Episode 13
751 Words
THE ECHOES BENEATH THE STONE
The ruins of Kael’Thir were silent as Lira stepped over the jagged threshold, her fingers brushing the cool stone that had once guarded ancient wisdom. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the shattered dome above, illuminating patches of moss-covered floor and forgotten carvings etched with warnings no one heeded anymore.
She moved carefully, her steps measured and eyes sharp. Beneath her cloak, the sigils of concealment pulsed faintly against her skin, veiling her presence. The library had warned her of these ruins—how the magic here twisted intent and memory alike. But none of the scribes had lived the memories she did. None of them had died for trusting the wrong hands.
Lira had come for the vault. Not the kind that held gold or artifacts—but one that held names. Secrets.
And possibly, the truth behind House Vale’s curse.
Two days earlier, a coded letter had arrived from her contact within the Sanctum Archives—a girl named Ilwen, who owed Lira more than her life. The message was clear:
“Stone remembers what blood forgets. Seek the Watcher beneath the ash and bone. Entry lies beneath the twin lions.”
It had taken Lira hours to decipher the rest: Kael’Thir, specifically the eastern sanctuary once dedicated to the old gods of memory. And the twin lion statues, long buried, hidden beneath vines and rubble, had finally revealed a narrow staircase choked with dust and decay.
Now she descended that very path, deeper into the earth, past carved murals and broken altars. At the base of the staircase, the air changed—thicker, older. She stepped into a chamber carved in a perfect circle, the walls etched with looping, indecipherable glyphs. At its center stood a pedestal of black stone, veins of crimson glowing faintly within.
“The Watcher,” she whispered.
It was not a being. It was a vessel.
Drawing a thin blade from her belt, she sliced her palm and let her blood drip onto the stone. The pedestal drank it eagerly, glowing brighter. The glyphs along the walls pulsed, one by one, until the entire chamber thrummed with magic.
The stone opened.
From it spilled not gold, not scrolls, but visions—memories imprinted into the bloodline. Hers. House Vale’s.
She saw the founding of the House, the pact made in desperation during a forgotten war—Vale’s first ancestor offering their unborn child in exchange for power. The bloodline had never been pure since. The curse wasn’t just on the family. It was the family. Every generation, the magic chose one to protect and one to consume.
Her sister had been chosen.
She had been the sacrifice.
Lira staggered back, the vision wrenching from her like breath in winter. Her hand throbbed, her mind reeled. Everything she’d known—every assumption—had been a half-truth, crafted to keep the line stable, obedient.
“Chosen and condemned,” she muttered. “We’re not just players. We’re offerings.”
Suddenly, a sound.
Stone shifting. A scrape of boot over grit.
She whirled, blade in hand, magic ready to lash—and found herself staring into the silver-etched mask of the Archivist.
“Impressive,” the woman said. “No one has awakened the Watcher in over two centuries.”
Lira’s stance didn’t falter. “You followed me.”
“I led you,” the Archivist corrected, stepping into the chamber. “Do you think Ilwen acts alone?”
Lira’s fingers tightened. “You’ve been manipulating me.”
“No. Guiding you.”
Her temper flared, but she held it. “Why?”
“Because you are not the only one who wants House Vale’s chain broken. You are simply the only one with blood deep enough to shatter it.”
The two stood in silence, the chamber around them flickering with residual magic.
Then the Archivist added, “But beware, Lira. For every truth you uncover, there is a cost. And the next door you open may not lead you back.”
“I don’t plan to go back,” Lira said coldly. “Not until every piece is in place.”
She turned her back on the woman and walked toward the steps, the vision already hardening into resolve. Her revenge was no longer just personal. It was woven into her bloodline. If she failed, the curse would choose again. Another generation sacrificed.
No more.
She would be the last.
And she would burn the path clean behind her.
- Writer
