"Hey, Silas! Move that crate of Pippins about three inches to the left, would you?"Silas, a man whose face was more wrinkle than skin, paused with a hand on his hip. He looked at the wooden crate, then up at Solvren, who was leaning casually against a stone pillar in the center of the bustling Oakhaven square."Three inches, Sol? That’s mighty specific, even for you," Silas grumbled, though he gripped the edge of the crate and slid it over. "What’s the catastrophe this time? A spilled cider? A bruised apple?""Worse," Solvren replied, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "In exactly ten seconds, Leo is going to come sprinting around that corner chasing a runaway hoop. If that crate stays where it was, he trips, the hoop goes into the fountain, and you spend the next hour fishing out soggy fruit while he cries loud enough to wake the ghosts of the Founders."Silas grunted, eyeing the corner of the cobblestone street. "Ten seconds, huh? One... two... three..."Right on cue, a bl

"We aren't going to stop it, El," Solvren said, his voice hollow as he stared at the mark on the woman he loved. "We’re the ones who are going to invite it in."Elarienne stepped back, her hand flying to her throat to cover the shimmering eye. "Sol, stop it! You’re talking like a madman. It’s a birthmark. My mother had one, and her mother before her. It doesn't mean anything!""The bird, El! The raven with the gold eyes—it was right there!" Solvren pointed at the empty fence, his finger trembling. "It was in the vision. It was sitting on my shoulder while the city burned. And that mark... I saw it on the throne. I saw it on the blade you were holding.""There is no bird, Sol!" Elarienne shouted, her voice cracking with a mix of fear and frustration. "Look! There’s nothing there but wood and moss. You’re seeing things that aren't real. You’re letting a nightmare ruin your head."Solvren grabbed his temples, his breath hitching. The "map" in his mind flickered like a dying candle. He sa

The dust from the library’s ceiling settled in Solvren’s hair, but he didn't brush it away. His eyes were locked onto the ancient parchment, his name staring back at him in a hand that had been dead for three centuries."Cael, tell me I’m hallucinating," Solvren whispered, his voice trembling as he held the scroll. "Tell me this is a prank. Tell me Silas paid you to forge this to mess with my head."Caelvar didn't answer immediately. He was backed against a shelf of rotting genealogies, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches that whistled through his teeth. "I wish I could, Sol. I really do. But that ink... that’s gold-leaf mixed with ichor. Nobody in Oakhaven even knows how to make that anymore. It’s not a prank. It’s a relic.""Three hundred years," Solvren breathed, the paper crinkling under his tightening grip. "I’m twenty-four, Cael. I grew up in the weaver’s district. I scraped my knees on the cobblestones. How is my name on a document from the Era of Silence?""Maybe you are

The hallway of the Great Spire didn’t feel like stone or wood; it felt like walking through the throat of a living beast. Every few seconds, the walls pulsed with a dull, thudding rhythm, and the air tasted so thick with ozone it made Solvren’s tongue feel numb."The future starts and ends right here," Zeyron repeated, his footsteps clicking rhythmically against the floor."Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Solvren asked, his voice cracking. "Because it sounds like a death sentence.""It’s a promotion, Sol. Try to keep up," Elarienne said. She didn't look back at him. Her hand was still wrapped around his wrist, her grip unnaturally tight."A promotion to what? Chief battery? Is that what that pit was outside?""Don't be dramatic, kid," Zeyron said, waving a hand dismissively. "The 'pit' is for the rabble. You’re the main event. You’re the reason the pit even exists."A door at the end of the hall, carved from a single slab of obsidian, slid open without a sound. Standing in t