Chapter 4: Echoes of the Past

Seraphina couldn't sleep.

Even after the meeting had ended, after she had returned to her quarters, the name Raziel echoed in her mind like a forgotten melody—something on the edge of her memory, just out of reach.

She sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the candlelight flickering on the stone wall. Her fingers traced the hilt of her dagger, a familiar motion meant to steady her thoughts. But tonight, nothing helped.

With a frustrated sigh, she stood and pulled on her cloak. If she couldn't silence the storm in her mind, she would at least tire herself out.

She made her way through the quiet halls of the Silver Flame stronghold, past rows of torches casting long shadows. Her feet carried her to the training grounds before she even realized where she was going.

Lysander was already there.

He stood in the moonlit yard, sword in hand, moving through the familiar forms of battle. He glanced at her as she approached, his golden eyes sharp even in the dim light.

"Restless again?"

Seraphina sighed. "Something like that."

Lysander lowered his blade, watching her closely. "You heard his name, didn't you?"

She frowned. "Who?"

"Raziel."

A chill ran down her spine. "It was just a name in a report."

Lysander tilted his head slightly, as if studying her reaction. "Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"

Seraphina opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat.

Because he's right.

Ever since she had heard that name, something had shifted inside her. A feeling. A memory she didn't understand.

Lysander sighed and tossed his sword onto the nearby rack. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the center of the training yard. "You're overthinking. Spar with me."

Seraphina hesitated, then nodded. Maybe this was what she needed—a fight to clear her mind.

They took their stances, circling each other. Lysander struck first, fast and precise, but she was faster, deflecting with ease. Their movements were sharp, measured—until something changed.

Seraphina stepped forward, twisting her blade—and suddenly, the world tilted.

A sharp pain pulsed behind her eyes.

The training yard vanished.

She was somewhere else—

A ruined battlefield, fire in the sky.

She turned, and there he was.

Silver eyes. A dark cloak billowing in the wind. A hand reaching for her.

"Elara—"

Her breath caught. The name wasn't hers—but it felt like it was.

Then, a sharp pain slammed into her chest, and she gasped, staggering backward.

The vision shattered. The training yard returned.

Lysander stood in front of her, his expression unreadable. He had knocked her sword from her hand, concern flickering in his golden eyes. "Seraphina?"

She was breathing hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.

What was that?

She swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. They were trembling.

Lysander frowned. "You saw something."

Seraphina clenched her fists. She wasn't sure what she saw—but she knew, deep down, it wasn't just a dream.

Something inside her was waking up.

And it terrified her.

—❖—