Beneath a Broken Sky
The world was silent.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Ophelia's own breath, sharp and unsteady, the frantic pounding of her heart filling her ears.
She was alive.
She could feel the warmth of strong arms wrapped around her, steady and unwavering. The scent of something unfamiliar—earth and distant storms—clung to the air.
Slowly, her mind caught up with her body.
The observatory—gone.
The stars above were no longer framed by its arched glass ceiling. There was only the open sky now, stretching vast and endless above them, fractured and wrong.
Zoriel had caught her.
She could feel his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, steady and unyielding, a stark contrast to the storm raging through her own chest.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then, his voice, quiet but firm—"You're safe."
Ophelia sucked in a breath. The weight of everything crashed down on her all at once.
She pushed against his chest, and he let her go.
Her feet hit solid ground—barely. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her, and she had to brace herself against the broken stone beneath them.
The observatory was in ruins.
Jagged pieces of glass lay scattered across the fractured marble, the once-proud tower now nothing more than a shattered skeleton of what it had been.
She turned slowly, her breath hitching as her gaze lifted to the sky.
It was splintered.
Not just clouded, not storm-ridden—cracked.
The constellations wavered, pulsing faintly as if struggling to hold their form. A massive, gaping tear split the heavens above them, deep and jagged, revealing nothing but endless black beyond.
It was as if something had ripped a hole in the night itself.
She tore her gaze away.
The Forgotten were gone.
At least, for now. But she could still feel the echo of their presence, the way the air had been tainted by them.
And then—the book.
She spun sharply, searching.
There—among the rubble, half-buried beneath broken stone. The cover was torn, its pages fluttering wildly in the shifting wind.
Ophelia lunged for it, her hands closing around the leather spine. The moment her fingers touched it, the ink shifted.
The words bled across the page, forming and reforming, as if the book was struggling to decide what should be written.
She flipped to the last page she had seen.
"The prince fell, but the stars did not forget. He was buried, but the heavens would not let him rest. The name was burned away, the kingdom swallowed whole, and yet—"
The ink smudged again.
And this time, a new line appeared.
"She is the key."
Ophelia's pulse stilled.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Zoriel was watching her, his golden eyes unreadable, his expression carved from stone.
"What does this mean?" she whispered, her voice barely above the wind.
For the first time since she had met him, he hesitated.
Then, finally—
"It means," he said, "that this was never just about me."
⸻
The Ruins Beneath Seraphis
The palace guards arrived not long after, their shouts echoing through the night as they scrambled toward the wreckage.
Ophelia barely registered them.
She barely registered anything but the weight of the words she had just read.
"She is the key."
The words burned in her mind, looping over and over. What did it mean? Who had written them?
She glanced at Zoriel. He stood just beyond the rubble, untouched by the chaos, his expression unreadable. The wind caught the frayed edges of his cloak, sending it billowing behind him.
He had not moved.
Not spoken.
As if he already knew what she would ask next.
"Come with me," she said.
He blinked, just once, but did not refuse.
She turned toward the palace, gripping the book so tightly her knuckles ached.
If the answers weren't in the stars, if they weren't in books—then they had to be buried in the past.
And if Vordane had been erased from history, there was only one place left where remnants of it might still exist.
Beneath the palace itself.
⸻
The forgotten ruins of Seraphis were older than the kingdom itself.
Most of the city did not know they existed.
The tunnels ran deep—far beneath the royal halls, beneath the marble bridges and gardens, beneath the stone-paved streets where nobles and merchants unknowingly walked over secrets buried long before their time.
But Ophelia knew.
Thorne had shown her once, years ago, when she was still a child with ink-stained fingers and more curiosity than fear.
She had asked about them. He had only given her a single warning.
"Some things are buried for a reason."
Now, she was about to unbury them.
The entrance lay hidden beneath the western wing of the palace, disguised as a long-abandoned storage chamber. The guards rarely patrolled this part of the castle, making it easy for Ophelia to slip through the old corridors undetected.
Zoriel followed without a word.
She could feel the weight of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to shift around him.
Like he did not quite belong in this world.
Like he was still waiting for something to pull him back.
Ophelia lit a lantern, the glow casting long shadows across the ancient stone walls. The tunnel sloped downward, the scent of damp earth thick in the air.
A whisper of wind moved through the darkness.
The hairs on her arms rose.
Zoriel suddenly stopped.
Ophelia turned. "What is it?"
His golden gaze flickered to the end of the tunnel.
Something was waiting there.
She could feel it now, too—the shift, the weight, the unseen presence pressing against the walls of time itself.
The ruins beneath Seraphis were not empty.
Ophelia tightened her grip on the book.
Then, she took a breath—and stepped forward.