THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

The Passage Beyond Dawn

The morning twilight finally bled into the sky, a pale wash of silver and rose stretching across the horizon. The night had been long and merciless-sleep had refused to rest in her eyes. Thoughts had lingered like ghosts in the corners of her mind: fear, uncertainty, and the fragile, breaking images of what might go wrong. Yet, there was no turning back now. The path ahead was set, and retreat was no longer an option.

The first pale hues of dawn crept through the window, brushing the room with a faint golden glow. The air was cool, carrying the scent of oatcakes and pomegranates from the kitchen. George stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, his movements steady and practiced as he arranged breakfast on a tray. The faint clink of utensils was the only sound that dared disturb the fragile calm of morning.

Dawn stepped quietly into the room, her bare feet whispering against the floor. For a moment, she simply watched him-the curve of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his posture. In these days of tragedy, when the world outside seemed to crumble, she found herself clinging to small, human moments like this.

She moved closer, her heart tightening with both affection and sorrow. Slipping her arms around his waist from behind, she pressed her cheek against his back. "Good morning," she murmured, her voice soft, almost melodic, carrying a warmth that had been absent for too long.

George turned slowly, and she loosened her embrace to give him space. Their eyes met-his filled with tenderness, hers with a quiet ache. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and kissed her gently. A small laugh escaped them both, fragile but real. After so many days of grief and silence, that brief exchange felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Dawn carried the tray to the sitting room. She ate slowly, her thoughts far away, leaving a portion for Bella when their daughter woke. Each bite felt heavy with the knowledge of what she had to do. She rehearsed the words in her mind, knowing George would resist, knowing he would want to follow her. But she couldn't let him. Bella needed him here.

"I have to leave right after breakfast," she said finally, her voice steady but low.

George's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Leave? Where?"

"It's important," she replied. "If we want to survive-if we ever want to live again-I have to face what's out there."

She couldn't tell him the truth. Not yet. He didn't know she was a spy, sent by the contemporary world to uncover the last secret of Rosham. If he found out, he might think their marriage had been part of her mission. But it wasn't. What they had was real-more real than anything she had ever known. And now, with the recent discovery of his sister's betrayal, she couldn't bear to wound him further.

"I'll tell you everything," she thought silently, "but only after I succeed-after I save us all."

George's voice trembled with both anger and fear. "You can't go. We can't lose another." His eyes softened, revealing the depth of his love and the terror of losing her.

"It's about Gwendoline," Dawn said, her tone firm but pleading. "I have to bring her back, as I promised."

"She'll listen to me-she won't listen to you. To her, you're still a stranger. I don't mean to hurt you, but that's how she sees it."

She reached for his hand. "I don't break my promises. I'll bring her home. And I'll come back to you. I won't die without saying goodbye."

Her words were brave, but her heart trembled. She didn't know if she would make it back alive. Still, she had to try.

George said nothing more. He only nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes glistening. He knew he couldn't stop her. She had already made up her mind. And she was right-Bella needed someone to stay behind. That someone had to be him.

Dawn rose and walked down the narrow hallway. George watched her in silence, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. She disappeared into their room, and moments later, the sound of rustling fabric filled the air.

She changed into her travel clothes-a fitted grey leather shirt with a black collar and three small buttons running from the neckline to her upper chest. The material clung to her form, sturdy yet flexible, built for movement. Over it, she wore a sleeveless half-coat, its fabric thick and weathered, the color a muted brown that matched her trousers. The trousers were made of tough woven cloth, snug around her legs and ending just above her boots-boots scuffed and worn from journeys past.

She fastened a small belt around her waist, its leather cracked but strong, and tucked a dagger into its sheath. Her hair, dark and unruly, she pulled back into a tight bun to keep it from her face.

Then she reached for the book. Its cover was bound in aged leather, etched with faint runes that shimmered faintly when touched. It was her only defense against the darkness-against demons and the twisted magic that still lingered in the world. She placed it carefully into a woven greyish bag, alongside two skin jars filled with water. The bag sagged slightly under the book's weight, but she slung it over her shoulder with practiced ease.

When she stepped back into the main room, George was waiting. Their eyes met again, and though no words passed between them, everything was understood. Love. Fear. Hope.

He walked her to the door, his hand brushing hers one last time. The morning air met her face, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of dew and distant earth. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Then, without looking back, Dawn stepped forward-into the uncertain world that awaited her.

Dawn crossed into the building adjacent to theirs-the same one she had used during her last journey from the library. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of dust and stone. She struck a flame, its small light flickering to life in her hand, and carried it into the narrow room that concealed the underground path. To her surprise, the torches along the walls were still burning, their flames steady and golden, as if time itself had forgotten this place.

She descended into the passage, the sound of her boots echoing softly against the stone. The flame in her hand danced with every step, casting shifting shadows along the walls. Her other hand gripped the heavy bag, the weight of the book pressing against her side. The tunnel stretched on, winding beneath the earth until it opened into a hidden exit. She emerged into a quiet street in the great province near Kentaki.

Moving swiftly, she slipped through narrow alleys, leaving the flame behind in the building she had come from. The streets of Hules awaited her-unguarded now, unlike the days when Mark had been there. The silence was unsettling. The city stood untouched by visible ruin, yet it felt lifeless, as though its soul had been drained away. The houses were intact, the windows unbroken, but no laughter, no footsteps, no voices filled the air.

Before her stood the house she sought-empty once more, though still neatly kept, as if waiting for someone to return. She entered quietly, her senses alert, every creak of the floorboards magnified in the stillness. She made her way to the library, her steps cautious, her breath shallow. Inside the confined room, the familiar flame still burned on the table at the center, its light steady and unwavering. It illuminated the walls, the dust motes swirling like tiny spirits in the air.

Dawn approached the table and reached for the folded note lying beside the flame,beneath the pile of books. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded it. The handwriting was unmistakable-Mark's. Just the sight of his script sent a wave of emotion through her. Memories flooded back: the quiet moments they had shared, the calm before the chaos, the way his presence had once made her forget the darkness surrounding them. Though she had been forced into Menas, working alongside Mark had given her a sense of peace she hadn't known she needed. She had loved his steadiness, his quiet strength, his nearness.

Her eyes traced the words, each one pressing deeper into her heart.

"It's Mark-your friend and co-worker. It must have been difficult to survive here, ten years in a place that isn't your own, far away from the reality you once knew. You've done more than anyone could have asked of you. I have to acknowledge that you've done a great job so far. But there's still something left to do. The last secret of Rosham must be uncovered, just as I asked in the note I left during my last visit."

"Somewhere we crossed a desert,

to reach the second assistant to Bradford, Louis.

But the striking point is that the desert has never appeared in any of Rosham's maps.

It seems that beyond what we see of Rosham in the maps,

lie places hidden from the contemporary world-

unknown to us, and perhaps where the final secret of Rosham rests."

"Menas is growing impatient. They are preparing to act, to send attacks. But we haven't given up on you. We still depend on you to uncover the truth-to reveal the secret that keeps this city alive. Whatever it is, it holds the key to everything."

"But now, there is something more you must face. The time has come for you to make a choice-one that cannot be undone. You must decide between your own freedom and perishing with your family in Rosham. The attacks will not cease, and there is no guarantee that they will survive for much longer. Every moment you hesitate brings them closer to the edge."

"Remember, you still have a family waiting for you in the contemporary world-the one you left behind before coming to Rosham. They have not forgotten you. They still wait, hoping that one day you will return to them. The world you once knew still exists beyond these walls, beyond the smoke and the silence. You must choose where you belong-among the ruins of Rosham, or back in the life that once was yours."

The letter carried both comfort and sorrow. It reminded her of where she had once belonged, of the fragile hope that still flickered within her. Mark's words spoke of Menas-of how they still remembered her, still believed in her, even as she walked through danger. The message was more than a memory; it was a call, a reminder of the mission that bound her fate to theirs.

When she finished reading, she folded the note carefully and placed it back into her bag. Her heart felt heavier, yet steadier. The letter had not left her empty-it had given her something to hold onto. A direction. A clue.

She now understood that some places in Rosham were not merely spared from destruction-they were hidden, protected by secrecy rather than chance. The Grey's Church, The Red Cross, and the great library of Rosham.They were untouched not because fate had been kind, but because they had never truly been known to exist. There was purpose in their concealment, a reason they had been kept from the eyes of the contemporary world.

And perhaps, within one of them, lay the final secret of Rosham-the secret that kept it standing, the truth she had been sent to uncover.