The first morning in Lockwood Citadel smelled of rain and iron. Linda woke to the echo of bells ringing somewhere far above, a sound that seemed to pulse through the stone walls. For a heartbeat she forgot where she was — then the memories came rushing back: the storm, the envoy, the prince's gray eyes.
Her room was small but finely kept, with shelves carved into the walls and a single narrow window opening to the misty courtyard. Every corner gleamed with discipline, as if nothing in the palace dared to rest. She ran her fingers across the table; there was no dust. Someone had been here recently.
As if in answer, the door creaked open.
A young woman stepped inside carrying a silver basin of water. Her face was pale, her hair braided in neat coils, her movements quiet as the fall of leaves. "Forgive me, my lady," she said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I'm not a lady," Linda murmured, pulling the blanket closer.
The maid smiled, though her eyes didn't quite follow the smile. "In Lockwood, anyone the prince shelter is a lady — at least until he says otherwise." She set down the basin and began folding the curtains aside. "My name is Serah Vale. I serve in the east wing. His Highness asked me to attend you."
Linda sat up. "He sent you?"
"Yes. He thought you might be… uneasy."
That was an understatement. Linda thanked her, and then dipped her hands in the basin. The water shimmered faintly, catching light that wasn't there. When she looked up, Serah was watching — not curiously, but like someone measuring the depth of a secret.
"Is something wrong?" Linda asked.
Serah blinked, her expression smoothing into gentleness. "Nothing at all. It's only that you remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"A girl who once believed the world could forgive her for being different."
Linda frowned, but before she could speak, Serah turned toward the door. "The prince is in council this morning. He'll send for you when it's safe. Until then, stay in this wing. There are eyes everywhere."
When she left, the room felt colder.
By midday, Linda grew restless. She wandered the narrow halls, careful not to draw attention. The citadel was a labyrinth of tapestries and shadowed alcoves, every corner whispering a history she wasn't meant
To know. In one corridor, she found an old harp half hidden beneath a drape. Its strings were coated with dust, yet when she brushed them lightly, a sound like a sigh filled the air — sweet, mournful, alive.
The note lingered too long. A guard turned the corner, and Linda froze. But before he could speak, Serah appeared again, moving as silent as smoke.
"This way," she murmured, pulling Linda into a side passage.
They stopped before a sealed door carved with the image of a winged tree. The wood shimmered faintly, veins of silver running through the grain.
"What is this place?" Linda whispered.
"An old chapel," Serah said. "No one prays here anymore. They say the gods left when the Veil was made."
She touched the door, and for a moment Linda saw pain flicker across her face — a deep, haunted kind of sorrow.
"You knew someone who worshiped them?" Linda asked gently.
Sarah's voice was distant. "My mother was a priestess. She was executed when I was ten. They called her a witch. The king said she tried to bring the old magic back."
"I'm sorry," Linda whispered.
Serah looked at her then, eyes shining with something unspoken — grief, anger, maybe both. "Don't be. The world forgets kindness faster than it forgets fear."
Before Linda could answer, the door behind them trembled. The carved tree began to glow, the silver veins pulsing like veins beneath skin. A whisper filled the air, low and melodic — not words, but music, as if the wood itself were singing.
"The Song of Cages," Serah breathed. "That's what they called it — the melody that seals the Veil."
The sound grew louder, curling around them like wind through a hollow. Linda's pendant flared against her chest. The song shifted — changed key, like it recognized her.
"Serah—"
The maid stepped back, eyes wide. "You shouldn't be here."
The door cracked. Light poured through, blinding, silver and alive. Linda reached out before she could stop herself. The moment her fingers brushed the glow, a vision slammed into her mind — the same courtyard from her dream, but this time the silver fire was real, consuming towers, sweeping over Lockwood like a living tide. And in the heart of the storm stood a woman who looked exactly like Serah Vale, her hands outstretched toward the sky.
Linda stumbled back with a gasp. When her eyes cleared, the door was silent again, the carvings still. Serah's face had gone pale as moonlight.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Linda whispered.
Serah shook her head quickly. "Forget it. Whatever that was, it's better left buried."
"But—"
"Promise me," Serah said sharply, voice trembling now. "You'll tell no one about this. Especially not the prince."
Linda hesitated, and then nodded. But as she returned to her room, the melody still echoed faintly in her ears — a song that spoke of freedom and ruin all at once.
And somewhere deep beneath the citadel, something stirred in answer.
The rain had started again by nightfall. It drummed softly against the windows of the citadel, a rhythm that hid whispers within its sound. Somewhere in the highest tower, Prince Philip Astride sat alone in his mother's old chamber. No guards, no advisors — only the faint glow of a single lamp and the weight of ghosts.
He had not been here in years.
The council forbade it.
But the memories never truly left. He ran a hand over the writing desk where she used to sit — the same desk now covered with sealed scrolls and faded letters. The wax had long since cracked, yet the insignia was unmistakable: the spiral tree, the same mark on Linda's pendant.
He lit another candle and broke the seal.
The parchment inside was brittle, written in a delicate script.
"If the Veil should tremble, my son, remember the song beneath the stones. For the gods do not die — they sleep, waiting for those who can bear their voices."
Philip read the line twice. The words made no sense, yet something inside him stirred — a memory of his mother's hand brushing his hair back, whispering lullabies about rivers that sang and trees that spoke. He had thought they were fairy tales. Perhaps they were warnings.
He reached for another letter. This one bore a half-burned seal — the sigil of the Royal Council. The ink had blurred, but a few sentences were still legible:
"The experiment has failed. The child carries the residue — the storm calls to her even now. If she survives, the Veil will not hold."
Philip's pulse quickened. The child?
He stood abruptly, the candle flickering. For the first time, he felt the citadel itself shift — not metaphorically, but truly. The stones creaked as if something vast turned beneath them. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Down below, in the eastern wing, Linda jolted awake.
Her pendant glowed faintly through her tunic, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The melody from earlier — The Song of Cages — was whispering again, soft and broken. She rose from her bed, drawn by it, barefoot and trembling. The corridors were empty. Torches sputtered, dimming as she passed.
Every step brought the sound closer — until she reached the sealed chapel door again. Only now, the silver veins in the wood were moving. They traced patterns like roots spreading through soil. Linda placed a hand against it and whispered, "I'm listening."
A shiver ran up her arm. Images flashed before her eyes — stone corridors twisting downward, a river of light beneath the castle, a voice whispering her name.
"Linda."
Her breath caught. That voice wasn't hers.
Far above, Philip left his mother's chamber and descended the western stairway, guided by instinct alone. The walls hummed faintly under his touch — the same hum that had frightened the council once, the same power his father had sworn was gone forever. When he reached the corridor where the chapel lay, the air was alive with energy.
He saw her there, standing before the door, her hair a halo of silvered light.
"Linda!" he called, but the sound vanished before reaching her. The song had swallowed it.
He pushed forward anyway, grabbing her shoulder. "You have to stop—"
The instant his hand touched her, the world fractured.
Light burst outward, silent and blinding. The floor vanished beneath them, and for a heartbeat they were weightless — falling through a space that wasn't made of air but memory.
They landed hard, the impact echoing like thunder. When Linda opened her eyes, she was in a vast underground hall. The walls glowed faintly, carved with thousands of spirals. A shallow pool of water mirrored the light above them. It wasn't cold; it felt alive, breathing.
Philip groaned beside her, dazed. "Where are we?"
"The heart of the citadel," Linda whispered. "The place your mother wrote about."
He looked around, awe and fear mingling in his face. "This shouldn't exist."
A voice rose from the water — not human, not entirely. It sounded like a dozen whispers woven into one.
"The Veil weakens. The blood of storm and crown has joined again."
Philip froze. "What did it say?"
Linda could barely speak. "Blood of storm and crown… That's us."
The light intensified. From the pool's surface rose a shape — tall, graceful, almost human, its body made of shimmering mist. Its eyes were hollow, its tone both sorrowful and kind.
"One born of storm, one born of stone — together, the gate will remember its song."
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the figure dissolved. The pool went still.
Linda turned to Philip, trembling. "Your mother knew. She was part of this."
He met her gaze, the truth dawning — terrible and magnificent. "And whatever my father did to end magic…" He swallowed hard. "He used her to do it."
A silence fell between them, heavy as the world. Then the ground trembled again, this time violently. From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, someone was watching — a flicker of pale light, a familiar outline.
Serah Vale.
Only her eyes gleamed differently now — faintly gold, not human at all.
Before either of them could move, the pool split open with a roar, and the entire chamber plunged into darkness.