Chapter 14: Chapter 13- The Child Beneath the Light

The morning was too still. Outside the chamber, Faeyren stirred with the distant sounds of preparation — voices, hammering, carts rolling over cobblestones — but within the royal healing ward, the world had narrowed to a single breath that never came. Krysthalia sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders heavy, hands motionless on her lap. Ashanti lay asleep beneath a canopy of silver-threaded linens, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only movement in the room. Her skin glowed faintly, not with magic, but with something deeper — an echo of what she had become. Behind her, Beiron Grayare stood in the shadow of the doorway, his left arm now bound in a warded sling. His features were gaunt with fatigue, the silver of his beard glinting in the pale light that filtered through the stained-glass windows.

“She’s still not woken?” he asked softly.

Krysthalia shook her head. “No change.”

Beiron stepped forward and stopped at her side, his eyes on the girl lying so still beneath the covers.

“You’re certain now,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Krysthalia’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“There was never doubt. Not in my heart.” A pause. “But now the world knows. Or will.”

Beiron exhaled slowly. “So it’s true then. All of it. The Lost Incident... wasn't a myth.”

Krysthalia’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “They took my daughter, and gods only know how many others.”

She brushed a strand of hair from Ashanti’s brow, her fingers barely grazing the rune-hidden skin.

“They needed vessels. Bloodlines. Something ancient. And they started with children.”

“If one lived…” Beiron said, “…there may be more.”

“Or none,” Krysthalia replied. “But we will find them. If they breathe, we will find them.”

A long silence followed. Then Beiron looked out the tall window behind them, watching the sunlight glint against the tower spires.

“They call her a miracle,” he murmured. “A divine answer. A tear sent by the gods themselves to burn away the Stricken. They say the moons bled, and the world was saved.”

Krysthalia scoffed, barely. “People see what they want to see.”

“Yes,” Beiron said. “And right now... they want to believe something holy stood between them and death.”

The streets of Faeyren had been swept clean. Banners of gold and white hung from the arches of merchant towers, fluttering in the autumn wind. Church bells rang, echoing across the mosaic bridges and silver-plated rooftops. The air smelled of sweet fruit wine, roasted chestnuts, and incense burned too thick to cover the scent of blood still embedded in the stone. People flooded the avenues in ceremonial procession — nobles and beggars alike dressed in radiant colors, faces daubed with chalk-white crescent moons and crimson paint to honor the night they called “The Turning.” Some wept as they walked. Others danced. And everywhere, the words rang out:

“The goddess cried, and the light saved us!”

“She walks again, in the body of a girl!”

“The moons bled, and the veil was broken!”

Doomsayers stood on corners, draped in oilcloth and bone charms.

“The seals break! The fire returns! The gods are not done with us!”

Town criers shouted rumors and half-truths:

“Stricken burned into light!”

“The deathless queen weeps beside the holy child!”

Faith surged like wildfire — uncontrolled, unsourced, fed by awe and terror in equal measure. Some worshiped. Some fled. But all knew one thing for certain: The world had changed. Their footsteps echoed softly down the tower stairwell, spiraling toward the heart of Faeyren. The light filtering through the stained-glass murals cast shifting golds and silvers across their armor, colors too bright for a morning born of such grief. Krysthalia’s gaze flicked toward Beiron’s arm, still cradled in its sling.

“You haven’t taken that off.”

Beiron gave a crooked smile, eyes still tracking the steps ahead.

“Stewards insisted. Said I’d dishonor the miracle if I didn’t let the healers parade me around like a living relic.”

Krysthalia’s brow arched. “But you’re not in pain?”

“None,” he said, flexing his fingers inside the sling. “It’s whole. Completely. Nerves, tendons, bone — all restored.” A pause. “The light mended what nothing else could.”

She looked away for a moment, her jaw tightening.

“And still they treat you like you’re about to shatter.”

“They’re not fussing over the wound,” he said quietly. “They’re fussing over the proof. They don’t know what she is. They just know she did what no god or crown ever could.”

Krysthalia said nothing at first. Her grip tightened on the railing as they reached the lower landing. Through the high-arched windows, she could see the first smoke trails of festival fires rising through the city.

“The miracle,” she muttered.

“Or the reckoning,” Beiron said. “Depends on who you ask.”

“I don’t care what they call it.”

Beiron’s smile faded. “You will.”

Krysthalia stopped at the base of the stairs, turned toward him, and let the torchlight catch the flicker in her eyes.

“She’s my daughter,” she said softly. “Not their prophecy. Not their saint. Not their weapon.”

“But the moment she opened the sky,” he said gently, “she became all three.”

***

The council chamber was subdued, but the silence carried weight. No longer a place of diplomacy — it now felt like a wound poorly stitched shut. The once-grand banners had been rehung in uneven symmetry. New guards lined the perimeter, more ceremonial than protective. The massive stained-glass window over the Tenth Pillar — shattered during the summit attack — remained unrepaired, now draped in mourning cloth. Nine thrones. Eight filled. The ninth — Containe’s — bore no crown. A wiry man in his late fifties sat stiffly in Helion’s place, dressed in deep formal grays, the high collar of his robe swallowing most of his neck. He wore no sigils of rank, only the steward’s chain of temporary appointment. His fingers twitched against the arms of the throne like a man trying to remember what to do with his hands. He rose slowly, uncomfortably.

“In light of… recent horrors,” he began, voice thin and high, “and the tragic loss of our beloved Crown Prince Helion Valtrasse, Containe formally proposes that this council be disbanded until such a time as sovereign order may be reestablished.”

Murmurs flickered through the room.

“We are not prepared,” the envoy continued. “The situation is… extremely delicate. Our House of Lords must convene. New succession rites must be observed. We cannot treat this as business as usual.”

From the far side of the chamber, Commander Kaen Draeven of the Hollow Barrier leaned forward, one brow raised beneath his scarred forehead.

“Someone dies, you pause the world?”

The envoy blinked. “A prince died. In a neutral summit.”

“Neutral until someone brought Stricken to the party,” Kaen growled. “And from where I sit, I don’t remember your boy doing much besides dying dramatically.”

The envoy flinched.

Krysthalia, silent until now, turned her eyes toward him.

“You propose we disband the summit because you are grieving,” she said. “But the rest of us are here to prevent another war.”

“We have to consider the implications,” the envoy stammered. “There are rumors that what happened was... was a divine judgment. Some are calling the girl a weapon. A saint. There must be—”

“Clarity,” Beiron interrupted, stepping forward. “That’s what you’re looking for. And clarity does not come from scattering.”

The envoy licked his lips.

“With respect, Faeyren’s neutrality has been… compromised. And this child, this—creature—who turned the tide—”

He froze as Krysthalia rose.

Her presence alone silenced him.

“She is not a creature,” she said. “She is my daughter. And she saved every soul in this chamber. Including yours.”

The envoy sat down quickly, sweat rising on his brow. Across from him, Archdruidess Allavira said nothing. She simply watched — eyes glinting like dew over frost. Her silence, more unnerving than the envoy’s blustering panic.

Beiron’s voice followed in the stillness.

“This council has not ended. Not until the truth is named, and those responsible brought to light.”

Silence fell after Beiron’s declaration. All eyes drifted to the empty throne, the space that now loomed heavier than the bodies they'd buried. And then, from the far end of the crescent dais, a voice — clear, ageless, calm.

“There is a prophecy.”

All turned to the speaker: Archdruidess Allavira Thirien, finally lifting her gaze from the floor. Her face was pale as drifted snow, her expression unreadable beneath the folds of her hooded robes.

“One passed only among the royal line of Wyrdwood and the Voices of the Ley. Held sacred. Spoken only when the winds scream and the roots weep.”

Her words alone shifted the air. Even Kaen stopped lounging. Even the envoy from Containe straightened.

“In light of what has awakened,” she said, “it can no longer remain sacred.”

She stood, then raised one hand. From the folds of her sleeve, she produced a thin scroll of faded birchbark, etched not with ink but with glowing ley sigils — alive in the dim council light. She began to recite:

“When moon bleeds red and twin shadows rise,

And the old gives breath to the new,

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The thread shall snap and begin again —

The One beneath the sky of two.

A child forged from chains and silence,

A god unmade to seal the path,

Shall walk with wounds not hers to carry,

Lest all is lost to weeping wrath.”

The words rippled through the chamber like a second heartbeat. Some noble delegates crossed themselves. Others reached for their scrolls in haste. Krysthalia didn’t move. Her eyes locked on Allavira.

“You think that riddle speaks of my daughter.”

Allavira bowed her head once. “I think the world already knows it does.”

The room held its breath.

“So we harness her,” someone muttered from the Daervan seat. “Before the seals fall faster.”

Krysthalia stood.

“No.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“The last time I chose the realm over my daughter,” she said, voice steady with the weight of heartbreak, “I lost her. I won’t make that mistake again.”

She looked around the circle.

“I am more than willing to burn empires if it means keeping her safe.”

That was when Beiron stepped forward.

“There’s no need for war.”

He turned toward the chamber doors and gave a small, deliberate nod.

A pause—

Then the guards opened the doors.

Auren entered, jaw tight, eyes flicking across the chamber — and behind him, flanked by two Silvermanes, walked Cael.

His hands were bound in iron runes, shackled before him — not for threat, but for assurance. His clothes were worn, his shoulders set. He did not look like a prisoner, but someone who had chosen to walk in anyway.

Beiron spoke without looking at him.

“We already have someone who knows the inside of the Hollow Vows better than anyone left breathing.”

Krysthalia’s eyes narrowed. A few other envoys stirred in their seats. Cael met her gaze. And said nothing. The room didn’t erupt — it cracked. Low voices, sharp whispers. A scoff from the envoy of Containe. A muttered curse from Daervan’s Speaker. Even Sivren of the Velarûn shifted in their robes, one gloved hand resting motionless on the edge of their chair.

“This is absurd,” said a minor lord from Thalara, rising from his place beside Princess Brunneth. “The Hollow Vows? You parade some brooding boy in shackles and expect us to believe in ghost stories?”

“Everyone’s heard the rumors,” snapped another. “Boogeymen, kidnappers, whispers in the tunnels. But that’s all they’ve ever been—”

“They’re real,” Cael said.

His voice cut clean through the noise. The chamber fell still again. He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise his head. He simply spoke, the words heavy with a truth most had never dared put into the air.

“The Hollow Vows are very real. They don’t need you to believe in them. That’s what makes them dangerous.”

A flicker of ley-light from the ceiling windows glinted against the iron runes around his wrists.

“Some go to them willingly. Rich sons and daughters who want to disappear. Nobles looking to erase debt, vengeance, shame.”

He looked up now, gaze steady, unmoving.

“Others are taken. Children. Candidates. Subjects for something far older than a guild or a cult. They don’t just train assassins — they carve them. Cut them down and rebuild what’s left into something obedient. Something disposable.”

The envoy from Containe shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. “Do you have proof of any of this?”

Cael’s voice didn’t waver.

“I am proof.”

Auren crossed his arms behind him but said nothing. Krysthalia remained rigid. Cael went on.

“There was an incident. Eleven years ago.”

The room tensed again.

“A sweep, coordinated across multiple kingdoms. Quiet. Covered up. A lot of children vanished. Mostly from noble bloodlines. Those who didn’t die… were remade.”

He looked toward Krysthalia now, carefully.

“Some survived longer than others.”

The implication hung, cold and unmistakable. Across the chamber, the Archdruidess finally stirred, not speaking, but bowing her head slightly, as if confirming something to herself.

“Why now?” asked Beiron. “Why speak of it?”

Cael met his eyes. “Because the Vows didn’t fail. They were always planning something bigger. The summit was only the first move.”

Krysthalia’s voice came low.

“And my daughter?”

Cael paused. His eyes flickered — not with guilt, but weight.

“She was never meant to live long enough to be found.”

The chamber had gone deathly still. Even the ambient hum of the leyward protections felt muted, as if the magic itself listened now. Cael stood unshaken, the iron bindings still clamped around his wrists, his stance easy despite the stares pressing in from every direction.

“You want more?” he said, eyes sweeping across the semicircle of power. “Fine.”

His voice didn’t harden. If anything, it quieted — not in weakness, but in recollection.

“The new recruits from my cycle were tested harder than usual. We didn’t know why. We weren’t meant to ask. The Hollow Vows don’t deal in explanations. Only outcomes.”

He looked toward the floor for a breath.

“Most recruits — even the ones who make it through Candidate phase — only survive four, maybe six carvings over their service. The body can’t take much more. The mind… even less.”

His eyes lifted again, this time to Krysthalia.

“Little Shadow had dozens.”

The words struck harder than any insult. A few of the envoys whispered; even Kaen's brow furrowed.

Krysthalia’s voice was flint. “Her name is Ashanti.”

Cael didn’t flinch. He simply raised his bound hands, palms open — a gesture of peace.

“Ashanti, then. She was known as Shade to all in the Hollow Vows.”

He shifted, gaze distant now.

“The first time I saw her, she was just a silver-haired slip of a girl. Maybe four. Quiet. Too quiet. They brought in dozens of candidates that year — sons of lords, orphaned beastkin, unwanted mages. Most of them didn’t last the week.”

“I didn’t think she would either.”

He exhaled.

“She wasn’t cruel like some. Didn’t cry. Didn’t fight. Just… listened. Watched. You could see it in her eyes — she was learning how to disappear.”

No one interrupted.

Even the Containe envoy, now silent, had nothing to say.

“I became… fond of her,” Cael continued. “Didn’t even notice it at first. She didn’t talk. Barely responded. But I’d sit near her when I could. Talk to her, even if she never answered. Sometimes she’d nod. That was enough.”

He gave a soft, bitter chuckle.

“She wasn’t cold. She was just silent. Like someone had pressed the world into her chest and told her not to breathe too loud or it’d all come crashing down.”

He looked to the floor again.

“When she was carved the first time, her hair changed.”

A hush moved through the room.

“Not white. Not silver. A kind of dark I’ve never seen since. Not black like ink — but like something that ate light. Like if you stared at it too long, it’d stare back.”

Auren shifted, unsettled.

“That was when we knew she was different,” Cael said. “The rest of us broke. She… shifted. Every carving after that made her darker, but also lighter, like something was being erased. Not just memories. Identity.”

Krysthalia’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

“I never stopped talking to her,” Cael finished. “Even when she stopped nodding. Even when she was promoted and sent out more often. Even when she could’ve killed me for breathing wrong. I still talked.”

“She was the little sister I never had.”

The moment Cael finished speaking, the silence fractured. A Thalaran lord stood from his seat, eyes hard.

“We should kill him. Now. There’s no guarantee he hasn’t been planted.”

“He admitted to serving them,” snapped the Daervan envoy. “What more do we need? His blood could seal the chamber.”

“Fools,” muttered Kaen, rubbing his temple. “You think killing one ghost guts the whole graveyard?”

Another envoy leaned forward.

“Interrogate him. Dissect him if we must. If the Hollow Vows truly exist—if they engineered this—then this boy is worth more alive than dead.”

“He’s worth more in chains,” added the Velarûn representative softly. “One story told under pressure is worth a dozen truths spoken freely.”

Cael said nothing. Until his voice broke calmly through the noise.

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

The room quieted.

He looked to Krysthalia, not pleading, but resolute.

“I’ll answer every question. Every order. Every map, every name, every ritual.”

A pause.

“On one condition.”

Eyes narrowed.

“Let me stay by her side.”

There was silence.

And then chaos.

“Out of the question!” the Containe envoy shouted. “He’s dangerous!”

“You’re hosting a festival for a girl who leveled half your chamber with her light,” Kaen growled. “This one barely breathes loudly.”

“You don't understand—”

“No,” Cael interrupted. His voice was cold. Clear.

He looked directly at the Containe envoy.

“You don’t understand.”

“What—”

“The kings of Containe knew about the Hollow Vows. Your lords didn’t just tolerate them. They used them. Paid them. Fed them names.”

A breathless beat.

“Helion was the one who commissioned the death of his own brother.”

The chamber erupted. Someone swore aloud. The Daervan speaker stood, knocking over his chair. The Thalaran princess slammed a gauntlet against the stone dais.

“You dare accuse royalty without evidence—”

“It was never written,” Cael said. “But I was there when the order was given. I wasn’t supposed to hear it. I did.”

The Containe envoy stood, face pale, shaking.

“That’s a lie. A filthy— I was not told of this. I have no knowledge—”

“That’s the point,” Cael replied. “You weren’t meant to. You were never meant to inherit this mess.”

The voices rose again, swelling into a storm of threats and accusations— until electricity cracked in the air. Not loud. Not violent. Just present — sudden and sharp, the scent of ozone washing over the chamber. Everyone turned. Krysthalia stood, eyes glowing faintly, fingertips trailing faint arcs of lightning. When she spoke, her voice was iron-still.

“Enough.”

The air itself seemed to pause.

“You speak of power, of politics, of control. You treat her like a weapon. Him like he is some toxin. This chamber like a damned chessboard.”

The crackle of static crept higher around her frame.

“But you forget what it feels like to lose a child. To feel them ripped away by shadows in your own halls.”

Her eyes swept across the thrones.

“He stays. And so does the council.”

“But if any of you raise a hand against her—”

The next pulse of lightning split a crack in the marble beneath her feet.

“—you will see what the mother of that miracle can do.”

No one argued. Not then. The silence Krysthalia left in her wake was absolute. No one moved. No one breathed too loudly. Even the wind beyond the stained-glass remnants seemed to hold still. She stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“This council is adjourned,” she said, voice calm but unyielding. “Reconvene when the realm has something more than rumors and corpses to offer.”

Her gaze swept over them one final time.

“Until then, I will be returning to Greyclaw. With my daughter—” she let the word hang, unmistakable, “—and with him.”

She gestured toward Cael.

“There is no vote. No discussion. No challenge.”

Her eyes glinted with controlled lightning.

“Unless one of you would like to test what’s left of my restraint.”

Not even Beiron moved. Not a single voice rose to challenge her. Not the Velarûn. Not Daervan. Not even the envoy from Containe. Krysthalia turned without another word and crossed the chamber to where Cael stood between the Silvermanes. She didn’t look at the guards. She didn’t ask. She simply reached out and snapped the shackles apart with a crackle of electricity. The binding runes flared, hissed, and died. Cael rubbed his wrists but didn’t move. She gave him one look. A silent command. And he followed. The long corridor beyond the chamber was lined with quiet guards and ash-laced sunlight. Krysthalia moved quickly, her cape trailing behind her like a storm cloud held together by a thread.

Cael walked beside her, just behind pace, hands still half-clenched.

“Thank you,” he said, voice softer than before.

She didn’t slow.

“You’re going to give me every location. Every name. Every weak point. I want their maps. I want their breathing patterns.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It might be more than you can bear.”

She stopped at the top of the stairs.

Her voice didn’t tremble.

“I bore the weight of a kingdom while still bleeding from a battlefield. I bore the silence of a daughter gone. And I bore the stillness of my husband’s last breath before the healers failed.”

She turned to him then.

“I can bear far more than anything you’re afraid to say.”

Cael blinked — and for the first time in days, the corner of his mouth curled into something almost warm.

“Well,” he said, with a faint chuckle. “At least now I know where she got her fire.”

Krysthalia said nothing. But she didn’t deny it.