Chapter Five
The Bloodglass Eye
In the ruins of an old cathedral—half-swallowed by the Riftlands and strangled in thorn—Veyrith knelt before a mirror like object.
Its surface rippled, held in place by six obsidian chains. Reflections twisted there, warped by magic older than the Accord, by promises made in blood and forgotten languages.
He pressed two fingers to the glass.
A single drop of his blackened blood spread across its surface.
The image shifted.
Kael Riven.
Standing in snow. Sword across his back. That damned mark on his palm.
"Found you," Veyrith said softly, his voice a razor wrapped in silk.
His reflection smiled at him, though he did not smile.
Behind him, his hounds stirred.
Not beasts of fur and fang—but constructs of flesh and shadow, bone-bound and breathless. Born from the remains of creatures that had once served the Accord… before their gods abandoned them.
"You see him now," came a voice—female, disembodied, but heavy with presence. "The Bound one. The last Ashten."
Veyrith didn't look up.
"I see a boy with too much fire and not enough control."
"And yet, he spoke the name," the voice said. "He opened the gate. He cracked the seal."
"He'll die before he learns what it means."
The voice was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Do not kill him yet."
Veyrith blinked.
"He is not ready," she continued. "The forge is hot, but the blade is unshaped. You will follow. Observe. Strike only if he nears a truth he should not hold."
Veyrith rose, the chains clinking softly around his wrists.
"And when he does?"
"Then," the voice purred, "you may cut out the fire."
He turned away from the mirror. His hounds fell in behind him, their breath rattling like dead leaves in winter wind.
As he passed the cathedral doors, he whispered to no one:
"Run far, little heir. But the dark walks faster than fire."
--
Far from the Riftlands, in the heart of the storm-wreathed city of Virelith, Seren Vael stood before the fractured Accordstone.
Her reflection shimmered in the obsidian surface—tall, statuesque, and wrapped in ceremonial robes etched with runes of both sun and moon. Silver eyes, framed by skin the color of rich duskwood, betrayed no emotion. Her long braids were adorned with shards of crystal and bone, each one a vow taken, a secret kept.
Seren was Elunari, one of the last living bloodlines touched by both light and shadow. Born of twilight, they were once the stewards of balance in the age before the Accord. Neither immortal nor entirely mortal, their lives were measured not in years—but in purpose.
And Seren's had just returned to her.
"The seal cracked," she said aloud, to no one. "The mark answered. The Ashten is awake."
She turned from the Accordstone, its glow now faint. Outside, the storm that had haunted Virelith for weeks was breaking—sunlight piercing through in sharp, golden spears.
Behind her, the High Chancellor entered.
"You were right," he said. "Something stirs."
Seren didn't reply immediately. She placed her hand against a glyph burned into the wall. It pulsed, showing her the distant mountain where Kael had stood.
"He's young," she said. "But the fire is real."
The Chancellor hesitated. "And Nyren?"
Seren's jaw tightened.
---
In the deep forest of Eltharyn, the Witch-Mother stirred.
Nyren was tall and lean, her face angular, carved from wisdom and wildness. Her dark green skin was painted with vines—living ones—that grew along her arms and neck, binding her to the forest's will. Her hair, black as pitch and streaked with bark-gray, flowed freely down her back, heavy with age and ancient magic.
Nyren was Sylari, a forestborn race once revered as spirit-weavers and wardens of primal realms. But those days were gone. The world had shifted. The gods had gone silent. And Nyren had walked away from the Accord long before it cracked.
Now, she watched the young heir from her mirror of root and water.
She watched Kael.
"He does not run," she said aloud.
The creature bound in chains behind her growled.
"He should."
Nyren smiled faintly. "That's what makes him dangerous."
---
Back in Virelith, Seren paced the Sanctum floor.
"Nyren will go to him," she said to the Chancellor. "Or worse—he'll go to her."
"She's a traitor."
"She's a teacher," Seren corrected. "And if she gets to him first, we lose any chance of guiding the Ashten."
"You speak as if he has a choice."
Seren turned, her silver eyes gleaming.
"He does."
The Chancellor looked uneasy. "And if he chooses wrong?"
Seren placed her fingers against her mark—the old seal glowing on her wrist.
"Then the gods will not weep this time," she said softly. "They will burn."
Continue to chapter VI...