Echoes of the Vale

The air in Alistair's study had thickened, pressing in with the weight of unspoken truths. The candle between them flickered, its weak glow casting restless shadows along the stone walls.

Seraphina held his gaze, waiting.

Alistair's expression was unreadable, but his hesitation told her enough—this truth, whatever it was, was not easily spoken.

Still, she had come too far to retreat.

"You said Ronan *chose* the sword," she murmured. "What does that mean?"

Alistair's fingers curled against the edge of the desk. "It means he was *called* to it. As you were."

A chill settled along Seraphina's spine.

"But you never touched it," she said. "Even when we were there, even when I—"

She hesitated.

Even when *it called to me.*

Alistair exhaled through his nose. "I learned long ago that some things are best left untouched."

His words should have been a warning.

But Seraphina was past heeding warnings.

She placed the book on the desk, its leather cover worn with age. "Tell me about the Black Vale," she said.

Alistair's gaze flickered toward the window, where the storm still raged. For a moment, she thought he would refuse.

Then—

"The Black Vale is not just a place," he murmured. "It is a threshold."

Seraphina frowned. "A threshold to what?"

Alistair's silver eyes darkened. "To whatever *waits* beyond the reach of this world."

The words sent a shiver through her.

She had heard of the Black Vale before—in passing, in half-whispered myths of a cursed land where the old gods had been forsaken. But none had spoken of it in *this* way.

None had spoken of it with *fear.*

She stepped closer. "And you think Ronan crossed it?"

Alistair's jaw tightened. "I know he did."

The certainty in his voice unsettled her.

"Then why hasn't he returned?"

Alistair's gaze met hers.

And in his eyes—

She saw the answer before he spoke it.

"Because no one who crosses the Vale ever does."

---

A gust of wind rattled the window, the storm's fury matching the unease in Seraphina's chest.

She lowered her voice. "You *know* this. Not just from stories."

Alistair's fingers curled against the edge of the desk. "I saw the signs before he left. The way the sword began to change him. The way he *became* something else."

Seraphina swallowed. "What do you mean?"

Alistair exhaled slowly. "The blade was never meant for mortals. That's what the old texts say. And yet, Ronan believed he was *chosen* for it. He spoke of visions, of whispers in his sleep. And then one day…"

He hesitated.

Seraphina took a step closer. "One day?"

Alistair's silver eyes darkened. "One day, he vanished. Without a word. Without a trace."

A heavy silence fell between them.

Seraphina turned her gaze to the book once more, the ancient script blurred in the dim light. She traced the runes with her fingertips.

"And you think the sword led him beyond the Black Vale?"

Alistair nodded once.

"Then if we find the sword's origin," she murmured, thinking aloud, "we find Ronan's path."

Alistair's expression hardened. "No."

Seraphina looked up.

His stance had shifted, shoulders rigid, a quiet tension radiating from him.

"You don't understand what you're saying," he continued. "Following that path means stepping into something *far* older than either of us. Something neither of us can control."

She studied him.

His voice was firm. His posture unyielding.

But his eyes—

His eyes betrayed him.

Beneath the warning, beneath the steel, there was something else.

Something like… *fear.*

Seraphina's fingers tightened around the book's worn leather.

"What if he's still alive?" she asked quietly.

Alistair went still.

The candlelight flickered between them.

For a long moment, he did not speak.

Then, at last, his voice came low and measured.

"If he is," he said, "then he is no longer the brother I once knew."

---

The storm had not yet quieted when Seraphina left Alistair's study, the book pressed tightly against her chest.

She walked the halls in silence, her thoughts tangled with the weight of what she had learned.

The Black Vale. The sword.

Ronan.

*The last bearer of the Nightbane blade.*

If the sword had called to her, as it had to him…

What did that *mean*?

She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away.

Her chambers were cold when she entered. The fire had burned low, but she did not rekindle it. Instead, she set the book upon the small wooden table beside her bed, her fingers lingering on its worn cover.

She should rest.

Should quiet her mind.

But sleep would not come easily.

Not when the echoes of Alistair's words still lingered in the air.

*No one who crosses the Vale ever does.*

She pulled the furs tighter around her, staring into the darkness.

She did not know if Ronan was truly lost.

But she did know one thing.

She was not done searching for answers.

And neither, she suspected, was Alistair.

---

The storm had passed by dawn, leaving behind a sky streaked with pale gray and the scent of damp earth.

Seraphina rose early, the weight of unanswered questions pressing against her ribs.

She needed more.

More than just Alistair's guarded warnings.

More than myths and half-truths.

She needed knowledge.

And there was one place in Ravenglade where knowledge was kept.

The archives.

Tucked beneath the eastern wing of the keep, the archives were a labyrinth of forgotten texts and dust-covered scrolls. A place few ventured, save for the scholars who had long since abandoned their posts.

She made her way through the quiet halls, her boots light against the stone.

The door was old, its wood warped from time, but it gave under her touch.

Inside, the scent of parchment filled the air. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with records of ages past.

Seraphina stepped forward, fingers trailing along the spines of books older than the keep itself.

There had to be something here.

Some mention of the sword. Of the Black Vale.

Of Ronan.

She searched through the morning light, her breath slow, steady.

And then—

She found it.

Tucked between two brittle tomes, half-buried in dust, was a manuscript bound in faded red leather.

She pulled it free, brushing away the dust.

The title was barely legible, worn by time.

But she could still make out the words.

*"The Lost King's Path."*

Her heart pounded.

She opened it carefully, scanning the pages.

And there—

In faded ink—

She saw the name *Ronan Valcrest.*

Her fingers trembled as she traced the letters.

*The last bearer of the Nightbane blade.*

She turned the page, eyes racing over the script.

*He who follows the lost path must be willing to pay the price.*

Her breath caught.

She turned another page—

Footsteps.

She froze.

A shadow stretched across the floor.

Slowly, she looked up.

Alistair stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

His silver eyes flickered to the book in her hands.

Then, quietly—

"You shouldn't have found that."

---