’t wait. It summoned.
Delyra approached, her blade still sheathed, her breath shallow. The glyph flared as she neared, casting a glow that painted her face in shades of memory she didn’t recognize.
And then it spoke.
Not aloud.
In her mother’s voice.
“You were never meant to inherit si
