EPILOGUE,
The chamber was carved from stone older than any known map—beneath roots, beneath mountains, beneath memory. It breathed the silence in forgotten tombs, where light did not linger. The walls bore no markings, except for the soft soot streaks from torches that hadn't burned in decades. The offerings once buried with Elena lay at the center of the room, resting atop a low blackened stone pedestal.
Her twin swords.
A silver pendant in the shape of a dragon's head.
A ribbon still stained with ash, wrapped carefully around the hilt of one blade.
A scrap of pale cloth, folded with reverence but soiled now by fingers that had no right to touch it.
Behind a curtain of heavy black velvet—one drawn like a veil between past and present—a figure stood.
They could not be seen, only sensed, a silhouette shifting behind the fabric like a shadow breathing. Their voice filled the room in a low chant that was almost felt rather than heard. Ancient syllables rolled like thunder beneath the skin, warping the air around the pedestal, as if the memory of what Elena had been was being rewritten.
No other soul stirred. There were no torches lit, no wind, no sound of footsteps. Only the chanting and the faint glow of runes on the floor began to pulse with a deep, ruddy light.
The voice behind the curtain rose in pitch, just slightly.
As it did, the air above the relics trembled. The cloth shifted. One of the swords groaned, as though mourning. A faint and unnatural shimmer passed over the items, and the dragon pendant sparked with light that should not have existed in such a dead place.
Then silence fell again, heavier than before.
The chant had stopped.
And from behind the curtain came a whisper, so soft it might have been a breath.
"Soon."