Long before Iris Thorne was born—before the pocket watch ticked, before the black rose bloomed—there was a pact.
Not the Crimson Pact of sword and shadow, but something far older. A lie woven into the roots of Faerun.
They called it the First Binding.
It was forged at the dawn of the Courts, when light and shadow first touched the land, and Faerun was not yet divided between seelie and unseelie, spring and frost, dream and decay. Back then, there had been unity—a single ruling line who held dominion over stars and sleep alike.
But the Astral One came.
Not a god. Not a fae. Something in between.
It did not speak. It did not breathe. It simply was. It drifted from realm to realm, devouring what was untethered—what was infinite and fragile.
And Faerun, so new and bright and magic-rich, drew it like a beacon.
The First Seer saw it coming.
Her name was lost, but her mark was carved in the oldest stones—spirals of stars, circles within circles, always watching. She did not speak either, but her dreams bled into others, forewarning the arrival of the devourer.
The courts panicked.
They turned to the Thorn Queen, then young and untested, whose crown of living briars grew from her very soul.
"We cannot fight it," the fae lords had whispered. "We must bind it."
The Thorn Queen had agreed.
So they did.
They took a fragment of the Astral One and sealed it into the land itself, deep beneath the Garden of Night. They buried it beneath the Heart—a crystal born of the Veil's raw power.
A prison that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The Thorn Queen kept the secret. She told no one what lay beneath.
Only the Thorn Court knew.
Only the Seers knew.
And eventually, even they began to forget.
Time wore down truth. The Heart became legend. The prison became myth.
Until one day, the black rose bloomed.
And Iris Thorne was born.
Now, Iris stood on the edge of the Garden of Night again, but it was not as she remembered it.
The trees wept silver leaves that dissolved before touching the ground. The air buzzed with broken magic. The moon was nowhere in the sky—only stars, spinning too fast.
The Veil was thin here.
Behind her, Thalen stood watch, silent as a statue.
"What did they do?" she whispered.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The garden itself answered.
A spiral of thorns grew from the earth, weaving itself into a door of briars and light. It creaked open, revealing a stair of shadow.
The way to the Thorn Vault.
Iris stepped forward.
The descent was long. The air grew colder, not from temperature, but from memory.
It was like walking backward through time.
The walls pulsed with old magic—carvings of the Seers, the Thorn Queen, and a shadowy figure bound in chains of constellations. Every step echoed a lie: You are safe. You are safe. You are safe.
But Iris now knew better.
The vault opened into a vast chamber of crystal roots and ancient vines. At the center, a pedestal.
Upon it: a mirror.
Not glass.
Starlight.
She looked into it—and saw not her reflection, but every version of her, again.
The watch ticked faster.
The mirror cracked.
And then… the Thorn Queen appeared.
She did not walk.
She bloomed.
Vines curled around her form as if the realm itself birthed her anew.
Her face was ageless, her crown of thorns taller than Iris remembered. But her eyes were tired. And sad.
"You should not have come, child," she said.
"You lied to me," Iris replied.
"I protected you."
"You imprisoned something monstrous—and didn't tell anyone. You made a prison and forgot the key."
"I was the key," the Queen whispered. "But even keys rust."
Thalen stepped forward. "Mother…"
She raised a hand. "No. Let her speak."
Iris took a step closer. "The Heart wasn't meant to heal Faerun. It was meant to contain the Astral Curse. The black rose is its echo, isn't it?"
The Queen nodded. "Every time the Veil weakens, the rose returns. That's how we know the prison stirs."
"And now?" Iris asked.
The Queen's voice shook. "Now, the prison is broken."
The thorns surrounding the mirror twisted suddenly.
The image changed.
Nyx.
He was suspended in the air, bound in silver webbing, his wings twitching.
A sigil glowed beneath him—the same one Iris had seen in the Astral Fold.
The Queen turned away. "The traitor seeks to offer him as sacrifice. To awaken the rest of the Astral One."
"Then we stop him," Iris said.
"You cannot."
"Why?"
"Because the traitor… is my brother. The Lord of Masks."
Iris felt her blood run cold.
She remembered him. The silver-masked fae who once guided them to the Vale of Silence. Who vanished after they escaped the dream-creatures.
He had seemed odd. Kind, even.
But now…
"He was the first to oppose the binding," the Queen said. "He believed we should bargain with the Astral One—not bind it."
"He wants it free?"
"He wants its power."
Thalen cursed. "Where is he now?"
The Queen looked at Iris.
"You will know. When it's time."
"Not good enough," Iris snapped.
"I cannot interfere, child. Not directly. My time is ending. My roots are dying. But you—" she stepped forward, placing a cold hand on Iris's shoulder, "—you are still blooming."
She pressed a seed into Iris's hand.
Black.
Burning.
Alive.
"When the moment comes," the Queen said, "cast this into shadow. And run."
Then she faded.
The mirror shattered.
Wind roared through the vault.
And the final echo of the Thorn Queen whispered—
"You must finish what we could not. Or Faerun will not be the only realm to fall."