Chapter Thirty-One · The Memory Orb Shatters

“Mydrin… Is that you?”

The voice came from the coffin, dry and worn, yet unmistakably alive.

The mage and Sion turned sharply. Lyra lifted her head.

All three froze.

“My Lord…” the mage whispered, his hands trembling.

The old man raised his hands, studying them, then touched his face and stroked his beard.

“Have I… grown this old?”

The mage pushed himself up with his staff and stepped forward.

His eyes filled. Then he dropped to his knees.

“My Lord. You’ve truly returned.”

A broken sob tore from him, raw and unguarded, like a child’s.

“Aulith has suffered for so long…”

Lyra let Sion help her up.

Then she stared at the man who had just stepped out of the coffin.

“High Lord,” she breathed.

He reached down and pulled the mage back up.

“Where is Aethrador?”

The mage wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Dead.”

“The war?”

“Over. Thrudor rules now. His son, Eryndar, sits on the throne.”

“My daughter. Itharel?”

“The High Lady leads Aulith from the Citadel.”

The High Lord turned, his gaze settling on the two girls before stopping on Lyra.

“That one. Who is she? I feel as if I’ve seen her before.”

Lyra pulled free from Sion’s grip and stepped forward.

“In the Memory Orb.”

He studied her for a long moment.

“Yes…”

Something softened in his eyes.

“I remember.”

“You touched my memories.”

A beat.

“That day.”

Far from the tomb, at that same moment,

a shock rippled through the palace.

The Memory Orb had shattered. The flowers around it had withered. No one could call up memories anymore.

The court erupted. The King ordered the area sealed and forbade anyone from spreading the rumor.

Still, the news reached the High Lady of Aulith.

She rose abruptly in the great hall of the Citadel, interrupting the council.

“The Memory Orb fractured on its own… Then the Soul Covenant…?”

Father…

She dismissed the elders and rode straight for the tomb.

Across fields gone to rot, the thin thread of hope in her chest frayed with every stride of the horse.

The mausoleum came into view. Stone, veined with moss.

Years ago, the land had been lush. Now it sagged and starved.

She slowed when she saw a white warhorse tied near the entrance.

“What is that mount doing here?”

She took the steps down into the earth.

“Archmage!”

Her voice echoed through the passage.

Her pace quickened.

Then she stopped.

Something impossible waited below.

The mage stood beside an old man with a crown of white hair.

And near them—

“Your Highness…” Her throat tightened.

Sion turned to Lyra, staring.

“Your Highness? Then you’re—”

“She is the princess of Tharion’s dynasty,” the mage cut in.

He bowed to the High Lady, then lifted his staff and swept it in a slow arc around the chamber.

The oil lamps flared, their flames rising all at once, light spilling through the tomb.

The High Lord and the High Lady saw each other clearly.

They stood motionless. Time seemed to still.

“Itharel…” the High Lord said softly, stepping forward as if drawn.

“Father…”

She ran to him.

They held each other.

Itharel’s hands trembled as she clutched his worn cloak. Tears broke free, unstoppable.

After fifty years,

High Lord Melthir of Aulith had returned.

She lifted a hand, tracing the lines age had left on his face.

“How…?”

“The princess,” the High Lord said, his gaze shifting to Lyra.

The mage continued.

“She gave of herself to call back the High Lord’s spirit—and the spirits of the elders.”

The High Lady glanced toward the coffins.

“Then will they return as well?”

The mage shook his head.

“Their wishes have been fulfilled.”

Tears still on her face, the High Lady stepped before Lyra and sank to one knee.

“Your Highness… I have no words to repay this debt.”

Lyra reached out and raised her.

“There’s nothing to repay. It was my duty.”

The High Lady seemed to remember something.

“I heard you had gone missing. What truly happened?

And why are you here, in Aulith?”

Lyra drew a slow breath, then let it out.

“When I disrupted Elena and Luca’s wedding… someone who took offense arranged to have me assassinated.”

Sion’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Gods… You’ve been through something awful.”

The High Lady lowered her gaze.

“I failed her. I let Elena suffer.

But I had no choice.

Syveris said that if we bound ourselves to the High Commander’s house, our people would be provided for.”

“What?” Lyra’s grip tightened on her sleeve.

“The Chancellor…”

The memory struck her.

The wedding.

Syveris, standing beside Derron. The voice had been his.

She had caught it for a moment… and let it slip past.

She had been watching Luca and Elena, barely sparing Syveris a thought.

So he had arranged it.

She turned to Sion, her voice cutting clean through the room.

“Get me my sword.”

Sion flinched, then hurried to the wall, lifted the heavy blade, and brought it to her.

Lyra straightened. Her left hand closed around the hilt, the tip of the sword resting against the stone. Its weight settled into the room.

Her gaze locked on the High Lady.

“What did the Chancellor tell you about the soul pact?”

The chamber fell still.

Lyra’s presence made the High Lady hesitate.

“He said… if Aulith agreed to his arrangements, he would destroy the Memory Orb and return my father’s soul. And the elders’.”

Lyra frowned.

Aulith’s agreement meant the backing of an alliance.

The thoughts came fast. Colliding.

Rogan’s dismissal.

The letter at Elena’s door.

The assassin the night she was imprisoned.

All of it tied to Syveris…

Or coincidence?

She met the High Lady’s eyes.

No lie there.

Only a soul tightening under pressure.

Then she exhaled, her stance easing, her voice softening.

“Very well. Keep our meeting a secret.

And the High Lord’s return.

That will be enough.”

The High Lady gave a small nod, her gaze passing over them all.

“Return to the Citadel and rest. I will see that a proper feast is prepared.”

Lyra glanced down at her sword.

“There’s no need. See the High Lord safely back.

I have matters to attend to.”

The mage turned to the High Lady. “Take the High Lord ahead. I must remain to pray for the elders.”

The High Lord clasped the mage’s shoulder.

“Finish here, then come to the Citadel. We’ll talk.”

The mage bowed to the High Lord and the High Lady. They, in turn, bowed to Lyra.

One by one, they left the tomb, their figures disappearing into the passage.

The mage approached Lyra.

He glanced around the chamber, then lowered his voice.

“You’re looking for the map fragment, aren’t you? I know where it is.”

Lyra settled her sword at her hip.

“Where?”