Chapter Twenty-Nine · The Coffins of Aulith

Lyra woke to the sound of voices.

Too many.

Sharp. Urgent.

She pushed herself up, still half-caught in sleep.

“Sion—”

The door burst open.

Villagers flooded in, their faces tight, their eyes hard.

“Get them up.”

Hands grabbed Sion’s arm. She flinched awake, blinking in confusion.

“Wait—what’s happening?”

“No more tricks,” someone snapped. “You’re coming with us.”

Lyra swung her legs off the bed and stepped between them, her hand already finding the hilt of her sword.

“What’s going on?”

No one answered.

Outside, the fields stretched gray and lifeless under the pale morning light.

The green from yesterday was gone.

So was the hope.

“Move.”

The villagers led Lyra and Sion down a narrow stone path behind the fields.

It tightened as it descended, the air growing colder and damp.

The walls were slick with rot and old moss.

Water dripped from above, each drop echoing through the hollow quiet.

At the end, the passage opened into a wide chamber.

Lyra stopped.

Five stone coffins lay in the dark. No names. Only differences in shape and craft.

One stood at the center, carved with intricate detail. Four smaller ones flanked it on either side.

An old man stood beside the central coffin, leaning on a staff.

A small oil lamp trembled in his hand, its light flickering across the deep lines of his face.

The moment they saw him, the villagers began talking over one another.

“Mage—these girls came from outside.”

“They made the barley turn green again.”

“But by morning… everything was dead.”

The mage stepped forward.

He raised his staff and swept a dim light over the two girls.

The glow passed over them, then vanished, leaving the air thick, as if nothing had happened at all.

“The crops died because the soil has been drained,” he said.

A farmer shook his head.

“We have to give tribute every year.”

“This year the King spared us, and it still wasn’t enough. What are we supposed to do?”

“Punish them,” someone else snapped.

“Maybe the land will turn fertile again.”

Voices rose. Overlapping. Sharp.

The crowd surged.

The mage struck his staff against the ground.

A low pulse rolled through the chamber.

Silence.

“Enough,” he said.

“I will see to it.”

No one spoke after that.

They only sighed… and began to leave.

Their footsteps faded.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of water echoed in the dark.

The chamber settled into silence.

Only three remained.

The mage moved slowly toward the central coffin.

He sank to one knee and pressed his forehead to its moss-covered lid. His eyes shut tight, his brow drawn.

“My Lord…” he whispered.

“The Soul Covenant… was a mistake.”

His voice faltered.

The coffin gave a faint tremor, almost like an answer.

Sion shrank behind Lyra, peering over her shoulder.

Lyra tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, then stepped forward.

“What do you know about the Soul Covenant?”

The mage turned to her.

“I know everything,” he said.

“Who you are, and who stands behind you.”

Lyra’s chest tightened, but she didn’t speak.

“I have seen both your memories.”

Lyra held his gaze.

“If that’s true… then tell me this.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“What is the most painful memory I carry?”

The mage rose slowly, leaning on his staff.

“The moment you set the crown down.”

Lyra’s breath caught. She took a step back before she could stop herself.

Sion turned to her.

“The crown? Who are you?”

Lyra said nothing.

Sion looked back at the mage.

“And me?”

He studied her for a moment.

“You were born in a place where scent never fades.”

Sion blinked.

“…What does that even mean?”

Lyra cut through the conversation.

“Soul Covenant.”

The mage’s gaze returned to her.

He moved along the coffins, leaning on his staff.

“Fifty years ago… Aulith was nearly torn apart in the War of the Fae Clans.

Aethrador stood above them all.”

“Our High Lord knelt before him.”

Lyra remembered.

A man on his knees in the middle of a battlefield—

before her grandfather.

“The missing page…” she whispered.

“From the epic.”

The mage stopped.

He turned toward the five coffins.

“Aethrador agreed to protect Aulith.

But in return…”

His grip tightened on the staff.

“The High Lord… and his four elders paid the price.”

He struck the staff once against the stone.

A thin line of light spread across the floor, linking the five coffins.

“Part of their souls… was torn away.

Sealed within the Memory Orb.”

The light trembled—

as if something inside it were being held in place.

“Left there. That was the price Aulith paid to endure.”

The oil lamp trembled.

Lyra looked at the coffins.

The bodies were still there.

But they meant nothing now.

Outside, the gray fields flickered through her mind.

Sion stepped forward, slowing near the central coffin.

“So… he’s in there?”

“The body,” the mage said.

“A part of his soul… still held.”

“Not alive.”

A pause.

“But not allowed to die.”

He brushed the moss from the lid.

“After the High Lady took up the mantle…”

“I returned here.”

“Every day…”

He closed his eyes.

“They call my name.”

The air in the chamber seemed to grow heavier.

Sion looked at the coffins.

The thought chilled her.

“Is there a way… to bring them back?”

“There is.”

A longer pause.

“But it cannot be done.”

“Why?”

The mage raised his staff.

“It requires a living vessel.”

“To hold the fragments of their souls.”

Sion frowned.

“In all these years… no one has dared?”

The mage didn’t answer.

He pointed the staff at her.

A thin beam struck her chest.

“A—”

She doubled over, breath breaking.

Lyra surged forward, blade flashing.

“What are you doing?”

The mage met her gaze.

“That pain… is nothing.

Compared to what they’ve endured.

Fifty years, held in shame.”

Lyra frowned. Her hand didn’t lower from the hilt.

“And you’re certain?

If someone accepts… will it succeed?”

The mage turned away.

“One percent.

If the will is strong enough.

But there are almost none who are.”

The air in the chamber sank.

Lyra sheathed her blade.

Would it change anything… if the High Lord returned?

For Aulith.

Would they rebuild… or keep waiting for someone else to save them?

For the throne.

Would they truly stand with her father?

Elena’s tears in the palace.

The High Lady’s outburst at the wedding.

An old woman in the fields, weeping.

The cracked earth.

The empty harvest.

It was the same fracture.

The same collapse, wearing different faces.

Their guide had been lost long ago.

Whatever had once held them together… was gone.

No one tried to mend it.

Waiting became easier.

And when nothing came,

blame followed.

Nothing would change.

Lyra looked up.

The coffins lay where they were.

She stepped forward, stopping at the central one.

Her hand came to rest on the stone lid.

It shuddered, like a pulse.

The scar at her wrist burned.

Lyra pulled her hand back.

The tremor vanished at once.

Her blade answered.

The haze spread, no longer black but light.

Lyra watched it for a moment.

Not by chance.

She knew what had to be done.

She turned to the mage.

“I’ll be the vessel.”

Everything went still.

The mage fell silent.

Sion turned sharply, her hand rising to Lyra’s forehead.

“You’re not feverish…”

She met her eyes.

“…but this isn’t like you.”

The mage spoke, slow and measured.

“Are you certain?”

Lyra didn’t answer at once.

She looked at the coffins.

Then back at him.

“I trust my judgment.”

The mage said nothing.

He studied her for a long moment.

His gaze lingered, as if weighing something long forgotten.

For a heartbeat, the years showed.

He steadied his trembling hands.

Then he struck the staff against the stone.

All five coffins shuddered at once,

hard enough that something in the chamber stirred.

“At dawn.”