Orion moved forward with the same composed serenity he had maintained throughout the tour. At his side, Astra carried her usual gentle smile. Lyciah followed them with her hands pressed tight against her chest, willing the tremor in her fingers to go unnoticed.

  The private room was small and intimate. A low table of pale wood stood at the center, surrounded by comfortable seating, with a rug covering most of the floor. A tray waited neatly arranged with tea and biscuits. Astra closed the door with quiet care.

  “If you would be so kind,” Orion said, extending a hand toward one of the armchairs, “please, have a seat.”

  Lyciah sat down and only then realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out slowly, allowing some of the tension to drain from her shoulders.

  Orion and Astra took the sofa opposite her. Astra poured the tea with precise, unhurried movements, not a single drop spilling. Orion waited until Lyciah had her cup in hand before lifting his own. For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the faint clink of porcelain.

  “I imagine,” Orion said at last, “that you did not entirely believe the reason I presented to your companions.”

  Lyciah didn’t look up right away. Her thumb traced the rim of the cup in an unconscious, anxious motion.

  “I… I assumed,” she began, clearing her throat softly, “that it wasn’t the real reason.”

  It came out almost like an apology for having understood too much. A flicker of approval crossed Orion’s face.

  “I am pleased by your discernment.”

  Lyciah raised her eyes then. Her heart was beating hard. She sat before them, surrounded by a calm that felt at odds with what she knew she was about to hear.

  Orion inhaled, without theatrics.

  “Allow me, then, to correct a courtesy that should not have been postponed.”

  There was no ceremony in it—only the settling of something that ought to have been set right from the start.

  “My name is Sariel.”

  He said it simply. Not as a revelation, but as a matter being properly aligned. Astra held Lyciah’s gaze with the same unwavering softness.

  “And mine is Naeriel.”

  Lyciah’s fingers froze against the cup, the nervous motion halting at once.

  “Prince of the seraphi,” Sariel continued, voice as immaculately composed as ever.

  “Princess of the seraphi,” Naeriel added, dipping her head gently.

  Lyciah went very still. A loose strand of hair slipped across her face; she brushed it aside with two fingers before speaking. It wasn’t shock that held her back, but confirmation.

  “So… I was right,” she murmured. “I thought… I thought it was you. The princess.”

  It took effort to meet Naeriel’s eyes.

  “But I believed you hadn’t survived. Sorian only told me about the prince.”

  For a fleeting second, the polished restraint on Sariel’s features fractured. Open sadness surfaced. He lowered his gaze briefly, as though granting himself that single lapse before restoring control.

  Naeriel did not appear unsettled.

  “Your brother arrived with a corrupted seraphi,” she explained in her mild, even tone. “He sought answers. I did not intervene. Sariel handled the matter.”

  He inclined his head.

  “I also offered your brother the opportunity to bid your mother farewell,” he added. “I considered he might require it.”

  A measured silence followed.

  “He declined.”

  The word carried no accusation—but neither was it weightless. Lyciah lowered her gaze to her lap. The thought of Sorian refusing what she was about to accept tightened her chest.

  Naeriel leaned forward slightly, closing the distance.

  “Lyciah,” she said gently, speaking her name like something precious, “what we are about to tell you is not a softened version of events. It is neither kind nor easy to hear.”

  There was no pity in her eyes—only a deep, almost sisterly empathy.

  “Are you prepared to hear the truth about the seraphi massacre?”

  The tension moved visibly through Lyciah’s body. Her eyes shifted instinctively toward Sariel. He regarded her with steady composure, as though fully prepared to accept whatever answer she gave.

  She closed her eyes. She felt her pulse at her temples, the faint pressure in her throat. She thought of Sorian—of the determination that had brought him here. When she opened her eyes again, she did not look away.

  “Yes,” she said, holding Sariel’s gaze. “I want to hear the same truth you told my brother.”

  In the east wing of the building, the atmosphere was entirely different. The employee guiding the group stopped before a frosted-glass door and opened it.

  “This is our guest lounge,” he explained pleasantly. “Refreshments are available at the back.”

  He stepped aside to let them enter. The room was spacious and bright. Modular sofas were arranged around low tables scattered with magazines, and a side counter offered tea, coffee, and light snacks. Beyond a glass archway at the far end, the entrance to an indoor green space could be seen.

  “We hope you find your stay comfortable,” the employee concluded before withdrawing. “Should you require assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  The door closed softly behind him, leaving them alone. Seliane spun in place, her energy at odds with the room’s tranquil air.

  “Okay, this is insane,” she muttered, heading toward the glass overlooking the greenery. “Have you seen that? It’s a greenhouse inside the building!”

  Momoru studied the space beyond the glass with quiet interest. Elric remained near one of the sofas, uncharacteristically silent. Caelan approached him, sensing the shift.

  “Did you ask about the earring because you intended to use the service?” he asked plainly, without harshness.

  Elric lifted his head with a slight start, as though pulled back from somewhere deeper than distraction.

  “Yes,” he admitted after a moment.

  He reached up to touch the earring in his left ear.

  “Orion said it would suffice. As long as it was something the deceased had worn in life…”

  His voice trailed off. For an instant, the composure he usually maintained slipped. The posture he habitually held—hands clasped neatly behind his back—fell away. His arms hung at his sides. His gaze dropped to the floor. Then he drew a steady breath and forced a smile that didn’t quite fit.

  “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” he added with a shrug. “The service is closing. Lyciah will use the last available machine.”

  He let out a short laugh.

  “You know me. I specialize in unfortunate endings.”

  The laugh faded quickly, leaving a heavier silence in its wake. Caelan opened his mouth to respond but never had the chance.

  “Hey!” Seliane appeared at Elric’s side without warning and hooked her arm through his. “You’re coming with me. I refuse to explore a giant greenhouse full of suspicious plants alone.”

  Elric jolted slightly, like someone abruptly shaken awake. He glanced down at her hand on his arm, then back at her. For a brief second, his expression hovered in uncertainty, as though deciding how to receive her tone.

  “Sel, I—”

  “No complaining,” she cut in, tugging lightly. “I need someone tall to protect me if a mutant carnivorous plant attacks.”

  He held onto a severe expression for a moment longer, but the image of defending her from a mutant plant proved too ridiculous to sustain his gloom.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I highly doubt there are mutant carnivorous plants,” he muttered, already allowing himself to be pulled along.

  Momoru watched them go with an amused sigh.

  “Those two…” he murmured. “They always end up together.”

  Then he turned to Caelan.

  “And what about you?”

  Caelan’s gaze drifted toward the corridor they had walked through earlier. His expression remained as it always was—serious, controlled—but he was not as at ease as he pretended.

  “I’ll take a look around the facilities,” he replied. “I’d like to familiarize myself with the layout.”

  He didn’t add that he distrusted the place. He didn’t need to.

  “Then I’ll join you,” Momoru said simply.

  Without further words, the two of them headed down the corridor, leaving the greenhouse’s green light behind.

  There was no trace of softness left in Sariel’s expression.

  “Then,” he said, “I will tell you the truth about the seraphi massacre.”

  Lyciah felt her fingers tighten in her lap. Even sealed and unseen, her wings seemed heavier than usual. Still, she nodded.

  Sariel placed his cup carefully upon its saucer. Porcelain touched porcelain with a faint sound.

  “You must first understand that our race came into being only a few years after humanity itself. While the earliest human settlements flourished in distant lands, we already existed… though our paths never crossed.”

  Naeriel, seated beside him, kept her gaze fixed on him. Her smile had faded, replaced by a more solemn expression.

  “By the time my sister and I were born, our people dwelled in the forest of Sylvaris.”

  Lyciah lifted her head at the name. She had heard it before, long ago, in the stories her mother used to tell her.

  “It was no ordinary forest,” Sariel continued. “White-stone temples rose among the trees, and elevated dwellings were linked by suspended walkways. Pools of clear water reflected the light. Everything was part of the forest; we did not cut it down. We lived in harmony with it.”

  Lyciah pictured white wings crossing from platform to platform, the sound of water, sunlight filtering through high branches.

  “We did not trade. We did not wage war. And above all, we did not display our gift. Our healing power was… perilous in the hands of others. We feared becoming a prize in someone else’s conflict.”

  Lyciah lowered her gaze.

  “My mother…” she began softly. “She never wanted me to use my power in front of anyone.”

  “Because she wished you safe,” Naeriel replied at once. “It was not mistrust of you. It was fear.”

  Lyciah intertwined her fingers and gave a faint nod. Only then did Sariel continue.

  “Your mother, Misaha, was born there roughly a thousand years ago. She was one seraphi among many. She tended the gardens. She spent hours by the pools. She had no ambition to lead or distinguish herself. If anything defined her, it was her ability to listen.”

  Lyciah’s head lifted immediately. She straightened slightly in her seat, as though that simple description had drawn her closer.

  “However, at the age of twenty-seven, she began to manifest symptoms we did not fully comprehend at the time. A different energy. A flame that did not burn… but purified.”

  Sariel folded his hands on the table.

  “What we now know as the Dawnbringer.”

  Lyciah parted her lips. Air entered, but no words came. Sariel watched her quietly, waiting. When it became clear she would not speak, he continued.

  “Soon thereafter, we received a visit from an emissary of Queen Heliora.”

  Lyciah did not ask for clarification. The name no longer startled her.

  “She requested an audience with Misaha in Elyndra. Your mother refused. Sylvaris was her home, and she feared she would not be permitted to return.”

  Lyciah pressed her lips together. A blurred memory surfaced: her mother seated by a window, staring into nothing.

  “One day I’ll take you somewhere where the air smells of wet leaves and no one will ask you to be anything,” her mother had told her when she was eight.

  She hadn’t understood then. She did now.

  Sariel drew in a breath, and this time his voice lost a fraction of its measured gentleness.

  “Days later, Heliora chose to present herself in person.”

  Sylvaris had been silent. Between towering trunks and pale stone columns, a lone figure advanced, flanked by blue-eyed generals. The seraphi stepped aside without command. White wings folded. Golden gazes lowered.

  Heliora walked as though the forest belonged to her.

  Before the central temple stood the seraphi king, wings unfurled in dignity, not submission. Behind him, Sariel watched in silence.

  “Your Majesty,” the king greeted, voice deep and steady. “Sylvaris does not typically receive unannounced visits.”

  Heliora’s expression did not shift.

  “I had no wish for unnecessary delays. I have come to claim what the balance of this world has designated.”

  The king offered no immediate reply. From where he stood, Sariel saw Naeriel move nearer, pulled in by the palpable tension. He shook his head very slightly. She frowned in confusion but obeyed, stepping back without protest.

  “Misaha,” Heliora continued, “has inherited the power of the Dawnbringer following Eresha’s death at the hands of the Seventh Ancestral. Her purpose is now evident. She must join the lumens. At our side, she will purify the demons and bring this era of corruption to an end.”

  A murmur rippled through the forest. The king held her gaze.

  “Eresha was never an enemy of the demons,” he replied. “She fought alongside the Seven Ancestrals to seal the Omen. That was her choice.”

  “And a misguided one,” Heliora answered, tone unchanged. “A power such as hers should not have been squandered fighting beside monsters. Observe the result. One of them murdered her.”

  Behind his father, Sariel felt the air tighten.

  “Misaha is not a weapon,” the king declared with calm resolve. “The seraphi are not instruments for your crusade.”

  For the first time, something akin to impatience crossed Heliora’s face.

  “She is the only one capable of purifying even the Ancestrals. Would you have such a gift remain hidden while demons multiply?”

  The king stepped forward.

  “I would have my people spared a war that is not theirs.”

  He did not raise his voice, yet centuries of disdain for foreign conflicts lay beneath it.

  Heliora regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then, without turning her head, her gaze slid briefly to Sariel. The contact was fleeting… but deliberate. Then she turned away.

  “I trust you will not one day regret this decision.”

  Those were her final words before she vanished among the trees.

  Sariel’s tea sat nearly untouched, now cold. No one had reached for anything again. Lyciah broke the silence first.

  “So… Queen Heliora always intended to seize the power of the Dawnbringer to defeat the Ancestrals.”

  Sariel met her eyes.

  “Yes. And she was prepared to do whatever was required.”

  Naeriel said nothing. Her shoulders lifted with a deep breath she released slowly, unsteadily.

  Sariel continued.

  “Only days after that visit, Sylvaris was attacked. Demons descended at dusk. There was no negotiation, no warning—only fire and screams. We were not a warrior people. We possessed neither army nor military training.”

  Lyciah realized her nails were digging into her thighs and forced her hands to relax.

  “Up to that point,” Sariel went on, “nothing seemed unusual. Bloodthirsty demons. Another tragedy in a world accustomed to them.”

  Naeriel lowered her head, her hair partially obscuring her face.

  “I was searching for Naeriel amid the smoke and chaos,” Sariel continued, “when the leader of the demons barred my path.”

  Knowing what that meant, Lyciah shook her head before he could continue, as though she might prevent what had already happened.

  “I was afforded no opportunity. Before I could move, he advanced and, with his bare hands, tore open my abdomen.”

  A strangled cry escaped her. Her hand flew instinctively to her own stomach, her body folding slightly forward as though the wound had been hers.

  “After that, he seized me by the throat and lifted me from the ground.”

  Sariel’s hand drifted unconsciously to the base of his neck, as if the memory of it lingered.

  “He mocked my weakness. I attempted to free myself by grasping his wrists with both hands.”

  Naeriel watched him now without blinking, as if once again seeing her brother bleeding before her.

  “However,” Sariel continued with exact precision, “that very imprudence granted me access to his memories.”

  Lyciah looked up, visibly confused. Naeriel spoke calmly.

  “Seraphi royalty can materialize memories… and read them.”

  Lyciah touched her chin thoughtfully. It made sense. If they could give form to memory, they would first have to perceive it.

  “But we require physical contact,” Naeriel added. “Without touch, there is no access.”

  “As I pressed my hands to his wrists, I entered his memory,” Sariel confirmed.

  He paused—not for drama, but because even a thousand years later, the image remained painfully clear.

  “I saw one of the lumens’ generals. He was delivering precise instructions on how to locate Sylvaris.”

  Lyciah straightened slowly, silent, unwilling to interrupt.

  “He ordered him not to fail. Heliora desired that every seraphi, with the sole exception of the Dawnbringer, be slain. In exchange, she promised reward and the assurance that the lumens would never pursue them.”

  Lyciah went utterly still.

  “No…”

  She tried to swallow, but her throat refused.

  “That… that can’t…”

  The words wouldn’t form. A ringing filled her ears, her vision blurring at the edges. She covered her mouth with both hands and bent forward slightly, as though bracing herself against collapse.

  Naeriel rose immediately. She circled the table and knelt beside her, placing her hands gently on Lyciah’s shoulders.

  “Breathe slowly,” she murmured. “Look at me.”

  Lyciah tried. The dizziness didn’t vanish entirely, but it stopped worsening. Sariel watched her a moment before continuing, ensuring she would not faint. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

  “After witnessing that… I lost consciousness. My hands slackened. The demon, believing me dead, released me.”

  Lyciah lifted her eyes toward him, still pale.

  “But you were not.”

  Naeriel spoke quietly.

  “I found him among the ruins of the temple. He was barely breathing.”

  Sariel’s gaze moved to his sister and lingered a heartbeat too long. When he reached for his cup, his fingers trembled faintly, enough to send a small ripple through the tea before he spoke again.

  “She, too, was wounded—though not gravely,” he said, his gaze lowering briefly. “She used what strength remained to close my wound.”

  Lyciah slowly lowered her hands from her mouth. Her eyes, still wet, moved between them.

  “I… I suspected Heliora was involved with the seraphi somehow,” she breathed. “But I never imagined she would have orchestrated the massacre.”

  “She did so because your mother refused to leave Sylvaris,” Sariel replied. “She ensured she would be perceived as the savior who had torn her from demonic hands.”

  Lyciah did not argue. The pieces fit. She only wished they did not.

  “Bereft of her home and convinced she owed Heliora her life, Misaha resolved to accompany her to Elyndra.”

  The conclusion fell heavily. She had served a queen who would destroy what others loved if it brought her closer to her goal.

  Naeriel remained kneeling before her, one warm, steady hand moving slowly up and down her back in a patient, soothing gesture.

  “That is why you must not return,” Sariel concluded. “Heliora will retain you only until you have borne an heir; and once that duty is fulfilled, your life will hold no further value in her eyes.”

  Lyciah lowered her gaze to her hands.

  “I have no intention of going back,” she murmured, voice still unsteady. “But she has an army. Influence. She won’t give up. She’ll find me eventually…”

  Sariel fell silent for a moment before answering.

  “I will not allow that to occur, Lyciah. I—”

  He stopped there. The promise remained unfinished, as though he had caught himself overstepping a boundary he dared not cross. His gaze lingered on hers a moment before his usual composure returned.

  “I am certain the Second Ancestral will know how to protect you.”

  Lyciah looked up sharply.

  “You knew Caelan is the Second Ancestral?”

  Sariel did not answer in words. He inclined his head once, serenely, as if that revelation had never been a mystery to him. Then he rose with quiet elegance.

  “For now, you should retire to your room. You are too unsettled to use the service with clarity.”

  Naeriel agreed immediately.

  “Lyciah…” Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. “You shouldn’t meet your mother in this state. Give your heart time to steady.”

  Lyciah nodded without argument. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and, after one last look at them both, stood.

  Naeriel rose at once and took her hand. Sariel positioned himself on her other side with calm proximity, ready to support her should she falter.

  They walked her to her room in silence. Sometimes, simply not being alone was the only comfort that mattered.