CHAPTER 17: The Gates of Aurelia

The silver towers of Aurelia were visible by dusk.

Bell, Seria, Cid, and Mirra rode in silence along the northern ridge, dust and dread clinging to them like old smoke. The girl hadn't spoken since Fenhollow. Her eyes followed every shadow that danced in the fading light. She flinched at bird cries and winced at the rustle of dry leaves. Her fingers clutched Seria's cloak tightly, white-knuckled and trembling.

Bell kept glancing over his shoulder.

He didn't know what he was expecting.

Just that something was coming.

Something that hadn't finished yet.

Aurelia stood proud, even against the creeping sickness of the world. Gleaming walls rose high above the land, etched with runes that shimmered faintly as dusk approached. Gatehouses bristled with steel and spellcraft — manned by disciplined mages, wardens, and war-forged ballistae. The capital of the western territories — a place of power and command, ancient and resolute.

The guards at the main gate recognized Bell immediately. One stepped forward, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Prince Bell! By the stars — you're alive!"

Bell raised a gloved hand. "We need to see the Guildmaster. Now. No delays."

The gate opened.

The city inside was not as whole as it seemed.

Barricades lined the merchant roads, iron and timber hastily erected to stem something invisible. Smoke hung faintly over the east quarter like a memory of fire that refused to die. Shopfronts were shuttered. The air was heavy — not with industry, but with mourning.

The bells tolled softly, echoing through the spires. Not for celebration.

But for the dead.

Bell dismounted and turned to the nearest patrol captain. "What happened?"

The man looked uneasy, rubbing ash from his cheek. "A fire," he muttered. "Two nights ago. The old Cathedral District. Dozens dead. Some say it was lightning. Others... say it was the Queen's breath."

Bell froze, his jaw tightening.

Cid helped Mirra down from the horse, his gaze calm but scanning every rooftop and window. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

The Guildhall was a fortress of stained glass and steelwood beams. Normally, it hummed with clerks, scholars, and scribes — a place of order and arcane precision.

Today, it was nearly empty.

Only Guildmaster Rennel awaited them, standing behind a darkwood desk inlaid with gold sigils. A man in his sixties, with steel-gray hair, sharp eyes, and a spine straight as iron. No softness remained in him.

"I heard of Mirenth," he said without greeting, voice like gravel. "And now Fenhollow. What in the hells are you dragging behind you, boy?"

Bell didn't speak. Instead, he pulled a folded parchment from his coat — a crude sketch.

A symbol.

The serpent coiled around the broken crown.

Rennel stared at it for a long, unbroken moment.

Then, without a word, he walked to the door and locked it with a simple sigil traced in the air.

He knelt beside a floorboard, pried it loose, and removed a long case bound in silver thread. When he opened it, inside were four scrolls sealed with black wax.

Seria leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You already knew."

Rennel gave a slow, grim nod. "We've intercepted variations of that same sigil across six towns in the last month. Always followed by death. Or silence. Never anything left behind."

Bell slammed his fist onto the table. The wood cracked. "Why the hell wasn't the Guild warned?"

"Because," Rennel growled, "we don't know who we're dealing with. Or what. These attacks leave no survivors. No patterns. Just whispers. Fear."

Cid, lounging against a support pillar, yawned. "Sounds like a cult. Or a ghost story."

Rennel's gaze snapped to him, sharp and assessing. "And what do you think this is, lad?"

Cid smiled lazily, as if amused by the weight of it all. "...A story. The ending's just not written yet."

Bell stepped away from the desk. His hands were shaking now — something he hated. "They're growing bolder. They want to be seen now. They attacked us — personally. They... they want me to come to them."

Rennel watched him carefully. "You're not just a soldier anymore, Bell. You're the symbol they want to break."

That night, they were given private quarters within the Guild tower.

Mirra slept curled beneath Seria's cloak near the fire, tiny hands still shaking in her sleep. Seria sat close by, watching over her.

Bell paced the balcony just beyond, the wind tugging gently at his coat. He stared out over Aurelia's glowing walls, where torchlight flickered in even rows, illuminating the ramparts like a heartbeat. The city looked peaceful. But it wasn't.

Cid stood beside him, arms crossed, unusually silent.

"You believe any of that 'Queen's breath' crap?" Bell asked.

Cid didn't answer immediately. His eyes tracked something in the distance, then slowly returned to the balcony rail. "I believe people see what they're told to see."

Bell nodded faintly. "If this really is a cult... it's old. Organized. Dangerous."

"You think they're after you?"

Bell was quiet for a moment, then exhaled. "I think they're after something I represent."

Cid turned to him, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Hope?"

Bell looked away, jaw clenched.

"No. Bloodline."

Elsewhere in the city, beneath the cobblestone streets of the East Quarter, in a chamber lit by flickering candlelight, three figures in white masks gathered in silence.

No words were spoken.

One opened a scroll slowly, reverently.

They dipped quills into crimson ink — or blood — and drew a mark across the table's surface.

A symbol.

The serpent.

The crown.

The Queen.

In the Guild tower, Seria approached Bell with a scroll in hand. Her face was pale, her eyes troubled.

"These glyphs…" she said, voice low. "I found them in the ruins beneath Mirenth. I compared them with the Guild's archives."

Bell raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"They're not just spells," she said. "They're names."

He frowned. "Whose?"

She hesitated, then whispered, "Knights. Servants of House Ashvayne."

Bell felt his blood run cold. The name tasted like ash in his mouth. "But that house is gone."

Seria looked away, down at the scroll. "Not... completely."

A lone figure stood on the tower's outer edge, the wind tousling his hair gently.

Vyrniss slithered up behind him, silent and sinuous, her scales glimmering like dusk-forged silver under the moonlight. She made no sound.

No one saw her.

She spoke only once.

"One more piece in place, heir of ash."

The figure didn't respond.

But he smiled.