The dungeon smelled of mildew, old straw, and shame.
Elara sat upright now, her movements slow but steady. The fever had broken. The bleeding had stopped. The pain—the real kind—had taken root deeper.
She would carry it always.
Across the narrow infirmary chamber, Arden lit a torch and passed her a faded bundle. “I found this among your things."
Inside was her father's diary.
Elara's fingers hovered over the leather cover. “You could've burned for touching this."
He shrugged. “I figured truth was worth the risk."
She opened it slowly.
The pages crackled with age. Notes, diagrams, maps of bloodlines... and one folded letter sealed in wax with a symbol most had forgotten:
The true royal crest of Silvermoon.
Not the one stitched onto Kael's banners.
The one hidden in history's shad
