Elian woke to the smell of sandalwood and the heavy, muffling silence of luxury. For a disorienting second, he panicked, his hand flying to his throat to check for the silver collar, but he found only bare skin. He sank back into the pillows, the memory of the previous night rushing back—the fight, the frost-balm, and the terrifying promise of the seven-day deadline.
He looked at his hand. The severe circular burn was still angry and red, though the blistering had gone down thanks to Vane's care. It was a brand. A constant reminder that to the Royals, he was nothing more than fuel.
"You're awake."
Elian jumped. Vane was sitting at the black ironwood desk, fully armored in his obsidian plate. He didn't look like he had slept. There was a map spread out before him, weighted down by a dagger and a half-empty flask of whiskey.
"We have work to do," Vane said, standing up. He gestured to the chair where Elian's black uniform lay folded. "Dress. The Archives await."
Elian climbed out of the massive bed, feeling small in the high-ceilinged room. He pulled on the black tunic with the Wolf crest. It fit him better today, or perhaps he was just getting used to the feeling of silk against skin that was used to wool and grit.
"Do I have to wear the collar?" Elian asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"Not in here," Vane replied, buckling his sword belt. "But the moment we step into the corridor? Yes. You are my mute archivist. That is your shield."
Vane walked over, holding the silver Silencer. Elian tilted his head back, exposing his throat. The click of the lock felt like a door slamming shut on his freedom.
"Let's go find out who you really are," Vane whispered.
The descent to the Deep Archives took them far below the gleaming white marble of the Royal Wing. They took a service lift—a cage of brass and iron—that rattled downward through the floating island's bedrock. The air grew colder with every floor they passed, smelling less like perfume and ozone, and more like dust and decay.
When the cage finally shuddered to a halt, they stepped out into a cavernous space that felt more like a dungeon than a library.
The Deep Archives were a labyrinth of stone shelves carved directly into the mountain's roots. There were no windows here, only the flickering blue light of mage-globes floating near the vaulted ceiling. The silence was absolute, heavier even than in the panic room.
"Stay close," Vane murmured, his voice low. "This place is semi-sentient. It doesn't like visitors."
Elian nodded. He felt a strange pressure in his chest—his solar magic reacting to the crushing weight of the earth and the ancient spells warding the books. It was a claustrophobic feeling, the "wild" heat in his blood itching to push back against the cold.
Vane led the way, his hand resting on the pommel of his Void-Steel sword. They passed rows of scrolls that whispered as they walked by, the dry parchment rustling like dead leaves.
"We need the Registry of Births," Vane said, scanning the aisle markers written in a dead language. "Specifically, the Year of the Eclipse. Twenty years ago."
They walked for what felt like miles. The sheer volume of history was staggering. Every tax record, every death, every land dispute for a thousand years was buried here.
"Here," Vane said, stopping abruptly.
They stood before a massive section of shelving made of dark iron. The spines of the books were bound in dragon-hide.
Registry of the Royal House - Era of Sol.
Vane reached for a thick tome titled Year 400-420. He pulled it from the shelf and laid it on a reading lectern. Dust motes danced in the blue light.
"Keep watch," Vane ordered. "If anyone comes down here—a scribe, a cleaner, anyone—you tap the floor three times."
Elian nodded and moved to the end of the aisle, watching the shadows. But his eyes kept drifting back to the book.
Vane flipped through the heavy parchment pages. The sound was loud in the stillness.
"Year 402... 403... 405..." Vane muttered. His finger traced the lines of ink. "Here. Year 410. The Year of the Great Eclipse."
Elian abandoned his post. He couldn't help it. He stepped up beside Vane to look.
The page was covered in elegant, flowing script.
Date of the Sun's Death (Eclipse). Birth Recorded: Prince Lysander III. Mother: Queen Valeriana. Father: King Helios (Deceased). Midwife: Elara Vance. Status: Healthy. Solar readings nominal.
"Nominal," Vane scoffed quietly. "We know that's a lie. His readings were anomalous."
"Look at the next entry," Elian pointed, forgetting he couldn't speak. He tapped the page frantically.
Vane looked where Elian was pointing.
Beneath the entry for Lysander, there was a gap. A jagged line where a strip of parchment had been sliced out of the book with a razor.
Someone had surgically removed an entry.
"A second birth," Vane whispered, his grey eyes narrowing. "Someone else was born that night. Someone important enough to be recorded in the Royal Registry, but dangerous enough to be erased."
He ran his gloved finger over the cut edge of the paper.
"Midwife Elara Vance," Vane mused. "I don't recognize the name. Which means she's likely dead or exiled."
Elian grabbed Vane's arm. He pointed to the margin of the page. There, in faint, faded ink—almost invisible against the aging paper—was a symbol.
It wasn't the Royal Sun. It was a rough sketch of a Wolf eating a Star.
Vane went still.
"That's not a royal crest," Vane said, his voice dropping to a chill whisper. "That is the seal of the Shadow-Mages of the Obsidian Isles."
He looked at Elian.
"My people," Vane realized. "The Shadow Clans were involved in the delivery."
Elian stared at him. The Shadow-Casters were rare, usually mercenaries or guards. Why would they be overseeing a Royal birth?
"Unless..." Vane closed the book with a heavy thud. "Unless the Queen didn't trust her own physicians. Or unless she needed someone to do something dirty."
Vane looked at Elian, his gaze intense. "If the Shadow Clans were involved, there will be a copy of the record. Not here. But in the Obsidian Isles."
"We have to go there?" Elian mouthed.
"We can't," Vane said. "It's a week's journey by ship. We have seven days until you die."
He paced away from the lectern, running a hand through his dark hair. "Think, Vane. Think."
Elian looked back at the book. He felt drawn to it. Not to the words, but to the binding. The heat in his chest flared again, pulsing in time with a heartbeat he could feel emanating from the shelf itself.
There was something else here.
Elian walked past the book, deeper into the aisle. The pressure in his chest grew stronger. It wasn't pain; it was resonance. Like a tuning fork vibrating when the right note is struck.
He stopped in front of a small, unassuming wooden box tucked between two massive encyclopedias. It had no label. No lock. Just a sunburst carved into the lid.
Elian reached for it.
"Don't touch that," Vane warned, stepping up behind him. "Unlabeled artifacts are usually cursed."
Elian ignored him. He felt safe. He knew, with an instinct he couldn't explain, that this box wouldn't hurt him.
He lifted the lid.
Inside, sitting on a cushion of velvet, was a baby's rattle. But it wasn't a toy. It was made of pure, unblemished Sun-Glass. And inside the glass, trapped like a firefly in amber, was a swirling mote of golden light.
As Elian's fingers brushed the glass, the light inside flared.
Pulse.
The entire aisle lit up. The blue mage-globes were drowned out by a sudden, warm rush of gold.
Vane grabbed Elian's shoulder, spinning him around. "Drop it!"
But Elian held on. The light didn't burn him. It flowed into him. For a second, the Silencer collar on his neck vibrated violently, then cracked. A hairline fracture appeared in the silver.
Elian gasped, the air rushing into his lungs tasting sweet.
"It remembers me," Elian whispered. His voice was audible. The collar was damaged enough to let sound through.
Vane stared at him, then at the rattle.
"That's a Memory Keeper," Vane said, his voice awestruck. "High Royals use them to store the first laugh of a child. It captures the magical signature."
Vane took the rattle from Elian's hand, carefully placing it back in the box to douse the light.
"That light," Vane said, looking at Elian's violet eyes. "It was the same color as your flare. Identical frequency."
"It's mine," Elian realized, tears pricking his eyes. "That was my rattle. I was here. I was in the Palace."
"You were," Vane confirmed. "And if we can unlock the memory inside that glass, we might hear the voice of the person who held you."
Suddenly, the floor beneath them trembled. A low, grinding sound echoed from the entrance of the Archives.
"We triggered a ward," Vane hissed. He grabbed the box, shoving it into his satchel. "The light tripped the security system."
"Guards?" Elian asked, his voice rasping against the broken collar.
"Worse," Vane said, drawing his Void-Steel sword. The shadows around him lengthened, transforming into wicked, sharp tendrils.
"Sentinels. Stone golems. We need to move. Now."
Vane grabbed Elian's hand—the good one—and they ran.
But as they sprinted back toward the lift, the shadows at the end of the aisle began to coalesce into hulking, humanoid shapes made of book-bindings and stone.
"Elian," Vane shouted over the roar of shifting stone. "Can you blast them?"
"I can try," Elian yelled back. "But I might bring the ceiling down!"
"Do it!" Vane roared, shoving Elian behind him as a massive stone fist swung toward them. "I'll hold the roof! You bring the heat!"