The first thing Elara noticed was the scent—sweet, haunting, like violets laced with danger. It hung thick in the air, clinging to her skin like a whispered promise she didn't remember accepting.
She stepped carefully into the grove. Tall, silvery trees formed an arch overhead, their leaves shimmering in the moonlight like spun crystal. In the center of the clearing stood a single flower—large, violet-black petals veined with gold, glowing faintly, as though pulsing with breath.
"The Bloom of Theralis," whispered Kael behind her, voice taut. "It only flowers once every hundred years. And it only opens for those cursed—or chosen—by fate."
Elara turned to face him. "So which are we?"
Kael didn't answer. He simply stared at the flower, jaw clenched.
They had come so far. Past the Gloam Ridges where shadows moved of their own accord, through the Mirror Marshes where your reflection could betray you. And now, here they stood—mere paces away from a bloom said to hold the power to unlock sealed memories, bend time, even bridge lost portals.
"I can feel it," Elara murmured. Her heartbeat synced with the flower's pulse. With every beat, memories whispered just beyond reach—her mother's face, the first day she opened the portal, the reason the sky tore open that night at the orphanage.
Kael stepped closer. "Be careful. It responds to emotion. If your heart isn't clear, it could… twist."
"Twist?"
"It shows you truth, but not always gently."
She stared at the bloom. The ground around it shimmered with runes—ancient, curling patterns that shifted subtly when she moved. She could almost read them. Almost.
"Do we both touch it?" she asked.
"No. Only one. Only the one it responds to."
As if in response, the flower leaned slightly in her direction.
Kael's jaw tightened further. "Of course."
She looked at him. "This isn't about being chosen, Kael."
He didn't reply. But his silence said enough.
She took a step forward, then another, until she stood mere inches from the bloom. It seemed to lean closer still, as if drawn to the breath at her lips. The air was heavy now, not oppressive, but reverent—like the hush before a sacred hymn.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out.
"Elara."
She paused.
Kael was staring at her—not with jealousy or fear, but something deeper. Pain.
"If you go in there... you might not come back the same."
"I don't think I ever was the same, Kael," she said softly. "Not since the portal first opened."
Her fingertips brushed the petals.
A pulse.
A flash.
Then—
Everything vanished.
She was floating.
Not in darkness, not in light—but in something in-between. A void shaped by thought and memory.
Images surged around her like constellations: her mother, laughing in the garden; a flickering mirror; the masked stranger who'd handed her the locket. A million fragmented moments danced, rewound, and unraveled.
And then, one memory stood still.
It was snowing.
She was five. The orphanage yard was quiet, muffled by the hush of winter. A woman stood at the gate. Her eyes were gold, glowing faintly. She wore no coat.
"Elara," the woman whispered, kneeling down.
Elara—young, small—ran into her arms. The woman held her tight, then slipped a key into her tiny hand.
"You won't remember me," the woman said, "but I'll remember you. When the sky tears, you'll be ready."
The little Elara looked up, confused. "Are you a dream?"
The woman smiled, her eyes sad. "No. I'm your mother. And you were never supposed to stay in this world."
The vision shattered like glass.
Elara gasped, stumbling back from the flower. She was on her knees, hand clutching her chest. The grove was spinning, the runes flaring.
Kael was by her side instantly. "What did you see?"
She blinked up at him, vision still blurry. "I saw her. My mother."
He helped her sit. "What did she say?"
"She said I wasn't supposed to stay in this world. That when the sky tears, I'd be ready."
Kael went still. "That prophecy…"
"What prophecy?"
He hesitated. "There's an old one. One the Shadow Scribes kept hidden: When the stars align and the sky breaks, the heir of the Forgotten Gate will return the balance—or end it."
Elara shivered. "That's me."
"It always was."
The flower had wilted now—its glow dimming, petals curling inward like a secret told. The runes faded from the ground, leaving only the hush of moonlight and wind.
Elara stood, steadier now. The memory had seared into her—not just her mind, but her soul. She understood, now, why the portals had always reacted to her. Why the Sealed Gate had cracked open when she merely stood near it.
"I'm the key," she whispered.
Kael nodded. "And the storm is coming."
Far above, the sky shimmered faintly—threads of gold winding across the stars like veins.
Meanwhile…
In the Spire of Dusk, shadows coiled.
High Chancellor Velith stood before the Mirror of Breaths, watching the grove through rippling glass. His eyes narrowed as Elara stepped from the sacred glade, her aura flaring with newfound resonance.
"So she's awakened," he murmured.
A cloaked figure behind him hissed, "Too soon. The Eclipse isn't aligned yet."
Velith turned. "It doesn't matter. She's touched the Bloom. The blood remembers."
"What now?"
Velith smiled, cruel and cold. "Now… we open the Gate. Whether she's ready or not."