The moment Elara's name appeared in the book, the world didn't end…it rearranged.
It wasn't the dramatic sort of rearranging either. No thunderclap or cinematic crash. Just a subtle, soul-deep shifting. One moment, she was grounded in the Vault's cold stone chamber, surrounded by ancient runes and whispering chains.
The next...
Nothing.
No floor beneath her. No breath in her lungs. No heartbeat. No cat making snide commentary.
Just...
Light.
Not the golden warmth of sunlight or the soft spill of candle fire, but something vast, silver, and sentient. It didn't glow so much as invade, lacing through her veins, threading through her memories like liquid moonlight pouring directly into her bones.
This is fine, she tells herself calmly, which was the sort of lie people told themselves, when absolutely everything was on fire, metaphorically speaking.
The sensation was neither warm nor cold. It simply was…unrelenting, knowing, infinite.
And it knew her. Not her face, not her name…but her mistakes, her memories, the fragile scaffolding she'd built to pretend she was fine when she absolutely wasn't.
Time twisted like a wet towel in a wringer. Her stomach flips sideways. Reality folds like a crumpled map.
And then...
A voice.
Not from outside, but from inside, as though it had been living in her ribs this whole time, waiting for the right spell to rattle it loose.
"We were warned..."
It cracks through her like a lightning bolt made of grief.
She would have gasped…if she had lungs. Or knees to buckle. Or anything resembling a functioning nervous system.
Instead, she fell—not down, but inward. Like being swallowed by someone else's memory.
But it wasn't a dream.
And it definitely wasn't hers.
No, this was a memory, etched not in ink, but in sorrow and spell craft.
A ghost story, embroidered into the very marrow of the Vault.
She stands in the parlour at 13 Westwood Lane.
But not her Westwood Lane.
This was the house in its prime…before scorch marks, before broken wards, before the ceiling developed that weird wheeze in the west hallway.
It was alive.
Vibrant.
Magic pulsed from the walls like a heartbeat. Candles floated with gentle curiosity. Books zipped between floating shelves, whispering to each other like gossiping schoolchildren. The fireplace crackled with blue fire, casting dancing shadows on the hardwood floor.
Even the air smelled different. Lavender tea. Lemon biscuits. Hope.
And at the centre of it all...
Isadora Finch.
Elara's heart clenches so hard she nearly doubles over.
Her aunt stands tall, composed, radiant in a half-buttoned robe ink-stained from spell work. Her silver-blonde hair is knotted with crystal combs, glinting like starlight caught in a spider's web. She moves with the ease of someone who belonged in the magical world…someone who hasn't been caught in the jagged edges of it all.
She was so alive.
And Elara wanted to scream and cry and reach out towards Isadora, all at once.
But she couldn't move.
She could only watch.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Rhythmic. Firm. Urgent.
Isadora doesn't flinch.
She flicks her fingers and the runes she'd been crafting vanish like startled birds. Her voice, amused but sharp, rings out without looking up:
"You're late."
The door creaks open.
And in steps…Rowan.
But not the Rowan she knew. This version hadn't yet been weathered into a half-stoic tragedy in a trench coat.
His shoulders weren't bowed with guilt. His coat was new, his eyes a little less shadowed. The worry lines around his mouth hadn't fully set in.
Elara's breath catches. Gods. He'd been beautiful.
"Isadora," he says, striding in. "The Council isn't happy."
Isadora raises an eyebrow but doesn't look away from her notes.
"The Council is never happy. They're like sour lemons stuffed into velvet robes."
Elara snorts.
Apparently, sass runs in the family.
"They say the Vault has flared again. That you've entered it."
Now Isadora does look up.
Her blue eyes locked onto Rowan's with the intensity of a truth she wasn't going to let slip past unnoticed.
"I didn't enter it," she says. "I listened."
"That's just as bad," Rowan replies tightly. "They say you've tampered with the structure."
Isadora barks a joyless laugh.
"Tampered? Darling, I'm not tampering. I'm rewriting their lies."
She strides across the room to a blank stretch of wall, pressing her palm against it. With a shiver of breath and dust, it opens—revealing a hidden compartment.
Inside: A key.
The key Elara now carries.
Isadora holds it between two fingers like a promise she intends to keep.
"Rowan," she says softly, "I don't want to seal the Vault. I want to understand it. Because I don't believe what's down there is evil. I think it's scary."
"Afraid?" he echoes.
"And I think the Council made it that way."
Rowan stares, visibly shaken.
"You're asking me to betray them."
"No," Isadora says. "I'm asking you to remember who you were before they taught you how to forget."
The room blurs.
Time twists.
And then...
Another memory surges to the surface.
The Vault, but whole.
Runes shimmering. Chains thrumming.
The air feels poised, expectant.
Isadora stands at the pedestal, tears on her cheeks, the key in one hand, her other palm bleeding.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't know they'd do this."
From the shadows, a figure emerges.
Not Rowan.
A Councillor.
Tall. Cloaked in midnight. Silver mask etched.
Their voice was flat, void of humanity:
"No one must ever see this."
They warn her...
Isadora turns away from the masked figure, casting a protection spell with trembling hands, low enough that the masked figure could not hear.
Elara hears it, though barely.
"If she comes...guide her. Protect her. Let her know she is important. A portal."
Light explodes.
The world shatters like glass.
And Elara...
Gasps.
She hits the floor of the Vault like a dropped stone, lungs heaving, eyes wide.
Stone. Chains. Dust.
Reality.
"Elara!"
Rowan's voice. Hands reaching out towards her, steadying her. She clings to his sleeve like it is the only anchor she has, standing back up.
"I saw her," she rasps. "She tried to fix it. She trusted you."
Rowan pales at her accusation.
"What did she show you?"
"That the Council lied. That you've seen the key before. That you were supposed to help her."
His mouth opens. Closes.
"I...I don't remember. There are gaps. I thought I was protecting something sacred. But now…"
He rubs at his temple like the act might shake the truth loose.
"It's all a fog. Like someone erased half my thoughts and told me to smile politely about it."
Elara steps closer, heart pounding.
"And now? What do you remember now?"
Rowan meets her gaze, his voice raw.
"I remember... some things. I remember...some of what we have gone through so far, it feels real."
They stand in silence.
Then...
"This is all very heartfelt," Moony drawls from atop a broken column. "But unless someone finds the exit, I will be forced to start a dramatic monologue and nobody wants that."
Elara exhales a laugh despite herself.
Gods, she was coming to love that ridiculous cat, despite his snarky, quirky commentary.
She turns to Rowan again.
"I can't do this alone. And I don't want to. Can I count on you?"
He doesn't hesitate.
"I'm in."
"Really? Just like that?"
"Really."
He reaches out and takes her hand.
Warm.
Solid.
No illusions.
Together.
Looking for the path to the truth out there.