Silence
Not the silence of sleep or death, but the vast stillness that exists before sound.
Prince Philip Astride drifted within it, weightless. The world was gone—the cold stone of Lockwood, the clash of steel, even Linda's voice swallowed by the light. All that remained was this boundless sea of silver radiance, shimmering like the inside of a dream.
He tried to breathe and found no air. Yet somehow, his lungs filled with something softer—like memory turned liquid. Every pulse of it brought whispers brushing past his ears: words not his own, names he did not know.
Alenor… Serah… Elara…
His eyes opened.
He was suspended in a current that had no beginning or end, a river made not of water but of luminous threads. Each thread shimmered with faces, fragments of lives—men and women clothed in ancient garments, laughing, weeping, dying, and reborn. Their eyes glowed faintly, and when they looked at him, he felt their judgment pierce straight through his chest.
"Who are you to walk among us, son of the Silence?"
He tried to speak, but his voice echoed as thought instead of sound.
"Philip Astride. Prince of Lockwood."
The faces murmured, rippling like disturbed reflections.
"Astride… Astride… the name of the betrayers."
The current pulled at him gently, carrying him downward through the glow.
Far below, the river widened into an ocean of shifting light. Towers of memory rose from its depths—frozen scenes carved from mist: a great hall filled with magi chanting beneath a living sky, a queen kneeling beside a dying god, a wall of flame consuming everything.
Philip reached toward the nearest image and felt it draw him in.
He was standing—whole, breathing—in a throne room that was not his own. The air smelled of cedar and storm. A woman sat upon the dais, crown of crystal upon her brow, her eyes bright as lightning. He knew her face before she spoke.
"Mother?"
Queen Elara smiled sadly. "You've grown, my son. Taller than your father now."
He stumbled forward, trembling. "You're alive?"
"I am memory," she said softly. "A shadow left behind when the Veil closed. The living world calls it death, but here—everything that is lost still remembers."
He sank to his knees before her, grief rising in his throat. "Why didn't you tell me the truth? About the Purge, about the Veil?"
Her expression darkened. "Because your father believed silence would protect you. He was wrong."
She rose and stepped down the dais. Where she walked, the floor rippled like liquid glass.
"The Astrides sealed the Veil to stop the wars, but they did it by sacrifice. The blood of our line was bound to the chains that held it. Every generation after was born carrying its echo—the power to wake it, and the curse to destroy it if they tried."
Philip shook his head. "Then the light that took me—"
"Was the Veil reclaiming what is owed. It needs the blood of the crown to breathe again."
He felt cold spread through his chest. "Then I'm a prisoner here."
"Not yet." Her fingers brushed his cheek. "There is one who can reach you. The girl with the mark. The Heir of the Storm."
"Linda."
Elara nodded. "When she calls, you must listen. Trust her, even when the world tells you not to. Only together can you free us."
The word us echoed oddly. Philip looked past her and saw faint shapes behind the throne—countless figures standing in silence, their faces hidden by veils of light. Each bore a chain of runes across their wrists.
"The Purged," Elara whispered. "We are their memory. We have waited centuries for the blood of the crown to meet the blood of the storm again."
A tremor ran through the chamber. Cracks appeared in the shining walls. The faces beyond the veils began to weep tears of light.
Elara's form flickered. "Go, my son. The river will test you. If you falter, you will drown in what your ancestors left behind."
"How do I return?'
Her eyes glowed fiercely, the same silver-blue light Linda's magic carried. "You do not return. You are remembered."
The floor split open. Light surged upward, swallowing her image, and then pulling him back into the current.
He fell—soundlessly—through layers of radiance until the faces returned, chanting softly. The current grew stronger, tugging him toward a vast, endless horizon where the river poured into darkness.
And from that darkness, something ancient stirred and whispered:
"Not all that sleeps in light is kind, little prince."
The glow dimmed. Shadows spread beneath the current like ink through water.
Philip tried to fight the pull, but the river claimed him completely. His final thought before the light consumed him was of Linda's face, framed by the broken mirrors, her eyes reflecting the storm.
Then everything went white.
Night lay heavy upon Lockwood. The moon was a dull coin, its light swallowed by the smoke that forever clung to the capital's rooftops. From the royal citadel, the bells of curfew tolled—a low, metallic groan that rolled through the sleeping streets.
Linda Shawn moved like a shadow between market stalls, her cloak soaked with mist and fear. In her palm, the sigil still pulsed—a faint heat beneath the skin, the echo of Prince Philip's fading life. Each throb felt weaker. She pressed her hand to her chest as if to keep his heartbeat from vanishing altogether.
"Hold on," she whispered to the air. "Just… hold on."
The soldiers were out tonight, hunting whispers. The king had ordered that anyone bearing the mark of forbidden craft be taken to the dungeons beneath the chapel. A single flare of light—just a spark from Linda's trembling fingers—and she would be dragged away.
So she hid her magic under the stench of the alleys, descending deeper until the paving stones turned slick with moss. There, behind the ruins of an old fountain carved with faceless angels, lay a crack in the earth—the mouth of the undercity.
A voice slid from the dark.
"Few come down without being called."
Linda froze. From behind the fountain, a figure stepped forward, its face veiled in strips of black silk. The scent of iron drifted from them.
"I seek the Silent Court," Linda said, her voice steady though her pulse thundered.
The veiled figure tilted its head. "And what would the world's last magician want with the Court?"
"To cross the Veil," Linda replied. "To bring someone back."
Laughter whispered around her—soft, cruel, echoing from unseen mouths. Torches flared one by one in the depths of the tunnel, revealing a spiral staircase that plunged into the earth.
"Then come, little fire," the veiled one said. "Let the dead judge your wish."
Linda followed, each step descending from the world of law into the realm of secrecy. The air thickened with candle smoke and old grief. Symbols carved into the walls glowed faintly as she passed, feeding on the warmth of her blood.
At the base of the stairway lay a circular hall. Dozens of hooded figures sat around a pit of coals, their faces hidden behind masks of bone, silver, or glass. Some masks wept; others grinned. Their robes shimmered with threads of shadow.
"The girl of the outlawed line," one hissed.
"She bears the pulse of the heir," another murmured.
"Half of her soul is already lost," said a third.
Linda stepped into the light. "If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here."
The oldest among them, a woman whose mask was carved from obsidian, leaned forward. "The Veil is sealed by blood and crown, child. Crossing it requires a price that even kings have feared to pay. What would you offer?"
Linda hesitated only a moment. "Whatever it takes."
Whispers rippled through the Court like wind over dry leaves. The obsidian-masked leader rose, extending a thin hand. "Then let us test your resolve."
From her sleeve, she drew a silver knife and pressed it into Linda's palm. The metal hummed with hunger.
"Speak your truth," the woman commanded. "Let the blade taste it."
Linda closed her eyes. Philip's smile flashed behind her lids—the warmth of his laugh, the quiet courage he had shown her beneath the library's chandeliers. Then the moment the light devoured him.
"My truth is this," she said, pressing the knife against her skin. "I would burn the heavens themselves to bring him back."
The blade drank her blood, and every torch in the chamber flared blue.
The Silent Court stirred. "She speaks in flame."
"She bears the lost spark."
"Let the ritual begin."
From the ceiling, chains of light descended, etching a circle around her feet. The coals in the pit burst into spectral fire.
Linda gasped as her heartbeat quickened—the sigil on her palm blazing to life.
But somewhere above, muffled through stone, came the thud of boots and the bark of orders
"Guards."
The obsidian-masked woman turned her head slightly. "You are followed."
Linda's breath caught. She had been careful… hadn't she?
The woman's voice grew soft. "Then the ritual must be swift. Once begun, it cannot stop. If they interrupt you mid-word, your soul will tear apart."
Linda nodded, blood trickling from her hand onto the sigil's edge. "Tell me what to say."