-Elara-
The corridors still hum with echo—voices fading from the ceremony hall, Mira’s among them, bright as wind-bells.She walks beside me, nearly skipping, words spilling faster than her breath.
“I knew you’d be chosen! You should’ve seen their faces—some of the masters said that the way you awaken runes is so different from others, that’s why they picked you.”
I nod, but her joy dissolves into sound. The rhythm of her shoes against the stone keeps time with my heart—fast, uneven.
Chosen.The word feels heavy and unreal, like a rune half-carved.
I try to listen, but thought and fear pull me elsewhere—toward the nests in my imagination, the ring of flame, the dragons breathing mist through the fog. Wonder and dread twist together until I can’t tell which one I’m feeling. Now there is the chance of dying in the ring.
“—Elara? Are you okay?”
Her voice steadies me.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my breath trembles. “Just… a lot to think about.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Do you want a minute? I could grab last-minute supplies—food, clothes, ink, maybe a new journal?”
I almost refuse, but quiet sounds safer than comfort.“That would be perfect.”
Mira squeezes my hand—warm, grounding. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” she whispers, then hurries down the hall, her laughter fading into the distance.
Silence folds around me.
I stand there a moment longer, palm still tingling where she touched me. Mira has always been too much light for one room—too much care, too much faith—but she’s the reason I’m still standing.If a dragon chooses me tomorrow, who will she save next? But if I’m not chosen… will either of us know what to do then—to heal something that fate already denied?
The door’s grain catches beneath my fingertips as I push it open and lean against it.
Inside, the air smells of ink and rain. One narrow window spills a shard of sea-light across the floor; a single rune-lamp hums in the corner, its glow thin as breath.Mira’s bed is perfectly ordered—blanket folded, shoes aligned.Mine is chaos: tangled sheets, shawl on the floor, a half-read book facedown like a broken thought.
I sit on the edge of the chair by the desk.
If chosen, I’ll never be able to go home again. If not, I stay here—with Mira, the closest thing I have left to family—and maybe learn to call this cliff my world. Either way, something ends tomorrow.
My gaze drifts to the satchel beside me.The letter waits inside, patient as a wound.
I reach for the chipped cup and pour a little wine from the bottle Mira hid beneath the desk. It burns—metallic and sharp. I sip once.And again.
Each swallow slows the noise in my mind—the ceremony replaying itself, the way his seal waits for me like judgment.I keep drinking, small mouthfuls between breaths, tracing the rim of the cup with my thumb, pretending the delay is choice, not fear.
Finally, I exhale and break the wax seal stamped with my father’s crest.
Daughter,
I trust the scholars still find use for you. Cliffside’s halls may seem calm, but calm hides ambition. Every Concord member serves a guild before the truth.
Listen well—it is not what they teach that matters, but what they omit.
You will have heard rumors of unrest: miners refusing quotas, traders from Stonepeak demanding salt rights, whispers of raiders along the coast.Do not concern yourself. These are matters for those sworn to handle them.
The kingdom stands secure.
Your studies serve a greater purpose. What you learn will one day prove useful to my kingdom.Do not mistake your time away as neglect. Distance keeps you unseen, and the unseen are safest.
You have value precisely because no one expects you to return.
You were not sent from home. You were placed beyond reach.A daughter behind walls invites pity. A daughter behind knowledge invites silence. Both protect what remains of your name.
I know what you hope to find between these lines—that the tide has turned, that the years apart are nearly done.There is no such promise.The court has grown colder in your absence, and I find I prefer it that way.
Do not write back unless necessary.If word must come, send it through Mira or the Lorewarden. Your letters are too easily traced.
Serenya Veyne still stirs on the southern coast. Those loyal to her would use any weakness they can find—especially the memory of a lost child.You understand, then, why you must remain hidden.
Remain where you are, Elara. Serve quietly. Endure well.It is the surest way to honor what remains of our bloodline.
— V. Aldercrest
The words swim before I finish.I reread the same line until it hollows me out.
You have value precisely because no one expects you to return.
The cup slips. Wine spills across my wrist and the paper, blooming into violet veins that crawl through the ink.
A laugh breaks loose—small, sharp, wrong.
Three years.Three years, and this is all he sends. No warmth, no home. Just strategy dressed as duty.A man who once called me daughter now calls me useful.
I drink again, faster now. The bottle’s weight lightens. The edges of everything blur.
Still, the words pulse.Serve quietly. Endure well.They hum through my skull until they stop being words and start being sound. Until they start being her.
Laughter—soft, cruel—threads through the room. Not here. Not real. But close enough that my breath catches.
The rune-lamp flickers in time with my pulse.
“Stop,” I whisper, pressing my palms to my ears. The laughter rises.The rune answers.
Light bursts from the lamp—too bright when I touch it, too sudden. The lines carved into its metal flare white, then red. The wrong intent. Fear, not calm. It burns through me, a flash that drains everything out of me.
The light stops when the rune splits.
The room tilts. My knees strike stone. The bottle rolls away, empty.
I crawl to the bed, curl around the ache in my chest. The letter lies beside me, soaked and stained, his words dissolving into the grain.
The smell of wine and smoke clings to the air.The last thing I hear before the dark takes me is that same laughter—faint, endless, and far too close.
Scene 2
The light hits different today.Not bright—never bright down here—but thin, filtered through the cracks above. It spills across the stone like seawater, glimmering once, then gone. The air smells of salt and rot and rust, like chains left too long in the tide.
Afternoon, I think. It must be.If time still means anything.
The torch outside my cell guttered out hours ago, leaving the air heavy and still. I lie curled beneath the blanket they gave me—thin, fraying at the seams—and argue with myself about standing. The floor leeches warmth from my skin; my breath ghosts in front of my face.
Maybe it’s been two weeks. Maybe three.I stopped counting after hunger learned my name.
A gull cries somewhere beyond the docks, the sound muffled by stone. I press my palm to the wall, trace the damp seams between blocks, and listen to the water shifting below—slow, endless, patient.
What do they want?Where is my father?Why won’t they let me go?
The questions loop until even they mean nothing.
I draw the blanket tighter. My fingers find the iron bar nearest the door—cold, slick with condensation. My reflection flickers faintly in the dark metal: tangled hair, cracked lips, eyes ringed with sleepless bruises.
The corner still stinks of the food they tossed in last night. Fish turned sour. Bread black with mold. I nudged it away with my foot, but the smell clings. Hunger twists anyway.
I touch my cheek. The skin’s swollen, yellow-green from the last blow. My lower lip is split; the scab pulls where I bit down in anger. It throbs when I breathe.
That was the day I fought back.
The memory rises sharp, uninvited.
They came without warning—two guards, one lantern between them. The taller grabbed my arm and hauled me upright so hard the ankle chain dug into me. “Move,” he barked as he undid my shackles, breath stale with ale.
I stumble once, twice. His grip bruised my wrist. Something in me—the part that still remembers Father’s training—sparks.
I twist. Elbow up. Bone meets bone. A crack like splitting wood.The guard’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nose. He slams the wall with a wet, furious sound.
For one heartbeat the hall opens beyond the torchlight.Freedom, and I run.
Then the second guard grabs my hair and pulls. I hit the ground hard enough to lose my breath. A boot slams into my ribs—once, twice—until the world narrows to pain and noise. The torch rolls. Oil and blood burn the air. The first guard hisses through the wreck of his nose: “You’ll pay for that, witch.” As he slaps me.
Darkness.
When I wake, the chain is shorter. The shackle tighter. Rust rings my wrist where they cinched it.
Now, in the thin afternoon, the memory breathes with me. My ribs ache where the boot landed. My breath trembles.
Maybe that’s what they want—for me to replay it until I break on my own.
I let my head rest against the wall. The stone is cool, almost kind. I count the drops of water between heartbeats—steady, patient.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Then comes the sound that ends every silence here.
Boots.
Two sets, echoing down the corridor.
I pull the blanket close and whisper a prayer to the Rune Father —something in me still hopes He’s listening.Chains rattle. Metal scrapes. A lock turns.
If I had strength left, I’d fight. But the ritual has carved itself into me: they drag me upstairs to a plain stone room—no windows, only the stair down, a table, a few chairs, a small fire pit whispering in the corner. They sit me. They unchain my wrists because there’s nowhere to run.
I brace for the same questions—how much grain the capital keeps for winter, whether my father still holds council in the upper keep, where the stores are kept and under whose watch.
My hands rest on the table. The wood is scarred, dark with old oil.
They bring food this time instead, catching me off guard. Real food—bread, fish, water clear enough to hold light. I don’t hesitate. If they meant to kill me, there are faster ways. Hunger is slower, crueler. I eat until the ache eases. The guards keep their distance, murmuring like I can’t hear.
“Why are we giving her our food?” one says.“Serenya ordered it,” the other answers. “She’ll question her herself in a few hours. Says the girl needs her strength.”
Too good to last. But I’m too tired to refuse warmth.
Another whisper drifts over, barbed and true.“No food from the king. Winter’s close. It’s like he doesn’t care we’ve got his daughter.”
The words hurt more than my cheek, because some part of me knows how he rules. He doesn’t tolerate disloyalty, and the Factionless are exactly that.
The heat and food pull me under. I slump into sleep.
The door wakes me. Daylight crawls a strip across the floor.A woman steps through—slow, deliberate, like the room already belongs to her. Armor dark as wet stone, layered and practical. A red cloak drapes from one shoulder, frayed where salt has eaten it thin. Her boots click; the echo answers twice, soft and hollow.
She doesn’t speak at first. Just studies me, and the silence stretches until I can hear my own heartbeat.
“I’m Serenya,” she says at last. “Leader of the Hunters of Black Stack—what your people like to call ‘Factionless.’”
Her voice is low, worn smooth by smoke and command. Polite—almost—and that’s what makes it dangerous. Her eyes never rest; they move the way her boots did: searching, measuring, deciding what’s worth keeping.
“You’ve had some rough nights,” she adds, stepping closer. I flinch before I can stop it. Her hand rises—slow enough that I could pull away—but I don’t. Her palm is warm and callused, faint with iron and leather as it brushes the bruise on my cheek.“Don’t take it to heart,” she murmurs. “They get… aggressive when they’re hungry.”
Hungry. Not just for food—for anything they can claim.
“They say the kingdom’s stores are full,” she goes on. “But the king’s men closed the markets. Ships won’t pass our coves. We feed off the cliff’s mercy, and it’s been withheld.”Her thumb traces the edge of the bruise; then she lowers her hand. “So we took our own mercy.”
She circles me as she talks, boots whispering like scales on stone.“You’ll help us fix that,” she says. “Food and supplies for your return. You’re leverage, Elara. Nothing more.”
My throat aches when I swallow.
She stops behind me. I can’t see her, only feel the weight of her gaze between my shoulders.“What is your full name?”
It’s the first question that feels wrong. The guards knew who I was—I told them before. Her tone is measured. Interested.
“Why do you want my full name?” I ask. It comes out raw, smaller than I mean it to be.
Her breath touches the back of my neck before her words do.“We can do this the easy way, without pain,” she whispers—each syllable a slow knife—“or the hard way. Either way, you answer.”
The air thickens until it tastes like salt.“It’s…” I hate the catch in my voice. “It’s Elara Emberlyn Aldercrest.”
Serenya straightens, the echo of her steps following her voice.“See?” she says lightly, almost cheerful. “That wasn’t so hard.”
She sits across from me, pale eyes calm, a dragon’s talon turning between her fingers like a quill.
“Tell me of the Emberlyn rune,” she says, voice smooth enough to sound merciful.
Emberlyn rune? My mother’s family name? I stare, pleading, unsure what to say. Why didn’t she ask about my father’s line—and a rune? A family rune?
My stomach drops. The only words that come: “What do you mean?”
“The family mark,” she purrs. “The family mark—the Emberlyn Ancestral rune. Don’t play the fool..”
“I don’t know.” The words scrape out, hardly sound.
Her smile thins. “Then let’s look together.”
She snaps her fingers.
The guards move without hesitation. Buckles clatter. I’m yanked forward, bent across the chair back until the edge bites into my chest. Ropes rasp as they stretch my arms outward—wrists locked flat, shoulders straining, skin burning where fiber meets flesh.
“Stop—please!” My voice fractures. Hair falls into my eyes as I thrash around. I can’t see her—only the shadow moving behind me.
Fabric tears. Cold air hits my back.
Cloth pools at my waist, clinging to my chest—barely enough to cover me. Torchlight paints my skin in gold and shadow. I tremble—breath shallow, muscles begging to vanish.
Serenya’s breath brushes my ear. “Let’s see where the rune hides on Emberlyn flesh.”
The talon drags down my spine—slow, deliberate—like she’s writing in a language only cruelty knows. Each ridge of bone becomes a line in her study. She pauses. Presses. Searching.
Then laughter—low, amused, too human to be monstrous and worse for it.“Empty,” she says. “Not marked. Not worthy.”
I think it before I can stop myself. Not empty. Unbroken.
The guards snicker. Tears blur the light. “I’m not lying! I don’t know!”
Serenya steps into view, arms spread like unveiling an exhibit.“Behold your princess,” she mocks. “The heir with no crown—empty skin and hollow stories.”
Humiliation burns hotter than flame—pure vulnerability. I pull until the ropes bite deep.
“If the rune won’t show itself,” she murmurs, almost tender, “I’ll carve one of my own.”
The talon bites.
Fire splits me open. The sound that rips from my throat doesn’t feel like mine. Another slash—deeper, crueler—breath shatters into sobs. A third, slow enough that I feel each heartbeat spill through it.
“No more lies,” she says. Each word lands like a brand.
Fingers knot in my hair. My head jerks back; white sparks burst across my sight. Her palm strikes my cheek—ringing silence. Then her hand closes on my throat, and air deserts me. My pulse hammers in my ears. I claw, kick, gasp, but the world narrows to pressure and panic.
“Tell me,” she hisses. “If you don’t have it, then who does?”
“I—don’t—know!” The plea breaks apart like surf on stone.
Her grip tightens once, then releases. I collapse forward, coughing, wrists raw, skin aflame. Serenya’s laughter trails toward the door—low, echoing, almost joyful.
When it shuts, the silence weighs more than the chains.I hang there, shaking—blood and salt drying together on my skin—until I understand the tremor isn’t only pain.It’s the old shame waking—proof that even broken things still know how to feel.
Scene 3
Moonlight slips through the narrow window, a thin silver scar across the floor.The bed creaks beneath me; Mira’s blanket has knotted around my legs, heavy with the scent of rain and ash. My head throbs — wine, grief, and too little sleep echoing together. Father’s letter is still clenched in my fist, the ink blurred where tears drowned his words.
The rune-lamp lies shattered beside the bed, its crystal dark. Smoke lingers — a faint ghost of warmth now gone. For a heartbeat I can’t tell if I’m still in this room or back in that other place: iron chains, stone walls, a voice promising pain.
Then — the latch clicks.
Mira steps in, arms full of supplies, wet hair clinging to her cheeks.She freezes. Her gaze takes in everything — the broken lamp, the spilled wine, the letter bleeding across the desk.“Elara…” Her voice catches, thin as breath. She’s seen this before. “The letter?”
I nod. “You gave it to me.”
“I did,” she says softly. “I had to.”
The words shatter out of me. “He doesn’t want me home. He says I’m safe because no one expects me to return.” My voice cracks. “He wrote that like it was kindness.”
Mira hesitates, then reaches for the crumpled page. I let it go.She reads in silence, lips parting as her eyes move down the lines.When she reaches the end, her hand trembles.The page lowers; her breath comes uneven, as if the words have struck her.
“He—he wrote this?” she whispers, the sound barely human.I nod again, holding back the burn behind my eyes.
Something in her breaks. “Then neither of us are going home,” she murmurs. “Not really.”Her thumb smears the ink as she folds the letter shut.For the first time, I see it reach her — that all her faith in return was only delay, that exile has taken root in both of us.We break together, tears falling between us like rain returned.
Mira kneels beside me. “He wrote it because he’s afraid — afraid of what people would do if they saw his guilt standing in front of them.”Her throat tightens; light trembles across her eyes.
“But what about me?” I whisper. “What am I supposed to do now? The ceremony’s tomorrow. How do I walk into that hall and pretend any of this still means something?”
“You don’t pretend,” she says. “You remember.”
“Remember what? That I was exiled? That my name’s a warning?”
Her eyes sharpen through the tears. “No. Remember who you are when no one’s looking.The girl who heals cuts and fevers because she can’t bear another’s pain.The one who dances in the rain when she thinks no one is watching.The scholar who sees runes not as commands but as living stories — and gives a piece of herself each time she wakes one. That’s who you are.”
She’s trying to help me remember who I was before everything happened — before I forgot who I am. And I don’t know if I can.
“It doesn’t feel like a story anymore,” I whisper.Serenya took that all away from me.
Mira swallows hard, fighting her own tears. She climbs onto the bed and draws me close, guiding my head into her lap. One tear falls from her nose onto my cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Elara. It isn’t fair — the things you’ve endured, the things you still face.”Her fingers comb gently through my hair.“You are one of the strongest women I know. To rise again each day after what they did…”Her breath trembles. “I should’ve been there. I wasn’t. That’s why you were taken.”
I can’t speak. My throat closes until even breathing hurts.Salt gathers on my lips; I try to form words and fail.It was never her fault — I’ve told her that a hundred times. I only hope she still believes it.
She looks down, eyes glimmering. “Trauma makes us forget, Elara. But bonds—”Her palm presses into mine, grounding me. “Bonds help us remember, so the story can continue.”
The words sink into me like breath after drowning. Something small and living stirs beneath the ache.
“You can’t control what tomorrow brings,” she says, voice steadying. “But you can choose who walks into that hall. Not your father’s daughter. Not his pawn. Not someone Serenya scarred. You. That’s all the Rune Father ever asks — remember, move forward, be true.”
The silence hums, half-awake, like a rune waiting for light.I press my forehead to hers. “And if I fail?”
“Then you learn. You breathe. You begin again.”
Her hand rests against my cheek — warm, trembling, real. “You’re not broken, Elara. You’re just remembering how to be whole.”
Outside, the rain softens against the window.The air grows gentle around her words.
As I drift, I carry them with me — trauma makes us forget; bonds help us remember —the rhythm of something like faith, beating faintly beneath the sound of the sea.
Mira, my sister in all but royal name — the one I thought strongest — feels everything I do, only differently.My heart breaks for her, for me, for us.
And as thought blurs into sleep, I understand: she is my family, and this place, broken or not, is our home.No more waiting in shadows for permission to return.If a dragon chooses me — if the Rune Father finds me worthy — I will do what I can to heal this home, these people, and the story that still breathes through me.
Scene 4
When I wake, something unfamiliar stirs within me. It feels soft, uncertain, and alive.A feeling I had long buried surfaces like light through mist.Am I ready to begin again? I don’t know. But I breathe, and that is enough for now.
Mira is gone. Of course she is. She has always been the early one, chasing purpose before dawn finds her. She must already be preparing for the ceremony. I tell myself that is why she left, though the space beside me still feels like a goodbye.
Rain laces the window, droplets tracing slow paths down the glass. Each one slides away, and for a moment I imagine my pain doing the same. Beyond the cliffs, the bells begin to ring, calling candidates to gather.She let me sleep in. Noon already. Typical Mira.
As I stand, I take in the mess I left behind: spilled wine, a shattered rune-lamp, and sheets tangled like drifted ash. I clean quietly, hands steady now, realizing this could be the last time I stand in this room.So I linger. I smooth the blankets, fold the corners, and make it perfect for Mira, in case I am chosen.
When I finish, I gather my things, though most of them she has already prepared. On the edge of the bed rests a folded letter. Worry flickers inside me, then softens when I see her handwriting.
My dearest sister,
When the runes awaken tonight, remember this: they do not test perfection.They search for truth, and yours shines brighter than any light I have studied.
The Rune Father wrote that stories continue through those who remember.So remember who you are, and I will remember with you.
Whether the dragons choose you or not, you have already chosen courage.And that is enough to move the world.
I will be in the cavern when the fires rise. Look for me in the light.
We are strong enough, with whatever the outcome.
— Mira
My throat tightens. I press the letter to my chest and smile through the ache.Of course she will find a way inside. She has probably been planning it for days.
Beneath the letter lie my ceremony clothes: a plain grey tunic and trousers, unmarked and equal. No rank. No past. We wear them to forget who we were and to choose who we will become.
As I braid my hair, my hands tremble. It is not from fear but from the weight of choice.Mira’s words from last night echo through me. You can choose who walks into that hall.
Not Father’s daughter.Not Serenya’s prisoner.Me.
I move through the room, packing the few things we are allowed to carry—the fragments I cannot leave behind.
A healer’s kit wrapped in linen and still smelling faintly of sage.A silver pendant, its glow soft and constant.A leather-bound journal, a place to write a new story when this one ends.
I place them in my satchel and sit on the edge of the bed, letting calm wash through me. I close my eyes, and for the first time in a long while, I think of the Rune Father.The only thought that comes is simple: I am ready for my story to continue.
After a few minutes, I rise and walk to the table. The letter from my father—no, the king—lies there, stained with tears and wine. But that does not stop me this time. I lift it carefully and read it one last time.The ink no longer stings. The words have lost their power.
I take Mira’s quill, draw the rune for Spark in the corner, and breathe into it.Flame curls through the parchment, consuming every line.
The end.And now, a new beginning.
I leave the ashes in a dish by the window. Let the sea carry them as it carried the rest of his lies.
When I step outside, the city is already alive.Streets shimmer with puddles, and the cliffs glow pale beneath the sinking sun.Bells toll again, deep and resonant, joined by the chant of the crowd.
Each step forward feels like walking through memory. Every face and whisper is a thread pulling me toward what I both fear and long for.
By dusk, we gather beneath the castle walls. Lanterns sway in the wind, their flames bending like bowing heads.The cavern mouth yawns ahead, filled with the breath of dragons—low, thunderous, and ancient.
My pulse answers, not in fear but in remembrance.