Chapter 5: The Vault Beneath the Crown

The rain was falling over Haldrath when Eritrea and Ronan surfaced from the tunnels beneath the dead chapel, cloaked in rags, the scent of earth and old magic still clinging to them. No one noticed them—just two more shadows under a thousand others in a kingdom soaked in secrets and sorrow.

But under their cloaks, they carried things more dangerous than weapons:A map to the Windthrone,A dagger etched in truth,And the knowledge of who Eritrea truly was.

Graylock had remained behind in the Vault. Not because he was afraid—but because his part was done. "You're not children anymore," he had said. "And I'm no longer your guide. The next choices are yours."

Eritrea hadn't said goodbye. She didn't know how.

Now, the city loomed before her.

The true capital.

Not the towers and banners seen in paintings. But the filth between the alleys. The whispers under floorboards. The broken men selling broken things for broken coin. This was the Haldrath that raised assassins, crowned tyrants, and buried saints without names.

Ronan pulled his hood down farther and pressed his body into the crowd. "Eyes everywhere," he said.

"Let them watch," Eritrea murmured. "They don't know what they're watching."

She had dyed her hair with crushed ashberries along the way—now it was auburn-black, wild and unbraided. Her skin was stained with travel, her posture slightly slouched, her ring finger bandaged. No one would guess she carried royal blood… or that the girl beneath that cloak once shattered a sealing stone and survived the Mirror Hall.

Still, the city was tense.

The King's Proclamation had already gone out.

Posters were pasted to stone walls, flapping in the wind:

WANTED: The Witch of Windborn.For crimes of sorcery, sedition, and murder of royal soldiers.Reward: 1,000 crowns, dead or alive.Report sightings to the nearest Crown Guard.

Eritrea stared at one of the posters. The sketch was shockingly accurate—right down to the slight scar near her eye.

"They move faster than I thought," she muttered.

Ronan tore it down. "You're not a witch."

"No," she said. "But I've stopped correcting people."

They slipped down a side alley in the Market District. The streets were already filled with merchant carts and black-market stalls, most guarded by brutes in leather. No one looked twice at them. The poor never looked up—only at food, warmth, or a blade.

Their destination lay beneath the city's southernmost arch—an entrance known only to grave-robbers and spies.

The map led them to a sealed mausoleum carved into the stone wall itself. There was no door. Just a carving of a lion and a flame.

Eritrea pressed the dagger of truth into the stone between the lion's teeth.

Nothing happened.

Until—

The stone clicked. A grinding rumble sounded from below. Then, the ground beneath them shifted—sinking down like a slow-moving platform.

Ronan grabbed her arm. "Hold on."

They descended into shadow.

The descent was slow but unnerving. The walls were carved with runes—some in languages neither of them recognized. Others in perfect, crisp Serenian—the language of Eritrea's mother's bloodline.

"Do you know what they say?" Ronan asked.

Eritrea nodded slowly, translating aloud:

"We are not born to rule,We are born to guard.For every crown cast in gold,There is a throne buried in blood."

When they finally reached the bottom, the air shifted.

It was colder here—but not like winter. Like memory.

The chamber was vast—more so than the Vault they'd left behind. Pillars of onyx stretched into darkness, and between them were mirrors—again, but not floating. These were set into the walls, each with names beneath them.

Ronan stepped closer.

"Those are kings."

Eritrea nodded.

"And queens," she added, running her finger over a name etched into marble: Serenya of the First Fire.

Her mother's ancestor.

The truth of the Windborn was laid bare in stone.

They weren't rebels.They weren't witches.They were the original heirs.

But the truth had been buried. Rewritten. Hidden by generations of men who feared a lineage they couldn't control.

"Why does no one know this exists?" Ronan asked.

"Because the only ones who knew sealed it themselves," Eritrea said. "They feared what it would mean for the realm. For order."

She turned to face the final mirror.

There was no name under this one.

But her reflection stared back—older, wiser, with a circlet on her brow and a blade in her hand.

"I've seen this before," she whispered.

"In the Mirror Hall," Ronan murmured.

"No," she said. "In my dreams. Since I was a child."

She reached toward it.

The mirror rippled.

And then—split open.

Behind it was a narrow corridor bathed in soft white light. The air smelled like rain on stone and something else—home.

They stepped through together.

At the end was a throne.

Not made of gold.Not made of iron.But of living wood, intertwined with veins of silver and flame.

It pulsed. Waiting.

But Eritrea didn't sit.

Not yet.

She turned to Ronan. "This isn't just a throne. It's a choice."

"A choice for what?"

"For how the story ends."

The throne did not shine.

It didn't gleam like the gold-plated monstrosity in the royal palace, nor did it dominate the room like a monument to conquest. It pulsed softly with breath-like energy, woven from living roots that twisted through silver veins, encircling a high backrest shaped like a pair of unfurled wings.

Eritrea stood before it, unmoving.

Ronan, now recovered and steady, circled the edge of the chamber. His torchlight danced across walls inscribed with a language lost to all but the Windborn bloodline.

"What even is this place?" he asked quietly, reverently.

"Not a vault," Eritrea replied. "A remembrance."

"A tomb?"

She shook her head. "A warning."

In the soft glow, she could see them: silhouettes carved into the walls, each one sitting upon the very throne she now faced. Some bore weapons. Some held books. One—her eyes locked on—held a child.

There were no names. Just etched lines that whispered presence without identity.

She turned to Ronan. "This isn't where kings ruled. This is where they came to remember why they shouldn't."

He furrowed his brow. "You mean to say this… throne… wasn't used?"

"Not to rule," she said. "To listen."

Eritrea stepped forward, and with each pace, her breath grew shorter—as though the air grew heavier with memory. The closer she came to the throne, the clearer she could hear it:

Whispers. Echoes. Weeping.

Thousands of voices. None angry. None commanding.

Just broken.

"Do you hear them?" she asked.

Ronan shook his head. "No."

"I do," she said, her voice trembling. "I think I've always heard them. Since the day I touched that ring."

She reached out.

Her fingers brushed the throne's armrest—cool and warm at once, like sunlight soaked into wet stone. And then—

Vision.

The kingdom burned. Not in flames—but in silence. Streets emptied. Towers crumbled inward. People stared with blank faces as banners turned to ash. The crown floated above it all, untouched.

And on the throne—herself.

Older. Paler. Dead-eyed.

She blinked—

And it was gone.

The throne waited.

Ronan caught her wrist. "Don't sit yet."

She looked at him, startled.

"Why not?"

"Because I think… I remember something."

He stepped back from the wall, where a relief was hidden behind a veil of vines. He slashed the overgrowth away with his blade and revealed a carving unlike any other:

A woman, cloaked in white fire, sitting on the living throne—while above her, something descended from the ceiling like black roots. It entered her mind. Her eyes turned dark.

"She didn't become a ruler," Ronan said. "She became possessed."

Eritrea stared in horror.

"It's not a throne," she whispered. "It's a vessel."

Ronan nodded. "Built by the Windborn… to connect with something older than the realm. Something buried."

She reeled back from it.

The whispers had grown louder. Not angry, but desperate now. Pleading. Like a thousand voices crying, "Don't let it wake."

Eritrea turned, heart racing. "We shouldn't be here."

But before they could flee—

A presence entered the chamber.

From the corridor they'd come through, a torch flickered. A boot scraped.

A man stepped into the light.

He was tall, clad in a cloak of maroon silk lined with wolf fur. A golden half-mask covered the upper part of his face, but the smile beneath was unmistakable.

"Ronan," the man said with a voice like oil over ice. "You've found her."

Ronan stiffened. "Uncle."

Eritrea's fingers reached instinctively for the dagger at her side.

This was Lord Vaelen—brother to the king, rumored dead in an ambush years ago, now very much alive and wearing the insignia of the Crimson Circle, the royal intelligence faction erased from records two decades ago.

Vaelen stepped forward, clapping slowly. "I wondered who would reach the Windthrone first. I should have known it would be you, girl."

Eritrea said nothing.

He turned to the throne. "Beautiful, isn't it? A bridge to something greater than bloodlines and blades."

"You knew this was here?" Ronan spat.

"I orchestrated its burial," Vaelen replied with a smirk. "Your father never had the stomach for ancient truths. He wanted obedience. I wanted understanding."

"You betrayed the king," Eritrea said.

He nodded. "Of course. Because he was never meant to be king."

"And who was?"

He smiled darkly. "You."

The air dropped ten degrees.

"I intend to help you reclaim your birthright," Vaelen said. "But only if you understand what the Windthrone is meant to do."

Eritrea narrowed her eyes. "You want me to sit."

"No," he said. "I want you to merge. To finish what the First Queen began. To awaken the Deep Memory. And in doing so—unleash a power that this kingdom hasn't seen since the Old World cracked."

Ronan stepped in front of her. "She won't be your puppet."

Vaelen's smile didn't waver. "She already isn't. That's why I like her."

He bowed, mockingly.

"Take your time. The decision isn't just about ruling," he said, walking backward toward the corridor. "It's about becoming."

And then he vanished into the shadows.

The chamber was silent again.

But the throne still pulsed.

And Eritrea's heart was no longer her own.

They did not speak for a long time.

Ronan stood with his back to the throne, staring at the passage where his uncle had vanished. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw locked so tight it seemed like he might shatter from the inside.

Eritrea sat on the cold stone, arms wrapped around her knees, facing the throne but keeping her eyes low. She didn't want to look at it anymore. Not after what she saw in the vision. Not after Vaelen's words.

And yet… she could still hear it.

The throne. It whispered.

Not in words, not quite—but in pull. Like it remembered her even if she did not remember it. As if it had been waiting for generations for someone like her to return.

And Vaelen… he had known.

"He wants to use me," she said finally, her voice barely more than breath.

Ronan's voice was hoarse. "He wants to awaken something."

"Something older than kingdoms."

Ronan turned, his face pale and strained. "The Deep Memory."

"That's what he called it."

He nodded. "I've heard that name once. In the Vault of Echoes. It was a myth among archivists. A source of infinite wisdom, locked away beneath the first throne. They said it could remember the truth of the world itself."

Eritrea stared at the throne. "And what would happen if it were… awakened?"

"I don't know," Ronan admitted. "But if it's memory made flesh, then it doesn't just remember what was—it remembers what was meant to be."

"And that kind of truth could destroy everything built on lies."

He nodded. "Exactly."

She stood, slowly, wiping the dust from her hands. "Vaelen wants me to awaken it so he can rebuild the kingdom. On his terms."

"Yes. He doesn't care about the cost."

"But I do," she said. "Because I'm the one who'd pay it."

Her eyes returned to the throne. "He said the First Queen tried this once."

"Serenya," Ronan said softly.

"She sat on that throne, opened herself to it, and something… entered her."

Ronan nodded, grim. "And whatever it was, it changed her. The histories say she disappeared into the earth. Her last words were carved in Old Serenian: 'It remembers more than it forgives.'"

Eritrea turned to him. "What if I don't sit?"

"Then Vaelen will find someone else. Another bloodline. Another girl. Or he'll find a way to force you. One way or another, he's set on awakening the Deep Memory."

Eritrea clenched her fists.

She was tired of being used—by crowns, by myths, by fates she never chose.

But more than that, she was tired of not knowing who she was.

She turned back to the throne. "What if I sit… not to awaken it… but to ask it?"

Ronan stepped forward. "Ask what?"

"What I am. Who my mother really was. What the truth is—before it's twisted again."

He caught her arm. "If you sit, it might not let you go."

She looked into his eyes. "Then promise me something."

"Anything."

"If I lose myself… you end it."

Ronan's face tightened. "Eritrea—"

"Promise me."

He looked away. Swallowed hard. Then, with a voice thick with grief he hadn't yet earned, he said:

"I promise."

She nodded.

And stepped toward the throne.

The moment her palms touched the armrests, it responded—not with light, but with stillness. Everything in the chamber froze. Even the torches seemed to still their flicker.

Eritrea closed her eyes.

And sat.

—

She was no longer in the vault.

She was in the middle of a battlefield made of mirrors and stormlight. The sky cracked with memory. The ground pulsed with forgotten names. In front of her stood herself, only not—a version of Eritrea clad in armor of shadowglass, her eyes glowing silver.

Behind her, another self—younger, bloodied, barefoot, holding a broken doll.

All around her, versions of herself… thousands of them. Every possibility. Every path. Every mistake.

A voice thundered—not from the sky, but from within:

"CHILD OF MEMORY. WINDTHRONE ACCEPTS YOU."

She fell to her knees.

And then the truth came.

—She saw her mother running through a burning forest, holding a child. Her. She saw the king's soldiers pursuing. She saw Serenya bleeding from a wound, whispering something into the baby's ear before passing her to a midwife with orders to erase her name.

—She saw the scrolls altered, records burned, nobles bribed. All traces of her erased.

—She saw Vaelen, watching it all, smiling.

—And then—she saw deeper.

A great root, buried beneath the palace. A heart made of crystal, beating with memory. It was not a god. Not a creature. But a consciousness. Ancient. Bound to the royal bloodline by pact, by promise.

It had chosen her.

Not because of birth.

But because of memory.

"YOU ARE NOT THE FUTURE," it said."YOU ARE THE FORGOTTEN.""MAKE THE WORLD REMEMBER."

Then—

Silence.

And Eritrea opened her eyes.

Back in the chamber.

Still seated.

Ronan knelt before her, holding her wrist. His face was wet with tears.

"Are you—"

"I'm not her," she said. "Not the queen. Not Serenya. Not what Vaelen wants."

She stood, slowly.

"I'm me."

The roots of the Windthrone released Eritrea like fingers uncurled after an age of holding on. As she stood, the whispers faded, and the chamber breathed again. For a moment, the throne pulsed faintly—one last rhythm, then silence.

Ronan watched her rise like he was seeing her for the first time.

She didn't glow. She didn't change shape or float or erupt into light.

And yet—she was different.

Her presence carried weight, not the kind that bent the back, but the kind that bent fate.

"You're you again?" Ronan asked cautiously.

"No," Eritrea replied. "I'm more."

He gave a strained smile. "That sounds incredibly vague and worrying."

She turned to him, her gaze clear. "It showed me everything. My mother's escape. The purge of the Serenian line. Vaelen's betrayal before the throne ever passed to his brother. The truth about this place."

"And the Deep Memory?"

"It's not a god," she said. "It's not even alive in the way we understand. It's a library of living time. It remembers everything. Everyone. Every oath, every betrayal, every bloodline hidden or erased."

Ronan's brow furrowed. "Then why are you still you? Why didn't it… take you like the First Queen?"

She held up her hand. The ring she once wore—the copper band with the mountain crest—was gone. In its place, a thread of starlight shimmered around her finger, pulsing faintly with a color that shifted between silver and indigo.

"I didn't ask it to serve me," she said. "I asked it to tell me."

Ronan blinked. "And it just… agreed?"

"No. It chose to. Because I wasn't trying to rule the world. I just wanted to know who I really was."

"And who are you?"

Eritrea took a breath.

"I'm not a lost princess. I'm not the flame reborn. I'm not a prophecy."

She looked back at the throne. "I am the one who remembers."

Then she turned her back on it.

Ronan stared, stunned. "You're not going to… use it?"

"Not now," she said. "Not for power. Not for Vaelen. Not even for justice."

She walked toward the mirror that had once split open for her. It had closed again—but now, as she raised her hand, it shivered and parted without resistance.

Ronan followed. "So what now?"

"Now we leave."

"To where?"

"To the surface," she said. "To the palace. To the king."

Ronan froze. "You mean to confront him?"

"No. To warn him."

He looked at her like she'd gone mad. "Warn him? Eritrea, you are the threat to his throne. The kingdom thinks you're a witch."

"Exactly," she said. "That's the story Vaelen has spun. And that's the story he'll use to bring down the entire royal line—once I'm captured or dead."

Ronan's eyes darkened. "He's building a coup."

"Not building," she said. "He's already set it in motion. He let us find the throne because he knew we'd open it. He's been waiting."

"So he can say you communed with the Deep Memory… and now you're corrupted," Ronan said grimly. "And the only way to protect the realm is to kill you and seize the palace."

She nodded. "But if I go to the king first, before Vaelen strikes, and show him the truth—he might listen."

Ronan looked uncertain. "The king is paranoid. Broken by war. He doesn't listen to his own council anymore."

"He might listen to me."

Ronan exhaled. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then I show the realm what Vaelen truly is."

She stepped through the mirror-arch, and the two emerged back into the black crypt beneath the old city.

The tunnel above still stood open, moonlight slicing through dust.

As they ascended, the air thickened. Every heartbeat seemed louder. Every shadow darker.

Because now, they weren't hiding anymore.

They were walking into history.

By dawn, they stood at the outer edge of the High Walls, cloaked once more, gazing up at the gleaming towers of Haldrath's inner circle.

Banners of the Twin Lions fluttered from silver-pinned balconies.

Trumpets echoed in the distance.

But it wasn't celebration.

It was announcement.

A voice carried over the city square:

"By decree of His Grace, King Alric III, a bounty is increased upon the criminal known as Eritrea Windborn, for high treason, sedition, and sacrilege."

"One thousand five hundred crowns for her capture. Two thousand if dead."

Eritrea's jaw tightened.

Ronan looked at her. "Well. So much for hope."

She whispered, "No… they're panicking. They're afraid."

He raised an eyebrow. "Of what?"

She pulled the dagger of truth from her cloak and etched three lines into the nearest stone wall.

The lines shimmered—gold, then red.

They weren't words.

They were symbols.

Ancient. Serenian.

Those who could read them would know:

She remembers. She returns. She reclaims.

Ronan's breath caught.

"You just lit a fuse."

Eritrea smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on the towers ahead.

"No," she said.

"I just woke up the kingdom."