The ashes still glowed faintly, whispering secrets only the dead would know. Elarin stood motionless, her breath held like a fragile glass bead, eyes fixed on the remains of the cottage. The flames had long since died, but the smoke curled lazily into the air, like a serpent reluctant to let go of its prey.
Dorian came to stand beside her, his voice quiet. "Do you remember anything?"
She didn't answer at first.
The ruin wasn't just a burned building—it was her past, blackened and twisted, but not erased. The jagged spine of a charred bookshelf leaned against what remained of a wall. Scorched parchment fluttered in the wind like wings of wounded butterflies.
Then it happened—too fast for her to brace.
A scent in the air. Lavender and old paper.
The world swam.
A memory burst open.
She was younger. Maybe ten? A woman's voice echoed—stern but kind.
"Elarin, never touch the Mirror Key unless I'm with you."
"But why?" young Elarin asked, pouting. "It's just shiny."
"Because some doors only open one way," the woman replied, kneeling, placing a warm hand on Elarin's cheek. "And once opened, they ask for something in return."
The woman's face shifted in the haze of memory. Blonde hair coiled in a braid, eyes deep violet. Familiar, yet now unreachable. Elarin tried to touch the memory, but it dissolved.
Back in the present, her legs gave way. She fell to her knees in the ash, fingers digging through the debris, as if her hands could pull time backwards.
Dorian knelt beside her. "Who was she?"
"My mother," Elarin whispered, surprised by her own voice.
Silence fell, heavy and raw.
"She hid something here. I know it."
Dorian looked uncertain. "This place is long gone, El. Anything she left—"
"Not everything burns."
She moved with sudden clarity, brushing ash aside, searching with an intensity that felt borrowed from someone else.
There—a flat stone beneath the debris, not native to the forest floor. She gripped its edges, lifting it with effort. Beneath, wrapped in oiled cloth, was a small, square box made of ironwood and inlaid with silver vines.
Her hands trembled.
"It's locked," she said.
Dorian took it from her gently, turning it over. "No keyhole."
She felt a pull—deep in her chest, like the box was tethered to her heartbeat.
Without thinking, she pressed her palm against the lid.
A soft glow pulsed from within the wood.
And it clicked.
Inside was a folded note and a locket.
She read aloud, voice barely a whisper:
My dearest Elarin,If you're reading this, it means the fire found us. But if the box found you... it means you've survived the Portal's calling.You must find the three fragments of the Origin Seal. Only then will the Portal obey you. Only then will you uncover what they truly took from us.Trust the one whose soul is not his own. He carries more than his name.I love you. Always.—Mother
The words carved a new reality into her.
Fragments. Origin Seal. The Portal obeying her?
She looked at the locket. Inside, a miniature painting of her as a child, held in the arms of her mother—her real mother. Not the dream version. Not the foggy, almost-there memory. This was real.
Dorian stared at the letter. "The one whose soul is not his own…?"
Elarin looked at him, then down at the silver cuff on his wrist—the one they never could remove.
"Your binding," she whispered. "What if it's not just a prison?"
He stood up sharply. "El, don't start this again. You think I haven't tried everything to break it? You think I want to wear this forever?"
"No, I think you were never supposed to break it alone."
She picked up the locket, and as she touched it to the cuff, a faint hum vibrated the air between them. Nothing happened… then suddenly—
A flicker.
Not in the physical world, but in Elarin's mind.
A vision.
Dorian, standing in a circle of runes, his eyes pitch black. A voice speaking from his mouth that wasn't his. A woman screaming.
And something worse—Elarin's own face, but older. Hardened. Standing over a collapsed Dorian, her hand raised with fire curling in her palm.
The vision shattered as quickly as it came.
Elarin stumbled back, gasping.
Dorian caught her. "What was that?"
"I—I saw you… or someone like you. Possessed. You were speaking with a voice that wasn't yours."
He tensed. "Then it's true."
"What is?"
He looked away. "The first time I ever used magic, I blacked out. Woke up a day later in a ruin with five people dead. I never knew if it was me… or something else."
"You're the one the letter meant," Elarin said, voice steady now. "Your soul—it's not alone."
They stood in silence, ashes swirling around them like ghosts made of memory.
A choice began forming inside Elarin. She could keep running from the past, trying to unlock one key at a time. Or she could embrace the fact that maybe… just maybe, fate wasn't trying to torment her.
It was preparing her.
"We have to find the first fragment," she said finally. "And I think I know where to start."
Dorian's eyes met hers. "Where?"
She turned toward the distant mountains.
"The Vault of Silent Echoes."
His expression darkened. "That place is cursed."
"Good. Then we won't be the only ones with secrets."