Rowenne's face froze in horror. She turned to Zyrelle, staring for a long moment, speechless. Her gaze drifted to Alaric-who, uncharacteristically, sat quiet and withdrawn. He ate slowly, mechanically, until his spoon slipped from his hand and clattered against the plate. The sound rang sharp in the air, drawing everyone's eyes to him.
He gave a small, nervous grin, picked up the spoon, and pretended to continue eating. The others soon looked away and resumed their meal, but Rowenne didn't. She watched him closely.
She could read him like a book-and what she read now filled her with dread. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And deep inside, a single, chilling thought echoed: It's happening faster than I feared.
"Alaric," she said softly, "don't you like the food? You've barely touched it, which is unlike you."
"No, Mother," he replied quickly, forcing a smile. "The food is rich-delicious." He scooped another spoonful and swallowed it hastily, but once the attention shifted away, he fell still again, distant.
The silence thickened until Draven spoke. "May I ask a question?" he said, turning to Zyrelle.
"Yes, you may," Zyrelle replied. "If I have an answer, I'll gladly share it."
Draven leaned forward slightly. "What powers the blue flames? How do they burn all night without fading?"
Zyrelle smiled faintly. "The world knows the fire that burns and consumes. Few know the other kind. In Modkha, it is said two flames exist. One-the fire you know-burns bright, hot, and deadly. The other..." she paused, her voice lowering, "is what you saw outside last night. Unlike the first, it is cold. It freezes all it touches with the same intensity the first burns. Yet its true danger lies beyond its cold-some say it devours the soul as the other devours flesh."
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly. "And all seers can wield this... cold fire?"
"Not all," Zyrelle answered. "Most can summon the yellow flame. Only a rare few can create the misty blue. To shape what is unnatural in a natural world-it takes more than power. It takes-"
"STOP!" Alaric's voice thundered suddenly, cutting through the hall like a blade.
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to him.
They all turned abruptly and stared at him in silence as he stood there, panting. His eyes darted up to meet theirs-confused, frightened, ashamed. Their questioning gazes bore into him, demanding an answer he didn't have the strength to give.
"Alaric," Rowenne said softly, "you've been so out of it today. Tell us what's going on, please. Maybe we can help."
"No, you can't, Mother," he said, voice trembling. "None of you can help."
Tears threatened to spill, and it was clear-he had already surrendered to whatever shadow haunted him. He had accepted it as unchangeable, something beyond saving.
"You never know until you tell us," Rowenne said gently. "Please, son."
But Alaric stayed silent. His head bowed, his body tense, and for a long moment no one spoke. The room fell still. Rowenne didn't press further; she just watched him, eyes full of pity and helpless pain.
The warmth that had filled the room minutes ago was gone-snuffed out, replaced by a quiet cold. Guilt twisted inside Alaric's chest.
Have I ruined breakfast? Did I just make another mistake?
Yes.
The voice was faint but sharp. His breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Trying to cut through the heavy silence, Draven spoke. "What's inside the Golden Tower?"
The sudden question caught them off guard.
"Why do you ask?" Zyrelle turned to him.
"I heard stories about it growing up in Dravenloch," he said with a faint smile.
"I don't know what you've heard," Zyrelle replied, "but I expected you to ask about the gates instead."
"Yes!" Edmund piped up, eager for the change in topic. "It looked like clouds until the doorway lit up-and then it just drew me in."
Zyrelle's expression softened. "That's the Eclipsera Gate. There are two entrances to Myrridral. At one end is the Stonebridge Pass-as the name implies, a bridge made of stone. But not ordinary stone. It's guarded by the Watchers."
"And the other?" Edmund asked.
"The Eclipsera Gate," Zyrelle continued. "It needs no guard. It's like a filter. If you come with the slightest hint of evil intent, it will not let you pass. The moment you stand before it and the doorway lights, it reads you-your actions, your motives, your aura-and decides whether you are worthy to enter."
"Then why doesn't the Stonebridge Pass work the same way?" Edmund asked.
"Well-" Zyrelle began, but Alaric's trembling voice cut through her words.
"Please... stop."
And then, at last, he broke-tears spilling freely down his cheeks as the room froze around him.
"Alaric, is there something you should let us know?" Zyrelle asked.
He looked around-their eyes were all on him. Rowenne's gaze, unbroken and steady, had not wavered once. She was silent, still as though caught in a trance, her breath measured and slow.
Around the table, spoons dropped one after another. No one took another bite. The air thickened until even the faint clink of metal on wood felt deafening. Two women in flowing white robes stepped forward silently and cleared the dishes away.
"Alaric," Draven said, his tone calm but firm, "if there's something you need to say, please do. Look around the table-you can trust us."
Alaric's skin prickled under the weight of their stares. His throat tightened, his hands cold. He shifted in his seat, searching for words that refused to come. Rowenne noticed immediately-the unease, the way fear twisted his composure.
She cleared her throat, the sound sharp enough to slice through the tension. All eyes turned to her.
"Quite the adventure we had on our way here," she began. "I'm sure each of us had a different experience in that little hut."
Alaric and Edmund lowered their heads. In one's eyes flickered a glint of hope and quiet resolve; in the other, a shadowed sorrow weighed heavy as stone.
"How about we retell what happened?" Rowenne continued. "Maybe if we each share, we can make some meaning of it together."
No one spoke. The silence stretched-thick, uneasy, full of unspoken things.
"Fine," Rowenne said softly, after a moment. "I'll go first."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Zyrelle, who gave the faintest nod, before Rowenne turned back to the others.
"When we stepped into the hut," she began, "we found ourselves in a forest-dark, endless, and silent. We were lost, disoriented. We tried to stay together, to find a way out, but the place... it wasn't normal."
She paused, the memory still sharp behind her eyes.
"At first, the forest was still. Everything was frozen, even time itself. Then-" she inhaled, "-it awoke. The ground began to move beneath our feet, swallowing us whole. In the chaos, we ran. Each of us in different directions, trying desperately to escape. But the forest had a will of its own. It guided us, separated us, dragged us toward something-an inevitable place."
Rowenne's eyes dimmed.
"After countless tries to turn back, to find them again, I realized it was useless. No matter where I ran, I always ended up in the same spot. So I fought. Whatever it was that the forest wanted me to face... I fought it, defeated it, and then-" she exhaled slowly, "-I woke up. Back in the hut. Unconscious, apparently."
She looked around the table again, her expression unreadable.
"That's it," she said quietly.
Everyone was silent, each lost in thought, trying to decipher what Rowenne's experience could mean-beyond the obvious lesson of facing the battles one had long been running from. Yet, something in her story felt incomplete. She had left out key details, and Zyrelle knew it. She also knew why.
Her mind drifted back to their conversation from the previous night, and the weight of it pressed heavily against her heart. Other than Zyrelle, only one other person knew the full truth and had witnessed it firsthand-Veyra.
Veyra's gaze found Rowenne across the room, and she didn't look away. Their eyes met, and beneath Veyra's calm expression, there was a flicker of sorrow-quiet but deep. For someone she had never met before, she felt an inexplicable connection to Rowenne, as though threads of fate had woven their lives together long before this meeting.
Rowenne, sensing that gaze, met it fully. She understood. Veyra knew what was coming. And in that locked stare, words were unnecessary; their eyes spoke what their lips could not. After a long moment, Rowenne shook her head ever so slightly-a silent plea.
Veyra understood. She turned her attention toward Alaric, who sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts, his face shadowed by something unspoken. She then lowered her gaze to the table.
Rowenne's tale, though it seemed simple on the surface, carried a hidden weight. The others could sense it but found no clear path to its meaning. Still, their curiosity shifted toward Alaric. Ever since the incident, he had not been himself. His silence had grown heavy, and the light that once danced in his eyes had dimmed.
They all leaned forward, waiting, expectant, as he finally lifted his head.
"My story is different," he said.