The morning after their return from Dralith, the sky above Seryth was alight with color. Threads of lavender, gold, and fire danced across the dawn as if the Spiral itself had awoken to a dream.
But dreams could be heavy.
Kaelin sat alone in the Archive of Flame, surrounded by blank parchment and the scent of burning incense. Before her lay an obsidian quill, humming faintly with unformed power—the kind the Spiral reserved for new truths.
She had been granted a choice.
Record the threads she’d gathered in Dralith.
Or let them fade.
Each thread was a life that had not come to be. A song never sung. A kiss never stolen. A war never fought. The weight of them pressed against her spine, and Kaelin found herself weeping—not for what was lost, but for what could have been.
Theron entered
