Chapter 11

Amriel gnawed at her lower lip, a habit she hadn't been able to break since childhood. The weight of what she'd discovered sat heavy in her chest, an unspoken burden that refused to settle. From the moment the ancient runes in the Academy's forbidden tome had started making sense—clear as day, as if she had known the language her whole life—dread had coiled itself around her ribs and refused to let go.

Worse, she didn't know what to do about it.

Yes, there was a chance this could be some ancient fantasy story written to entertain, like the ones that filled her bookshelves at home. But…what if this prophecy was real?

Either way, she had to tell someone, that much was clear. But who? and how? And just how much shit was this going to stirr up?

Enough to endanger anyone beyond herself?

Heck, would anyone even believe her anyways?

Because, really, how did one go about saying, Oh, by the way, I can suddenly read a five-thousand-year-old dead language, and it just so happens to contain a prophecy that sounds a lot like impending doom?

Silver fire? A Door To Eternity? And what in all the realms were Starlight Witches, anyway?

Fortunately, Niamh was more than ready to help her along.

"Alright, Varden, spit it out," Niamh said, her tone equal mix of command and concern.

Amriel half smiled despite herself, "I'm alright, Nimah. Don't worry about you. I'm just tired from keeping watch over my patient all night."

"No, don't give me that," Niamh shook her head, the sunlight glinted off her deep red hair, "Even before this stranger arrived, something was eating at you."

"Please, don't worry about me. Really."

Niamh shot her a knowing glance, the kind that said I'm not letting this go, but instead of pressing immediately, she adjusted the strap of her satchel and kept walking. Her easy gait was a contrast to Amriel's tension, but then again, Niamh had always moved through the world like someone who trusted the ground would hold her.

Finally, just when Amriel thought her friend might have let it go, Nimah spoke, "Riel, as your friend, it is both my duty and my pleasure to worry about you. So, please, don't try that shit on me. You've looked like you've seen a ghost these past few days."

"Does a dead language count?"

"I beg your, pardon?"

Amriel nudged a loose stone with the toe of her boot, watching it tumble down the dirt path before settling in the grass. The movement gave her something to focus on, something small and harmless—unlike the storm of thoughts rattling in her head.

"Fine," she muttered, exhaling sharply. "Alright, here goes… You know that ancient tome in the Academy?"

"The dusty old relic you were gawking at the other day?" Niamh asked, one brow lifting.

"Yeah, that one." Amriel inhaled deeply, bracing herself. Her pulse thudded in her ears, her stomach tightening. She forced the words out before she lost her nerve. "I can read it now."

Niamh stopped mid-step.

For a long second, she just blinked, her expression unreadable. Then, in a graceful pivot—impressive, considering the well-worn boots she wore—Niamh turned to fully face Amriel.

"Wait, what?" Her voice was slow, measured, like she needed to make sure she had heard correctly. "You can read it? The tome written in a dead language no one has spoken in five thousand years? That one?"

Amriel shifted under the weight of her stare. "…Mmhm."

Niamh exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. "Well, I'll be damned," she muttered. "That's either incredible or absolutely horrifying. I'm still deciding."

Amriel let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah, get in line."

Niamh hesitated, glancing at her like she was debating whether or not to push further. Then, mischief flickered across her face. "So, what does it say? Wait, let me guess. It's a book of love poems?"

Amriel gave her a flat look. "Not quite."

Niamh snapped her fingers. "Oh! An instruction manual for the castle's lavatory system?" She grinned. "Please tell me that's it. All these years, all these scholars, all those lives lost trying to decipher… the ancient art of maintaining the royal poop chutes."

Despite herself, Amriel cracked a smile. Just a small one.

Which, of course, only encouraged Niamh.

"Alright, alright," she continued, eyes glinting. "Let me try one more. Is it some doomsday prophecy about dragons and demon lords?"

Amriel hesitated. "No dragons. No demon lords," she admitted. "But… yeah. Pretty sure it's a prophecy."

Niamh's grin faded. "Shit."

"Yeah."

For a moment, the only sound between them was the crunch of their boots against the dirt path. A slow breeze rustled the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth left behind by the storm.

Finally, Niamh shook her head. "I gotta say, I was hoping for something a little more original," she said, half-joking. "A doomsday prophecy? Bit overdone, don't you think? Feels like half the books I've ever read have one."

Amriel let out a short breath, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, well, this one might actually be real."

"Which is significantly less fun," Niamh pointed out. "So, what does it say?"

Amriel hesitated, glancing around as if some unseen spy might be lurking in the trees. Then, lowering her voice, she murmured, "'When the last of the Starlight Witches falls, the door to Eternity will open.'"

Niamh frowned. "Starlight Witches? Door to Eternity?" She tilted her head. "No clue what any of that means, but I can already tell it's not good."

Amriel sighed. "That makes two of us."

"You thinking of telling someone?"

"I was considering Kortana tomorrow after class," Amriel admitted, already half-expecting Niamh's reaction.

And she wasn't disappointed.

"Oh, yeah, no. Hard pass." Niamh shook her head, making a face. "That witch should not be your go-to."

Amriel smirked. "Not a fan?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Figured as much."

Niamh crossed her arms. "Look, I'd start with Mara. She always has her head stuck in some book or another—there's a chance she might've read something that could help."

Amriel nodded slowly. "You might be right about that."

Niamh pursed her lips, considering. "Only problem is, how do you ask without telling her why you need to know?"

"I'll play it off like it's a riddle in a book I'm reading," Amriel said. "She loves puzzles."

Niamh arched a brow. "So… lying, but not really lying."

"More like a strategic omission."

Niamh smirked. "I like the way you think."

The tension between them eased, just slightly, as they continued down the path. The market lay ahead, the sounds of laughter and distant chatter drifted toward them, a reminder that life carried on, even when the weight of forgotten prophecies pressed against her.

As they walked, Niamh nudged her with an elbow. "So, you sure it's not a poop chute manual?"

Amriel rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time.

Niamh snorted, but the humor faded as quickly as it had come. She inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself, and then glanced at Amriel, her sharp green eyes serious. "Just… promise me you'll be careful."

The words were soft, but they settled between them like a heavy stone.

Amriel's lips quirked in what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though her stomach still felt tight with unease. "Always am, Nia."

"Liar." Niamh shook her head with a quiet chuckle. "Dead languages and half-dead handsome men. You do know you could just take up knitting like a normal person, right? Though, I must say, as a wife and mother of two, thank you."

This time it was Amriel's turn to snort softly in response.

The city gates loomed ahead, and the moment they stepped past them, the world around them transformed.

The northern open-air market was already alive with movement and color. Merchants bustled about, arranging their wares—bolts of richly dyed fabrics, bundles of dried herbs, polished trinkets that caught the firelight. Voices rose in an overlapping hum, the calls of vendors mingling with the laughter of children weaving between carts.

And the smells—gods, the smells.

Warm bread, sharp spices, the sweet perfume of ripe fruit. Somewhere nearby, someone was roasting chestnuts, the nutty aroma curling through the crisp evening air. Amriel's stomach growled in response, low and insistent, and she shot Niamh a sheepish look.

"Lonny's tarts are calling to me," she said, already steering toward the bakery stall before Niamh could object.

"Shocking," Niamh deadpanned, though she followed without hesitation.

The moment they reached the stall, the scent of cinnamon and sugar wrapped around them like a warm embrace. Rows of golden pastries lined the counter, their flaky crusts glistening in the lantern light. Amriel could already taste the sweet, sticky raisins melting on her tongue.

"Good evening, Lonny!" they greeted in unison.

Lonny Miller, a stout woman with flour-dusted hands and a perpetually knowing smile, looked up from where she was kneading dough. "Ah, I was wondering when you two would show up." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I've got something I'd like you to take a look at, Amriel."

That piqued her curiosity. "Something wrong?"

"Not wrong, just… odd," Lonny said vaguely. "I'll show you in a minute."

Niamh was already handing over a copper coin. "Alright, you do that, and I'll go see Greg. Hoping he's got those yellow potatoes the girls won't stop asking for." She grabbed a tart, winked at Amriel, and disappeared into the crowd.

Amriel barely registered her departure—she was already sinking her teeth into the warm pastry. The first bite was heavenly—flaky, buttery, the cinnamon-spiced raisins practically melting in her mouth. She made a soft, pleased sound and finished it in a few quick bites, licking the last traces of sugar from her fingers before following Lonny into the bakery.

Whatever had the baker uneasy, she had a feeling it wasn't just about pastries.

"When did this first start?" Amriel crouched beside Lonny, studying the rash creeping along the older woman's calf. The blotchy red skin was irritated, inflamed, the edges slightly raised. In the filtered light streaming through the cottage window, it almost looked angrier than it likely felt.

Lonny sighed, shifting in her seat. "Yesterday morning, I think. It was just a little itch at first, but now—" she huffed, giving her leg a halfhearted scratch, "—it's like fire ants are crawling under my skin."

Amriel frowned. "Did you go anywhere unusual that day?"

Lonny tilted her head in thought, her fingers drumming lightly on her knee. "Not really. Just took the grandbabies for a walk through the forest." Her expression softened. "Their mum's expecting again—fourth one—so I figured she could use the rest."

Amriel nodded, waiting. A walk through the woods wasn't enough. "Did you leave the paths at all?"

"No, I don't—" Lonny stopped, her eyes widening slightly. "Ah, damn." She let out a small laugh, shaking her head at herself. "Little Gabby saw a rabbit and took off. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

Amriel smothered a grin, picturing it—the stout, no-nonsense grandmother tearing through the underbrush after a gleeful child on the heels of a terrified rabbit.

"That explains it." She shifted back on her heels, reassured. "You brushed up against a Candara plant. They grow thick off the main paths, and they cause rashes just like this one."

Lonny exhaled, relief washing over her features. "Well, that's good to hear. I was starting to worry I'd caught something wicked."

"I'll mix up a poultice when I get home," Amriel promised, already cataloging the herbs in her stores. "It should ease the itching. I'll make some for Gabby too—if she ran through the same brush, she's probably scratching up a storm by now."

Before Amriel could rise, Lonny's arms were around her, pulling her into a firm embrace. The warmth of it caught her off guard.

She stiffened, unsure how to react. Her own mother had never been one for idle affection, and Amriel had never learned how to accept it without feeling like an imposter in someone else's warmth.

But Lonny didn't let go.

After a beat, Amriel allowed herself to relax, just a little. Her arms hesitated before returning the embrace—light, careful, unsure.

"My pleasure, Lonny," she said softly as they pulled apart, hoping the warmth in her voice made up for the awkwardness in her limbs.

As she stepped back, a strange feeling settled in her chest. A flicker of something unfamiliar. Lighter, maybe. Less like she was standing outside of something and more like she had been pulled into it, even if only for a moment.

She turned toward the door, heading back to Niamh, and tried not to think too hard about why that moment stayed with her longer than it should have.