Echoes of Cecilia & Palace Storm

The wind over the mossy road was colder than Arthur remembered, sharp with the coming of autumn. The Ember Seekers moved cautiously, the dirt path ahead winding through low hills and sparse woods that eventually gave way to the trade roads leading toward Caledonia's capital.

Yet the journey felt heavier than mere distance. Each step seemed to echo with memories Arthur barely owned.

And at the heart of it, the name they had followed north: Lilith, Princess of Caledonia.

His mother's sister. His blood.

---

The meeting happened sooner than Arthur expected.

Near a fork in the road, in the shade of leaning pines, the Ember Seekers halted at the sight of a royal convoy. Banners stitched with the phoenix sigil of Caledonia snapped in the breeze, horses snorted under silk-covered barding, and guards in polished breastplates rode watchful around a gilded carriage.

Arthur's heart drummed in his chest.

The door opened. A young woman stepped out—no older than Arthur himself, though finer dressed by leagues. Her hair fell in copper waves past her shoulders, and her eyes, a shade of emerald too familiar, widened the moment they found him.

Princess Lilith.

Her gaze swept over him, hesitated at his cloak and traveling leathers, then softened into something between curiosity and recognition.

"You must be Arthur," she said, her voice quiet yet unafraid.

"How do you know my name?" he asked, throat dry.

"I've heard whispers," Lilith replied, stepping closer. "From those who say Cecilia's son still lives."

The name—his mother's name—struck him like a bell.

Lilith's eyes shimmered. "She was my sister, though I was but a child when she fled. They called her traitor. But in the old halls, her memory still lives."

Arthur swallowed emotion like bitter medicine. "And why do you seek me?"

"Because your story may save us both," Lilith answered. "And Caledonia itself."

---

Their words were cut short by the whistle of arrows.

Assassins burst from the roadside bramble, masked and robed, blades flashing with poisoned oil. The convoy guards surged forward to block them, but two fell instantly under black-feathered bolts.

Arthur's instincts flared. Fenrix lunged with a savage snarl, Umbra vanished into shadow.

One attacker leapt for Lilith, blade aimed at her heart. Arthur raised a trembling hand, mana surging—this time, not Anti-Heal, but a pulse of raw force. The assassin flew back, crashing into a pine trunk with a snap of breaking bone.

But more followed.

The Ember Seekers fought with practiced fury. Aldren hurled runes that burst into light, the armored man cut two foes in half with a single swing, and Lyris loosed arrows that found throats even in the chaos.

Arthur's pulse roared in his ears. A blade scraped his shoulder, drawing blood. Pain sharpened his focus.

He whispered the Anti-Heal curse, shaping it small and swift. A violet spark leapt to an attacker's chest, and rot spread through the assassin's veins, dropping him lifeless at Arthur's feet.

In minutes, it was over.

The road lay littered with bodies.

Lilith stood in the center, her breath ragged, gown torn at the hem. Her eyes met Arthur's, gratitude and fear warring in them.

"They know," she whispered. "They know you've come."

---

Caledonia's capital revealed itself at dusk: white stone walls rising from forested hills, pennants dancing atop slender towers, and streets spilling gold in the setting sun.

Yet the air felt strained, the guards more watchful, the gates more crowded.

Within, Arthur glimpsed signs of unrest—merchants arguing under hushed tones, town criers speaking of tax hikes and new decrees, and watchful men in noble colors patrolling corners where shadows gathered thick.

Lilith's carriage led them to the palace: a fortress of marble and iron, built to be both throne and shield.

Here, truth weighed heavy.

In the private hall where Lilith brought Arthur, the walls whispered of Cecilia—tapestries depicting her younger, smiling beside her siblings. Dust muted her colors, but the memory was clear.

"I never believed she betrayed us," Lilith confessed, voice breaking. "Now, seeing you… I know I was right."

Arthur felt old rage simmer. "They called her traitor. They hunted her."

"And they hunt you still," Lilith replied. "But if we can prove who ordered it… perhaps we can shatter their hold."

The name lay between them, unspoken but understood: the noble family marked by the serpent and black rose.

---

The Ember Seekers joined them in council. Rumors coiled through every corner: rival houses plotting coups, mercenaries flooding taverns, and a secret heir—Lilith herself—said to be the last who could unify Caledonia against fracture.

Outside the palace, tension rose like lightning before a storm.

Arthur walked those marble halls, each step echoing Cecilia's ghost. Portraits stared down—Cecilia as a child, smiling beside a stern-faced king and a softer-eyed queen.

A family Arthur never knew.

In the quiet of the moonlit courtyard, he pressed his hand to a stone column, whispering, "Mother… I'm here. And I won't run."

Fenrix lay beside him, breath calm and steady. Umbra perched above, a living shadow.

The palace felt both prison and promise.

But Arthur had come too far to turn back.

For the rose burned still in his dreams.

And he would not let it fall to ash.

---

To be continued...