Chapter 15 — Embers Beneath the Nectar

No one speaks of the small hours between moon‑set and sunrise—hours when even the most vigilant guard yawns, when spells loosen like too‑tightly cinched cloaks, when the world's breath seems to stall. In Tenebris we call that window Ember Silence, because the palace forges settle into a lull: embers still hot but quiet, pretending to sleep.

Since the sunless‑dawn incident, I have spent every Ember Silence at my writing desk, cataloguing tremors in ley‑lines, shifts in Asterion constellation, and fragments of unfolding dreams—dreams in which star‑blossom petals transform into tiny glass birds that ask me riddles before dissolving into root‑iron dust. Ravan insists I sleep, but sleep eludes me; the field between suns may be stable, yet its pulse echoes through my bones like a second heartbeat.

Tonight, ink dried faster than thought, and parchment remained blank. So I exchanged quill for cloak and padded toward Mirror Wing, hoping stillness there would settle my mind.

The corridors whispered familiar reflections—not of darker realms this time, but of everyday life: priests laughing over kittens chasing feather‑quills, children racing through Dawnroot rows, Vael lecturing apprentices on aerodynamics. Mirrors had grown fond of showing me what I missed while governing. It felt like a gentle taunt—Look, queen: balance exists without you for a moment; dare you rest?

At the Chrona Obelisk I paused. No new cracks. Good. I turned to leave when soft clink sounded—glass on stone. A shard the size of my thumb had dropped from nowhere, shapes shifting on its surface. I stooped; it flashed scene: Custodian watchers hovering above Glen, arguing in star‑sign speech. They pointed at mirror‑tree, at soil, at my own shimmering likeness—then the shard melted to water in my palm.

Unease tightened ribs. Custodians rarely argue. Whatever they debated likely involved probation. I needed to confer with them at dawn.

I retraced steps and nearly collided with Calia, barefoot, hair in sleep‑braids, carrying basket of pastries bandaged in linen. "Couldn't sleep," we both muttered, then grinned. She'd been baking to quell nerves. Together we climbed rooftop stairs to share pastries under faint glow of lantern‑lilacs.

The mirror‑tree seedling in urn looked peaceful—no ominous blooms—so we sat on warm stone. Calia spoke of orphans mastering demon calligraphy, of priests cultivating frost‑root tea. I listened, letting peace soak like syrup into pastry.

Suddenly, a gust snapped vines; lantern blossoms flickered out. The courtyard beyond wall lit with erratic flashes—forge‑embers roaring back to life, as though stoked by unseen bellows. Ember Silence broken.

We rushed down to furnace terrace. Blacksmiths tumbled from bunks half‑dressed, staring at forges that had ignited themselves, coals whipping into tornadoes. Sparks shot skyward, spelling runes that flared then vanished.

Ravan arrived, circlet burning white. His voice cut through roaring metal. "Contain vents!" But every damper lever fought, creaking open as if possessed. Licks of root‑iron green braided with orange flame.

Root‑iron? It was supposed to be sealed near Glen. Vael's scouts had assured us vault security held after theft attempt.

I called soul‑fire into palms, carving sigils across forge mouths; Ravan bound his shadow to them. Together we forced lids to slam, choking oxygen. Embers died to smoulder, but not before one last plume burst higher than parapets, splattering molten droplets across basalt. Where droplets cooled, they hardened into petalled shapes—tiny replicas of star‑blossom flowers. Their glow bled outward like slow ink.

Archivist shuffled in, rubbing sleep from blind eyes. He knelt, touched a cooled blossom. "Root‑iron bloom," he confirmed. "Someone fed fragment with forge breath. It tried to birth weapons."

"Impossible," Vael growled from balcony, spear leveled. "Box untouched."

Ravan's jaw clenched. "Then fragments remain elsewhere." He turned to me. "We ride for Dawnroot at first light—Custodians must help locate hidden shards."

Calia bit lip. "And Glen is short on defenders. Brina wrote this evening—dozens of Ashvale renegades join each day, yet loyalty fragile."

I finished stamping last rune, heart hammering. "Then we strengthen them—give them truth."

We departed an hour before sunrise, nightmare steeds breathing streaks of sapphire fire. Calia stayed behind to audit every vault with Vael. I carried pouch of mirror‑tree petals, hoping Custodians would interpret them as peace tokens; Ravan held sample of molten root‑iron bloom for evidence.

Crossing Veil Gate, we found Glen blanketed by deep fog, though air otherwise dry. Fog glowed faint turquoise—Afterlight refracting? No, this was forge‑ember dust diffused.

At central circle, mirror‑tree trunk flickered unsteady; Custodian watchers hovered, star‑cloaks swirling agitation. Brina approached: gauntlet fingers twitching anxiety. "Field quiet but vines trembled at midnight. We saw no intruders."

I knelt, hand to soil—static vibration, like forge coals earlier. Root‑iron seeds must have traveled via ley‑lines, singing to one another. The probation star net allowed fragment energy to slip between domains if triggered by Ember Silence—when Tenebris and surface ley‑streams aligned.

I rose. "We need Custodian maps of subterranean lines."

Watchers exchanged silent runes that danced like fireflies; then one projected hologram of glowing veins spanning both realms. Several nodes pulsed red—forge terrace, Glen's fountain, and an unexpected point: The Isles of Auron.

Auron's stone message returned to mind—visitor of living mirror. Root‑iron could have hitch‑hiked there, too.

Ravan cursed softly. "The saboteurs follow Auron's path, lighting each node." He jabbed finger at Glen's perimeter. "We sever network here."

Plan formed: Mirror‑tree would act as capacitor, absorbing root‑iron signal but only if shielded by sorrowless nectar. Our reserve vials nearly empty. Star‑blossom bloom again in seven nights. Too late. Unless…

"Lilac lanterns," I said, recalling rooftop vines. Their pollen absorbs forge‑ember residue. If we could steep petals into infusion, mimic nectar. I explained; Brina dispatched riders to collect lilac crates from Nightspire.

While waiting, Ravan and I inspected fountain where shards previously attempted breach. Water murky green. I dipped finger; ripple showed reflection of forge terrace, still smouldering. Portal forming.

We set quick ward: a cage of silver‑salt crystals and mirror‑petal powder from pouch. The ripple dulled. But static remained, humming like swarm.

Lilac crates arrived by midday. Priests boiled petals with phoenix‑tear drops, chanting. The air filled with fragrance of dusk gardens. Mirror‑tree brightened, as if recognizing cousin bloom. We painted lines of infusion around trunk and along every irrigation ditch. Green murk receded, replaced by clear water.

As final ditch closed, mania of root‑iron humming stilled. Dawnroot Glen sighed audible peace. Custodian watchers carved series of runes that shimmered amber—pride, I guessed. One watcher floated near me, extended palm; stardust grains condensed into coin‑sized medallion etched with eight‑point star over intertwining lilac and star‑blossom. Probation token? He placed medallion on my heart, where it melted into fabric, marking me as—what? Custodian liaison, perhaps.

Ravan watched, a rare softness crossing his face.

Yet victory never lingers. Echoing horn rang from north ridge: a sky‑legion signal of emergency. Vael's lieutenant swooped to us, talons scraping dirt.

"Nightspire under storm," she panted. "Forge vented again, larger. Calia missing."

My blood froze. Ravan's shadow whipped, nearly lashing messenger. "Explain."

"Vault inspectors found Calia's ledger open beside shattered lead box. Root‑iron fragment gone. She tracked thieves alone."

I bit back panic. "Coordinates?"

"Tracking charm tags lead west—toward Mirror Wing."

Saboteurs doubled back inside palace, using fragment as lure. Calia followed, likely hostage now.

Ravan summoned nightmare steeds. Brina insisted sending Ashvale riders to reinforce; I nodded, though speed priority. We left Glen in Brina's charge, Custodians hovering sentinel.

Galloping through Veil, we burst into palace courtyard now choked with smoke. Forge chimneys belched pyres. Guards formed lines but confusion reigned—mirrors along halls flickered scenes of Calia running, then of her bound, illusions weaving misdirection.

Archivist staggered from wing archway. "They invaded. Mirror bride tried shield them, shattered." He thrust shard at me—dripping silver blood. Horror spiked; mirror specter dying.

I pressed shard to chest, whispered offer of new memory: the taste of lilac pastries eaten at midnight. Shard pulsed, sealed crack. Not enough to restore her, but promise of life.

We tracked illusions: each mirror showing Calia older, younger, dead—aim to warp us. Ravan's shadow carved path, absorbing false images. Finally, in Hall of Confluence, real scene surfaced: Calia kneeling in rune circle, root‑iron fragment poised above her heart. Saboteur: hooded figure wearing Sarielle's phoenix‑plume cloak—one of her last acolytes.

He chanted to fuse fragment into Calia, turning her into conduit. She met my eyes—fear yet steady resolve.

"No!" I shouted, stepping onto circle. Runes flared against shoes; pain licked calves. Ravan moved to flank, but energy barrier crackled. Only one may cross without shattering ritual—me.

I drew twin‑dawn blade, feeding it sorrowless infusion residue clinging to gloves. Steel glowed dawn‑rose. Saboteur snarled, aiming fragment downward. I lunged, struck his wrist; blade parted cloth, embedding into fragment itself.

Twin‑dawn meets root‑iron: collision exploded hush. Light–shadow spiral around circle. I shielded Calia with body. Ravan's shadow thrummed outside barrier, anchoring.

Within spiral, I saw memories: Calia as child curing fevered brother, Sarielle recruiting acolyte with false salvation, my own scaffold fall. All braided, trying to rewrite. I poured lilac fragrance into whirlwind, promise of restful gardens. The spiral diluted, colors softening.

Fragment cracked, fell. Saboteur shrieked, demonic vines retracting. Ravan severed barrier, crushing man beneath shadow chains.

Calia collapsed. I held her, heart hammering. She breathed. "Ledger traced him," she whispered. "Didn't expect trap."

Ravan's rage softened to relief. Forge silence settled; embers doused. Mirror halls calmed, specter energy steady.

We escorted Calia to infirmary. Phoenix‑tear poultice glowed on her chest. Vael promised triple guard rotations. Root‑iron fragments melted in forge crucible under Custodian watch—no more vault. Instead, they recommended scattering ash along Glen borders—balance through returning to soil.

That night, balconies glowed with lilac lanterns bright as ever. I finished letter to Auron, sealing custodian token imprint. Told him Isles node safe but watchful.

On rooftop, I planted star‑blossom cutting near lilac. Ravan joined, hands over mine. No gust, no blooms of warning—only steady night and faint music of forges humming restful again.

"I fear pieces never stop testing us," I murmured.

"Pieces become mosaic," he replied, brushing hair from my brow. "Each trial sets tile—one day picture will gleam."

I looked across palace lights, Glen's faint shimmer far off, Custodian star winking approval. Puzzle not complete but image emerging: roots that drink both suns, embers that choose song over hunger, names that shield one another.

And as I returned to desk during Ember Silence, I found parchment filling itself—ink tracing story I'd just lived, letters glowing dawn‑rose. The mirror‑tree petal earlier had melted into quill tip, writing while I fought. Words read: Balance is not born; it is written by those who refuse to forget.

I smiled, signed my name, and let myself sleep at last, trusting the next Ember Silence to guard its own embers—with lilac scent, echoing children's laughter, and roots that finally learned to remember kindness over hunger.